gorgenmast

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Hello and apologies to all.

I am currently in the process of graduating from college and undergoing training for my big boy job. This week has been crazy to say the least. But after Wednesday it'll be back to your regularly-scheduled googer. I have really been itching to make this post in PoW and I'm going to try to get to that as soon as possible.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Miguel Saavedra Tejero, Marsaxlokk, Malta

Telecall screens glowed with a warm light within the bridge, casting a faint bluish glow upon General Victor Ponferrada's jacket as he stood before the bridge's camera live feed camera. Glassy medals and buttons affixed to his lapels and breast shimmered with a quivering rainbow band as the equipment acquired the video feed from the other parties. As the muted tone of the idle audio hummed through the destroyer - christened after the beloved statesman who had been slain nearly five years prior - the general took a moment to dust off any stubborn motes of lint that might yet cling to his shoulders and sides. With an obsessive diligence he scanned over the remainder of his uniform and swatted away imaginary flecks of debris. Even so, General Ponferrada was not content that his outfit was entirely in order, and so he turned to his output camera and pressed a button on the nearest screen's monitor that switched channels over to what his own camera could see.

He had hoped to use the camera as a mirror to spot any errant strands of fluff upon his immaculately pressed uniform, but upon seeing himself on the screen, he was reminded that this was a futile effort. Cutting edge technology though it was, the telecall system remained in its infancy. The visual resolution was abhorrent; the compression required to make a live feed transmissible through telephone lines reduced his flawless suit into a vaguely torso-shaped mass of bluish gray speckled with fuzzy, multicolored dots. Almost indistinguishable from the fluorescent-illuminated surroundings was a peach-colored mass that passed for the general's face capped with an equally fuzzy general's cap. The tufts of curly black locks poking through from underneath the general's cap were totally lost to the compression, as was his gaunt, pointed visage. It was as if Ponferrada was looking upon himself with the eyes of a nearly-blind man.

Though Ponferrada had little in the way of enthusiasm for this marvel of modern technology, Alfonso Sotelo had fully embraced this breakthrough in telecommunications. It had become his preferred means of conference with his far-flung advisers and as such, the general had little choice but to participate in these video calls. What's more, Madrid - upon notifying General Ponferrada of Sotelo's intention to conduct a telecall this evening - had hinted that the matter was of the utmost urgency.

The two television screens flickered with a rainbow band of colors, then erupted into waves of static. Materializing from the flickering specks came two faces; the man appearing on the screen to his right would have been unrecognizable even if it weren't for the terrible picture quality. The figure to his left was unmistakable. Both the general and the figure on the screen to his right brought their arms to their brows in rigid salute as the image of Alfonso Sotelo manifested before them.

"Your Excellency, it is always a pleasure to speak with you." Ponferrada acknowledged.

"At ease." Sotelo ordered, waving his hand across the screen to dismiss their salutes. "We have little time for such pleasantries, the fate of this African enterprise may yet be in jeopardy. I understand that you, General, may not yet be privy to these details that have come to light of late. I will allow Head Commissioner Desjardin to share with us the findings of the Oficina."

"Thank you, Excellency." The raspy voiced head on the other screen chimed in.

Even with the poor resolution, General Ponferrada could make out the bust of a jowel-chinned man with a mouth wreathed by a thin goatee. Even upon hearing his name, the general still did not recognize him. Ponferrada had never before heard of the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar's newest leader, nor would he make any effort to commit the man's name to memory. The previous Head Commissioner - like so many of Sotelo's early advisers and older generals - had been purged from his position. The Prime Minister's incessant paranoia had played a major role in the massive turnover that had taken place throughout the whole of the Second Republic's government. A failed attempt on the Prime Minister's life two years before had only served to rationalize his mistrust of those whose role it was to advise him on various matters. As a result, Spain's prime minister typically refused to accept or follow the suggestions his advisory committees provided. It was becoming apparent that the Prime Minister was more interested in accumulating a cabinet of docile yes-men than qualified assistants.

"Allow me to debrief you as to the situation at hand, General." The Head Commissioner's screen graveled on. "Approximately seven hours ago, a task force of Oficina agents in Armenia apprehended an individual of Maltese nationality - one Sergio Espalazanni. In a sting operation our operatives found that he and his affiliates had offered the sale of sensitive information concerning tactical movements of Spanish military assets in the Mediterranean Sea." A concerned frown drew across the general's face.

"Sensitive information concerning what exactly?"

"What do you think, General?" Sotelo responded in snotty condescension. "The fact that the Third Mechanized division is mobilizing is for sale to every espionage organization in the West!"

"We do not yet know the extent of his knowledge." Head Commissioner Desjardin droned. "But until we can extract the full scope and veracity of the informant and the information he and his affiliates had been peddling, we must assume the worst. We have known for some time that the Chinese possess a powerful and well-organized intelligence network and our suspicion is such that the Chinese are at least nominally active within the Armenian state. We must assume that the Chinese are aware of the coming incursion into Africa."

"And that they had forwarded their findings to the Ethiopian government!" Sotelo groaned, slapping his palm into the surface of the desk. "A lapse in security of this magnitude is a monstrous failure! Inexcusable! I will know who is responsible for allowing this information to leak! Be it by treason or incompetence, those responsible will be held accountable!"

"And they will, Excellency." The Oficina head reassured. "As we speak, Espalazanni and three of his associates are in our custody and are being transported across the border into the Anatolian state, where they will undergo preliminary interrogation. More thorough processing will occur at the Arratzu facility. Needless to say, they will shortly come to regret their actions."

"I should hope so." The Prime Minister sighed, seeming somewhat relieved by suffering that awaited the captive informants.

"Unfortunately, we must also discuss the implications of these findings on the Ethiopian... Intervention. Knowing that both the Chinese and Ethiopian governments are aware of the Republic's intentions in Africa, the Ejercito may expect an enemy that is better prepared to repel them - potentially with Chinese support. It would be most prudent to postpone any action in the Mediterranean for a period of perhaps six months to allow the preparedness of the socialists to wane once."

"Absolutely not! This operation has been postponed for too long as it already is - I will not allow allow them more time!" Sotelo demanded. "Every single day that the Chinese shill sits upon the throne of Ethiopia is an affront to the Second Republic! I will abide the Chinese puppet state on our periphery no longer!"

General Ponferrada rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment before entering the exchange again. "I am in agreement with his Excellency. The Ethiopian military has fought a hard-won conflict with the Ottoman Empire and their military is spent. They are at their weakest now and any time we waste will only afford them time to recoup. Even if they are aware of our intentions - a possibility that is just that: merely possible - their preparation will mean little.Their army is at its weakest at this moment and the Chinese are half a world away. It will take their military a considerable time to mobilize, and even then their fleets must sail nearly nine to ten thousand kilometers to reach Eastern Africa. If they attempt to come to Africa's aid they will arrive far too late to be of any assistance."

"We must strike now."

"Indeed." Sotelo agreed, winding down. "I wish to speak with General Ponferrada with some privacy. Head Commissioner, you are dismissed."

"As you wish, Excellency." As he was ordered, Desjardin's visual feed cut out in a blink of static as he left the telecall. The familiar color bar returned to the general's right screen, leaving only Alfonso Sotelo on the line.

"I have issued orders to the Armada" Sotelo spoke up once he was content that Desjardin could no longer hear them. "Admiral Santin and the Mediterranean Fleet are bound for the Suez. I trust that your forces are adequately prepared for combat."

"Naturally."

"Then you are to mobilize. Join with the Mediterranean Fleet, and make for the Ethiopian coast. Proceed toward Addis Ababa and engage any hostile elements that might attempt to obstruct you."

"Understood, your Excellency."

Sotelo's visual feed melted away in a froth of static which gave way to a flickering color bar and the muted tone. The general turned the screens off and made his way to the fore of the bridge. Speckles of light and the illuminated cupolas of the Church of Marsaxlokk shone in from the inky night beyond, leaving a rippling mirror image in the harbor below. In the hills beyond the town, white floodlights illuminated another settlement of sprawling tents and Quonset huts. It was there, six thousand infantrymen of the Third Mechanized settled down for the night, unaware of the rude awakening that would be disturbing them shortly. The general drew a chunky telephone tethered to a bridge console by a coiled wire to his mouth.

"Wake them."

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

duck55223 said
hurp

Are you for real, bruv? Evan is a qt-p2t

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Dinh AaronMk said
From Googer's last post:

I was actually going to draw this dude, but I'm glad you beat me to it. I approve of this artwork - don't forget to put it on the rotator!

Also, found that one guy's response on dA amusing:

TheElusiveBadger said
Holy fucking shit, will Precipice ever end?

THE RIDE NEVER ENDS

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Pais Vasco, Spain

Muffled tapping sounded from without the bus. A soft, intermittent rapping against the riveted metal sheeting that comprised the roof increased in pitch gradually until a steady pitter-pattering could be heard reverberating into the bus. Outside it had started to rain, Julio concluded. For the first time since he had stepped aboard the vehicle some three hours ago, he had some indication of what was happening outside the bus on which he found himself.

He had been flown from Madrid to the smaller regional airport at Bilbao. It was there that Julio had been joined with a group of prisoners of some fashion hidden from sight within the interior of another hangar. There, he and his new companions were herded aboard what had once been a prison or school bus. Regardless of whoever it was originally built to transport, the vehicle had been requisitioned by Spain's Ministry of Health obviously enough as the ministry's name had been stenciled in bold, black Castillian for all to see. Save for for the foreboding lettering and the windshield, every surface of the vehicle had been painted over a uniform, drab gray. Even the windows had been covered with the same coat of thick gray, allowing only a faint glow to shine in from the outside.

Though Julio could see nothing outside the bus, he had some idea of where he was. For much of the drive, he was pressed into the backrest of the minimally-padded bench that passed for his seating and the engine could be heard rumbling angrily beneath the corrugated metal flooring as the bus crawled up a seemingly endless number of inclines. The bus moved slowly and he felt himself being forced out into the aisle or pushed into the shoulders of the neighbor he had been seated with as the vehicle negotiated what could only be switchback turns. They were driving east into the Basque County - the rural foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains - to Arratzu.

Julio could recall the senatorial hearing that had given the Ministry of Health free reign to do what they wished with their new facility at Arratzu. The Instituto Arrazua, as the senatorial paper-pushers had called it, had been built in the late 1930s as an insane asylum. The crisp, clean air of the remote Basque hill country, the psychiatrists concluded, would have palliative qualities that would ease the misery of the irreparably deranged and retarded. Within two decades however, the Institute was abandoned and sat vacant for nearly thirty years. By 1977, Spain's Ministry of Health decided that giant brick edifice, being so far removed from any centers of large population, would be a safe place to quarantine the victims of the disease that destroyed the immune systems of all those it infected - the plague brought back from the barbarous heart of the Dark Continent in the bodies of Spanish soldiers returning home from the Rio Niger Intervention.

Julio Zuraban was swollen and bruised from the preliminary "interrogation" meted out upon him by the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar, but he was no sick man and the 30 odd people he shared this bus with appeared no more ill than he. From underneath a lump of his swollen, purple eyebrow, the exiled senator's eyes flitted about the interior of the bus in what dim, gray light could make it through the windows. It was a diverse group - a sizable minority of them dressed in black business slacks and wrinkled button up shirts. Some among them might had been working in offices in the glittering canopy of Madrid's Distrito Manzanares just hours before. Others still were of blue collar persuasion, perhaps a doctor and nurses still clad in their scrubs; Julio was almost certain he had seen a priest dressed in a plain black clerical suit. Indeed they came from all walks of life, but among them all there was but one thing that united them.

Hushed, worried murmurs floated through the stuffy and uncomfortably warm air amongst the patter of raindrops and and the whine of the engine. Snippets of conversations found their way to Julio's ears.

"This must all be a great misunderstanding", he had heard numerous times.

"Our names must have been swapped with the infected or something to that effect. We will simply tell them that they have the wrong ones."

"So help me God, the Ministry will be hearing from my attorneys!"

In this way the other passengers kept themselves reasonably quieted. Though worry manifested itself as trembling in their voices, their assurance that this entire affair was a colossal mistake kept the passengers from erupting into complete panic. Julio, however, heard no such denial from the man seated beside him. In a dejected torpor he sat, staring listlessly at the raised bumps pressed into the metal floor. It was Julio's suspicion that he too knew why he found himself on a bus bound for a remote stretch of the Basque Country; that there had been no mistake in his sequestration. The benchmate, like Julio Zuraban and every other person seated on this bus, had somehow vexed Alfonso Sotelo. Arratzu now served to contain a new infection: dissent.

The patter of raindrops against the roof of the bus had intensified into a constant din as what little light passed through the paint-obfuscated windows all but died out as the skies outside darkened. A distant, rolling thunder distracted the passengers for long enough to forget that the bus had slowed to a crawl. Their murmuring was silenced briefly as they felt the vehicle jerk to a stop. With a pneumatic hiss, the bus had at last come to a halt. No sooner, the inside of the bus erupted into uproarious chatter as the passengers demanded to be let off as many struggled to their feet. The driver, hidden away in his separate cabin of one-way mirrors at the fore of the vehicle, offered no response.

((Suggested listening))

It was then that the handle on the back door of the bus began to rattle loudly - immediately muting all aboard and drawing their undivided attention to the back of the vehicle. The rear exit of the bus was drawn open and a snarling doberman leaped into the center aisle from outside. Frothy spittles dribbled from the hound's sneering maw as it let forth a savage volley of growling barks. The passengers quailed at the attack dog and pushed themselves as far away from the beast as they could humanly get and Julio and his neighbor both bolted to their feet.

A humanoid figure wearing a variation of the Great War gas mask, dripping from the pouring rain outside the bus clambered up into the rear of the bus after the hound. With a short leash in one hand and a long, cylindrical cattleprod in the other, the guard stole the attention from even the growling doberman bouncing against the taut leash.

"Get off!" The masked figure ordered, no less authoritative for being muffled by his headgear. The retractile door at the front of the bus slid open, offering an outlet for the passengers that they took with gusto. Even with the passengers nearly climbing over one another to get off the bus, the masked guard was not satisfied with their pace and jabbed the diodes of his cattleprod into the back a white-collar office worker unlucky enough to find himself at the back of the bus. An anguished yelp and the smell of ozode filled the bus, providing Julio that much more motivation as he pressed his way into the current of panicked passengers scrambling for the front exit.

The passengers forced themselves violently through the door of the bus, expulsing Julio out into the world and face-first into a gravelly puddle at the foot of the bus. Immediately, a gas mask-donning guard armed with a cattleprod descended upon him.

"On your feet!" Julio heard over the fat drops of rain falling down upon his body and the puddle he was half-submerged within. Before he could regain his footing, a burning, stinging sensation on his asscheek sent his entire body flailing about like a beached fish.

"On your feet, damnit!" The guard demanded, stabbing the diodes into the puddle this time. With an arc and a popping buzz, the entire puddle was electrified and Julio screamed and floundered about as the water turned into a million burning needles.

"Carajo!" Julio rasped. "Fucking stop it already!"

A powerful gloved fist yanked Julio out of the puddle by the collar and dragged him onto his feet after the other arrivals. His gait was floppy and uneven, as his muscles still quivered from the jolt of electricity. Even so, he moved as quickly to avoid another round from the electron baton.

Rising up from the wooded hills surrounding it was a massive, featureless building built of red brick and mortar. No windows or architectural frivolities were to be found on its facade. One might have mistaken it for an oversized and misplaced warehouse were it not for the guard towers, spotlights, and double perimeter of fencing crowned in razorwire. One would be challenged to find a prison as well equipped or defended as Arratzu was; flashes of rumbling thunder only served to make the structure that much more imposing.

The new arrivals were herded through a wide double door flanked on either side by guards accompanied by growling attack dogs - the only feature of note on its frontal exterior. Like cattle, Julio and the other thirty or so were directed into a holding room where a cadre of masked guards pressed them all against a cinderblock wall. With their backs to the door and their palms on the wall, the guards took boxcutting knives and sliced through the back of their garments. Julio felt a deft tug on his collar followed by a loud, rip just behind his ears before his shirt fell off his body in a sopping, muddy heap. Another slice against the hem of his pants sent those too falling around his ankles, leaving Julio in his underwear, socks, and a muddied pair of pants hanging limply at his feet. It was apparent that several a handful of the other arrivals had soiled their undergarments. The arrivals were then instructed to remove the rest of their clothing. Those who tarried felt the sting of an electric baton.

A jet of freezing water lanced into Julio's back, eliciting a welp and a grimace as icy water poured down his exposed back . His hair matted into a curled, stringy mop of frigid water and dripped with each shiver. As the rest of the newcomers were hosed down and deloused, a gloved hand seized the former senator by his quivering arm and dragged him away from the others to the corridors within the heart of the cavernous building. Julio's head spun and the world was becoming darker and fuzzier around him; the cold had sent him tumbling into shock.

"Senator Zuraban." A softer-tongued man addressed him as he was led away from the others into a nebulous haze. Julio was in no position to respond - he could do little more than keep his head upright and his eyelids open. "We have some questions we would have you answer..."

He descended from consciousness as his captor spoke again.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Marsaxlokk, Malta

Pencil lead ground softly against a crisp leaf of white stationery. With a raspy murmur it twitched across the paper supported against the cover of a bound manual sporting Técnicas y métodos de la guerra moderna printed in plain, bold letterhead, leaving a trail of sloppily-written Castillian cursive as it did. Upon completing another handful of lines, he released the pencil from his grasp, letting it fall to the wrinkles of the sheets atop his cot as his eyes scanned the hopefully-complete letter he had finished drafting.

Dear Mother,

I hope that this letter finds you and Father well. I am sorry I have not written you sooner; things for us have been quite busy lately! I haven't had a moment to collect my thoughts and put them to pen and paper until now. Since I enlisted I have never been so busy - even during basic training I had more free time to rest and keep up with both of you.

I am sorry to hear about Hugo. I can't see why the Health Ministry would ever think that he of all people would be at risk for contracting the disease they worry so much about. For God's sake, he and Felicia were to be married in August, weren't they? As sorry as I am for her and Father, I wouldn't worry too much about it. There has to be some mistake and I'm sure the Ministry is going to realize that as long as Father keeps trying to get through to them. Even if not, the Ministry has to find a cure for this condition sooner than later. They have quarantined so many people for fear of it - they have to be working on some kind of solution. God willing, Hugo will be released well before his wedding. I'm sure of that.

Malta has been busy ever since the 3rd Mechanized arrived here. General Ponferrada has found no shortage of ways to occupy our time and has seen that we are constantly alert. It is difficult to get five hours of sound rest on any given night - less if the Coronela has planned a drill for deployment during the night. The 3rd Mechanized is ready for anything at any given moment, but nobody is quite sure just what we are getting ready for. Officially, our division had been posted to Malta to protect the territories from the Ottomans after what happened in East Africa. But now the Ottoman Empire has ended, and we are redoubling our efforts now when it seems safest. I do not understand and I don't care to. I only hope that Ponferrada gets tired of tormenting us - and soon!

I'm afraid I don't have time for much more at the moment. I hope that things back home continue to go well, and that Father eventually manages to have the Ministry release Hugo from quarantine. I look forward to hearing back from both of you.

With Love,

Luis Morazan

Content with his finished letter and upon finding no errors, he folded the letter into thirds and gingerly stuffed it into a waiting envelope. As he did, the young soldier was taken by surprise as the canvas flap of the entrance of the tent burst open with the swish of disturbed fabric, forcing him to involuntarily crush the envelope in his clenched palm. The fresh recruit dressed only in uniform khakis and a white tanktop flew across the tent with a face drawn into an anxious frown, shooting only a momentary glance at the man laying upon his bed.

"Luis, what the fuck are you still doing in here?" The tentmate demanded as he feverishly unbuttoned the folded uniform top upon his own cot. His eyes flitted over to his idle tentmate and fell upon the envelope in his hand. "Jesus, are you seriously writing a letter to mommy right now?"

"N-no!" Luis stuttered unconvincingly, stuffing the wrinkled envelope underneath his pillow once his tentmate had reverted his view to the shirt he was unbuttoning. "Why have you returned so soon, Héctor? What's going on?"

"Fucking Ponferrada..."

"Oh God... What's he up to now?"

"Addressing the whole goddamn division." The tentmate spat as he threw the unbuttoned uniform shirt over shit shoulders and slipped the bottom two buttons in. "I should have known there was a reason the taskmaster had eased up on on the yoke this afternoon. I'd finish up jerking off or whatever it is your doing - the coronela's going to rip your balls off when he finds out you weren't there. Now come on, I don't want to be the only one showing up late for this thing."

Without further comment Luis bolted out of bed and followed his companion out into the sprawling field of canvas tents that the Ejercito had assembled on the outskirts of Marsaxlokk to house the thousands of soldiers and servicemen pertaining to the 3rd Mechanized Division. His stomach turned as he looked about the tent city and found it perfectly vacant. On the dirt trail through the camp where hundreds of Ejercito soldados could typically be seen milling about at any given time, Luis saw nary a soul. Above the expanse of tent roofs and the twin cupolas of the Church of Marsaxlokk in the distance were the yellow-red forms of two Spanish flags hanging limply from a pair of flagpoles. In between them, at the assembly ground a half-kilometer away, Luis knew General Ponferrada was preparing to address the whole of the division at that very moment. Héctor took off down the gravel trail to the source of the orders echoing through the apertures of bullhorns. Luis followed closely behind him.

"Hope to Christ the coronelas are all down there already." Héctor called back the Luis as they jogged past identical canvas pentagons. "We're fairly-well boned if someone of rank finds us skipping out on the general's debriefing."

"I'm more worried about Ponferrada myself. He's hardly an understanding man." Luis added in between pants.

"That's the fucking truth if ever I've heard it spoken. But he'll never notice two grunts missing out of six thousand. As long as we can slip in, I think we'll manage."

Luis nodded in agreement, though in truth his worries had scarcely been assuaged. It was no secret amongst the men beneath him that General Victor Ponferrada was a brutal, unforgiving man. He had made a name for himself during Spain's intervention against Batista's Italian regime as the captain of a column of Spanish tanks by merit of his speed and savagery against the Batistan loyalists. The rumors that circulated of what became of those hapless Italian prisoners who found their way into Ponferrada's possession were generally accepted to be more than rumors. Where more humane leadership would have opted to reprimand or perhaps even court-martial then-Captain Ponferrada for his questionable use of shock against the loyalist forces, Prime Minister Sotelo himself groomed Ponferrada for rapid placement in the Ejercito's general corps. Suffice to say, the general was not a man to irritate - even with trivial matters.

"We're not going to get there in time going this way." Héctor huffed, turning into the narrow space between two tents. Luis hesitated for a moment before following his companion into the alleyways between the tents. "This way, Luis. It's a shortcut."

As the two made their way through the maze of tents, Luis patted down his head in an effort to even out the mussed mop of hair upon his scalp. After a mere four months since entering basic training for the Ejercito where his head was shaven down to the regulation length of 2.5 cm, a dense mat of wavy hair had already returned to the top of his head and once again had a proclivity to frizzle out of control. The patted-down hair matted against globs of sweat secreted partially due to the midday heat, though most was the result of the circumstances at hand. Luis wiped some of the beads from the forehead and his smooth, hairless face.

Luis Morazan had been subjected to more than a little taunting on the account of his lack of facial hair and his smooth, infantile features. Indeed, the baby-faced young man hardly seemed the kind of young man cut out for a life of soldiering - an unfortunate fact that had elicited all manner of torment from his drill instructors. Luis seemed more at home in a climate-controlled office high above downtown Madrid than amongst these muscle-bound brutes; Luis would much prefer the former were it an option. But economic uncertainty back in Spain triggered by the drying-up of the Murzuq oil fields, coupled with stiff foreign competition for positions on the mammoth Gibraltar Dam had left Luis with no better prospects. But within the Spanish Ejercito, consistently bloated with funding by Sotelo's fascination with a powerful military, Luis found no such shortage of work. He had hoped his military career would be no more adventurous than five years of idle guard duty at a base in Spanish Algeria. The powers that be, however, had other plans.

Héctor came to a stop and held his palm out behind him, halting Luis just before he could bump into him. The sea of tents ended abruptly before Héctor, giving way to several acres of dusty open field upon which a makeshift parade ground had been established. Upon this island of open space within the sea of tents, thousands of soldiers stood in rigid rank and file. Perfect columns and boxes of stoic soldiers in khaki olive uniform stared on across the field to a raised wooden platform flanked on either side by two flagpoles.

"He's not begun, has he?" Luis asked anxiously.

"No." Héctor confirmed upon a sigh of relief. "No, I don't see anyone on the stand. But I do see our company from here. Come on..."

Héctor and Luis slinked in from the tents and quickly melted into the rest of their own company alongside their platoon sergeant, who shot the two a knowing, reassuring glance. If one of the captains or other officers had witnessed the two slipping into formation, they did nothing about it - perhaps because they themselves were afraid to step out of rank before General Ponferrada, even if he was still nowhere to be found.

No sooner than the two had settled in, the crested form of a general's cap could be seen bobbing up ominously from underneath the floor of the wooden platform. General Ponferrada had arrived. With astounding synchrony, the entire army locked their boots together and threw extended palms to their brows in rigid, uniform salute. Every step the general took to the top of the platform could be heard clearly even from where Luis and Héctor stood.

Hawklike eyes scanned over the assembled army as the general assumed his position atop the wooden platform. For several moments, Ponferrada looked back and forth across the soldiers locked in stoic salute, savoring each second before finally putting them at ease with a downward wave of his fingers. With the precision of automatons, the soldiers retracted their arms and stowed them at their sides. The sound of a thousand shirts brushing against themselves, and silence again resumed.

"Men of the Third Mechanized Division. Without doubt, you are aware of the measures of preparedness that this division has undertaken since its arrival here in Malta. I will not deny that I have expected a tremendous expenditure of effort from each and every one of you during our time on this island. I have no illusions - I understand full well that a great many of you see these recent efforts to maintain a constant state of readiness to be a waste of time and effort. If our purpose was to assure the security of the Western Mediterranean from the perils of the imploding Ottoman Empire - as it has been until recently - I would agree that I have demanded a tremendous deal of wasted effort from every last one of you. This, however is not the case."

Only locusts buzzing in the scrubland beyond the tents responded.

"I am not a man to mince words and I eschew dishonesty whenever possible. In this game of geopolitics and strategy, one can only be so honest. And so it was with the noblest meaning that I have withheld the intent behind these recent operations from this division until this moment. Let it be known to all of you the purpose of our presence in Malta these past weeks: Before this week is out, this division will participate in a military intervention into the Empire of Ethiopia to depose the Yohannes Dynasty and oust all traces of socialist sympathy from the African Continent. On the points of your bayonets, we will drive Hou's sympathizers from the West and carve a line in the sand. We shall send a message written in the blood of their co-conspirators to the Communist lords in Peking: the fighting men of the Republic will burn them and their supporters from every hole they find them. The day of reckoning for Marx's followers draws nigh.

"As I said, I am not one to mince words. The battle to destroy the Chinese pawns in Ethiopia will not be simple. We fight against a seasoned adversary on a homeland they have fought to preserve for many centuries. Arabs, Italians, and Turks alike have tried and failed to dominate the Ethiopians. They are a brave, hardy people, but even they will quail against the horrifying might of the Ejercito and the Armada. Against the ferocity of Spain's fighting men, not even Ethiope shall withstand. The world will bear witness to the truth that there will be no safe haven for the Communists."

Not a soul among the entire division even thought to follow the debriefing with applause or cheering. In solemn silence, the 3rd Mechanized stood by rigidly as General Ponferrada descended from the platform.

"Jesus Christ, Luis." Héctor mumbled into his companion's ear. "We are going to war. Can you fucking believe it?"

Luis wanted to vomit.

The Gods are Crazy

I know I've been really bad and haven't posted in forever. Here's some RP-related art, if that makes you feel any better.

http://imgur.com/Ijc1gAw

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

What about ChronoExile (previous Palestine guy)? Has anyone heard from him at all?

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Aeropuerto Madrid-Bajaras, Spain

Underneath the masts of a hundred light posts, a motorcade of black sedans cruised across the unending expanse of tarmac. Waving arcs of orange light swirled across the polished contours of the cars as they cruised under the glowing lamps swarming with flying bugs. Baggage buggies and stair cars were parked in rows for the night along lines painted onto the pavement, around which the five cars swerved in wide curves. The procession drove alongside the facades of white-painted cinderblock hangars built on the fringe of the airport grounds. The towering outbuildings were featureless save of course for the retractable overhead doors tall and wide enough to swallow all but the very largest of aircraft. The only means of distinguishing one hangar from another was a pairing of letters and numbers painted great bold letters against the whitewashed walls. Alongside a hangar identifiable as "C2", the line of cars eased to a halt in front of the jointed doorway.

A handful of bored, suit-clad goons who had previously busied themselves kicking at the defiant tufts of weeds growing against the hangar's exterior did their best to seem official as the motorcade bearing Alfonso Sotelo drove before them. One knocked against the window of the first vehicle and gestured for identification from the driver. Satisfied with the brownish-pink card the driver produced, the leader gave the men guarding the hangar a thumbs-up, prompting them to push the gate up. As the gate yawned open, the middlemost car spun its wheels and turned gently inside the hangar.

The interior of the aircraft was nearly as spartan as the the exterior. The squeaking of the smooth concrete underneath the wheels echoed within the cavernous space. Save for some metal shelving near the walls and another gaggle of Inteligencia Militar agents, the hangar contained only a single aircraft. The plane was a robust cargo aorcraft of civilian make, bearing a propeller pod on each wing. A wheel-bound staircase had been rolled up to the cockpit, from whence another member of the Republic's spy network descended. In unison, the doors of the sedan popped open as he stepped out of the cabin.

"Your Excellency, it's my pleasure to reintroduce you to a long-lost acquaintance." The agent-deputy called across the hangar with a wide smile beaming across his face.

"Zuraban is on the plane?" Sotelo asked indifferently as he straightened the wrinkles out of his suit upon exiting the car and approached the stairs. The agent nodded approvingly.

"Take me to him."

As promised, Julio Zuraban - the former senator of the Spanish Republic - sat bowed over a metal bench bolted to the plane's interior fuselage. The dim lighting of the hangar radiated in through round glass portholes, providing Prime Minister Sotelo just enough light to see the Zuraban's bruise-mottled face. The last two months had not been kind to him.

"Señor Zuraban." Sotelo greeted with a patronizing maliciousness. The exiled senator's eyes twinkled in the gloom as they followed the approaching Prime Minister. Sotelo's footfalls reverberated through the dark fuselage as metallic clacks against the floor. "I have wondered for the longest time what precisely became of you. The circumstances of your disappearance were quite bizarre. I must say, your criticism of my policy toward communist regimes was in poor taste. But before you could even be questioned on the matter, it was as if you had vanished into thin air." Sotelo stopped a few feet in front of the bench and stooped down onto one knee and coming to eye-level with Zuraban.

"I will admit, you had the Oficina concerned, Señor Zuraban. You were quite a liability; there was a fear that you had defected to the Chinese and their... Comintern." Sotelo explained venomously, as if it pained him to even mention the international communist association. "But now we are met once again, perhaps now you can recount what it is you have been doing over the past three years."

"I wouldn't be to hopeful about that, Excellency. He's been extremely uncooperative with us, even after we applied persuasive techniques." Sotelo examined the fugitive senator's face once again now that he had acquired better visual acuity in the dim light. Scabby cuts and gashes nicked Zuraban's face, surrounded by deep purple and maroon bruises. His left eye socket had been blackened and had swollen profusely. "But from what the Ottoman magistrate in Port Fuad provided us and what the agency was able to find on him, he has quite the story to tell when we do get him to speak."

"I was told he was found in Egypt prior to the fall of the Sultan." Sotelo returned to his feet and turned to the agent-deputy. "What was he doing there, of all places?"

"He had been incarcerated by local law enforcement in Port Fuad, Egypt, when the agency discovered his whereabouts. It seems our Zuraban had been living under the pseudonym "Florian Anoeta" as some sort of war correspondent, photographing conflicts for a French publication. We've found he's been to Armenia, Istanbul, Ethiopia, the Congo, and more. But what's more interesting is how he came into Ottoman custody. They had implicated our very own Julio Zuraban in assisting a number of fugitives in escaping by closing a drawbridge into an Ottoman warship during the Ethiopian Invasion in addition to a count of grand theft auto."

"This man - Julio Zuraban?" Sotelo asked incredulously. The agent nodded.

"The plot gets thicker yet. The Oficina did some digging of its own during the implosion of the Ottoman Empire. We found that the Ottoman Empire had taken custody of one Taytu Yohannes prior to their invasion of Ethiopia. She had been liberated by what we perceive to be Walinzi operators - members of Ethiopia's military police of sorts. Now, here's where it gets very interesting: Julio here was arrested not half a kilometer from the very building from which the Señora Yohannes had been been freed."

"You believe, then, that he acted in concert as part of some covert foray by the Ethiopian military?"

"That is a distinct possibility." The agent confirmed. "As bizarre as it may sound, we cannot come up with a more plausible scenario given the circumstances. Until we can get him to speak - and trust me when I say we will - this is what-"

"You want to hear what I know?" Julio croaked. Abruptly, Sotelo and the Oficina agent turned to hear him. "I have nothing to do with the Walinzi or the Chinese or anyone else. I'm not some spy or agent provocateur. All that I have done for the past three years of my life is avoid you and your insane regime."

"What I do know is this: I've traveled all over this world - particularly over these recent years. The world is a diverse place of different peoples but I can speak for all of them when I say this. The people of the world - Spaniards included - despise you, Alfonso. The world is tiring of your aggression and they will not stand for it much longer. But it won't be you that feels the brunt of their cathartic rage. It is the people of this country, the vast majority of them innocents caught up in the deluded nightmare that is your rule, that will die by the millions when China, Africa, and Europe find they have been provoked one time too many. You will be the death of Spain, Alfonso. That much I know."

"Well now," The agent smirked. "I believe that's the most anyone's heard out of him since we took custody of him." Beside him, Sotelo quivered with escalating rage. His arms shook until he could stand it no longer. A trembling arm reached for the agent's holster and tore the pistol out by the handle, eliciting a worried shout from the agent. Sotelo approached Julio and pressed the muzzle of the pistol into his forehead, producing little in the way of fear from the former senator. Even as a twitching thumb found the safety and disengaged it with a soft click, Julio offered no response.

"Please, your Excellency. Please just give me the gun back." The agent pleaded.

"Why should I not kill him now?" Alfonso growled. "Why should I not spare your agency the effort of interrogation? Let me put this bullet in his head!"

"Please, just listen to me. Calm down, take a deep breath..." The agent inhaled loudly, trying to persuade Sotelo to do the same but also trying to calm himself down. "If you kill him, we'll never know if he's actually colluded with the communists. We have ways of making him tell the truth. Please just put the gun down."

"He knows nothing!" Repined Sotelo, pressing the barrel down between Julio's eyes. "You heard it from him!"

"The means we have of forcing the truth from a man are tortuous to say the least. When we finish with with him, he will wish you had killed him now. I think he realizes this, I think he may want for you to kill him. Don't give him what he wants, Excellency."

With a grimace, Alfonso turned the gun in his hand and held it by the muzzle. With a deft swing he clubbed the handle of the pistol against Julio's temple, eliciting a pained yelp as he tumbled down to the floor groaning in agony and massaging the side of his head. Satisfied with the throbbing pain he had inflicted, Sotelo placed the handle of the gun into the agent's palm, who eagerly safetied it and returned it to his holster.

"Thank you, Excellency." The agent sighed. "You made the smart decision. Once he's at Arratzu, he's going to beg for someone to kill him."

"See that he does."

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Vilageidiotx said
Tried to emulate Evan, went a little crazy

I thoroughly enjoyed this. I could recognize most of the characters and posts.

10/10 would include in rotator

Edit: Just realized the the inside of the "P" was Sotelo swimming in cocaine. mfw...