In the Eyes of Heaven (IC) [MT/Open]

[Layarteb]

Please read this before proceeding. Many of the players in this RP are from Earth II and this RP takes place in the Earth II Realm but it is not closed to only Earth II members. Anybody can join and we, the participants, want as many people as possible. If you want to join, please see our OOC & Sign Up Thread. You must sign up before you join so that we can know who is who and what you are RPing. Please be sure to read the whole first post in the process. Please also be aware that this RP may contain questionable and graphic content that you may not be old enough to enjoy and/or may object to for whatever reason. We ask that you please approach this with an open mind in the sense that we do not want to hamper any individual's writing creativity; however, we won't be violating any TOS. We ask that, instead of making a fuss, you simply opt not to read and do not ruin anything for those of us who are no objecting to this material.

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This is an RP set in Ethiopia in a time when things are far from simple and further from right. Imagine a world where might makes right, there is no international watchdog groups to protect rights. Genocide and all of the atrocities that mankind can muster from its deepest, darkest, blasted souls are all played out here. Ethiopia is a country once ruled by a powerful, non-democratic state known as the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan. The Commonwealth has since fallen and Ethiopia has been left to its devices. Those that seized power did and those that didn't object. Caught in the middle are nearly one hundred million civilians, guilty only of living in a country that God but certainly not the world forgot. Greed, anger, lust, and putridity have infested this country and turned the dirt of Ethiopia from brown to red with all of the blood that's been spilled. Cliche after cliche can't help explain the disgust and filth that this country now endures. Now, without further ado, may I present to you In the Eyes of Heaven...

[Layarteb]

Stave I
"Non Serviam"
Verse I
"New Beginnings"

August 23, 2009 - 01:00 [UTC+3]
22 kilometers WNW of Goba
(7° 5'45.24"N, 39°47'43.65"E)

Kaffir! Daniel Vosloo thought to himself as he stared through the red and orange flames of the campfire in front of him. He was looking at Harold Bishop, a five-foot-ten, one hundred and eighty-five pound, black man who he'd known now for eleven years. Seven years ago he nearly slit the man's throat in a bar in Praia. That night loomed in his mind as a major regret, not because he was sorry he tried to kill Bishop but rather, because he hadn't actually killed Bishop. That hatred ran deep between the two of them and it was all tied back to a single day, eight years ago that Vosloo and Bishop alike remembered as if it were yesterday.

That day began like any other, four hours after midnight but in less than an hour later, everyone in Cobra Squad was on their feet, hustling through their gear, grabbing what they needed and tossing what, to them, was considered excess. Cobra was one of the more elite units of the Hirgizstanian Special Forces and they were mainly responsible for going far behind enemy lines and rescuing downed pilots both on the run and who had been captured. Part of their mission included destroying sensitive electronics on the downed aircraft as well as recovering or destroying any weaponry that might be aboard a downed aircraft, including chemical, biological, or thermonuclear ordinance. At a few minutes to five in the morning on that fateful day, Cobra was given a half hour to prepare their gear and get their asses onto a transport plane bound for the Congolese rainforest where a transport helicopter, carrying a single B61 thermonuclear bomb crashed under unknown circumstances and conditions. They parachuted into the rainforest two kilometers away from the crash site and ran the whole way to the site. Once they got there, they found a chaotic mess. The helicopter had been torn apart by the crash and little was actually left of it and the same could be said for the four men inside of it. The co-pilot was found first, split in twain at the waist. Half of him was still inside the helicopter and the other half stared inexplicably at the sky above, a hundred and seven meters from the crash site. The seven men of Cobra all looked at the body and moved on, ignoring what they had seen. There was no actual sign of the pilot, just clumps of his remains here and there, red blood staining everything in a ninety degree arc from the front of the helicopter. Part of the helicopter remained in the tree above and the other half was on the ground, both parts burning. Miscellaneous wreckage littered the whole forest for a few hundred meters in every direction. The fire was bright and the thick with black smoke wafting into the air, choking the men on the ground as the caustic fumes filled their lungs. The seven men surrounded the two parts, the second part being completely unimportant to their mission and so, they bypassed it after just a few seconds.

Standing below the main body of the helicopter, they looked at the fuselage and the flames licking off the rear of it. Fuel, oil, and every other fluid in the bird dripped onto the ground below, tapping leaves here, there, and everywhere along the way. Some of the drops were burning, others were beyond hot, and the rest was just toxic liquid. Blood dripped too from the two crew chiefs strapped into what used to be the cabin. One of them was missing his head and Cobra never recovered it, nor did they try. For the next hour, they scaled up to the helicopter, secured the perimeter, recovered the weapon, and prepared for their extract. Due to the dense canopy, they had to hump the weapon some twenty-eight kilometers to the south to a clearing large enough for a helicopter to land. The crashed site was marked on the map, the coordinates recorded, and the seven men began their egress. They got to within four kilometers of the clearing before things went sour. The entire time, Captain Vosloo had the strangest of feelings that they were being followed or rather, stalked but, in the jungle, feelings like that were normal. Then, four kilometers from the landing site, as the helicopter flew inbound, it happened. Bishop requested that they stop for a few moments and Vosloo granted it. They were ahead of schedule and they were in a fairly defensible area. However, Vosloo didn't trust much of the jungle and ordered everyone to stay where they were and not sit down, just crouch if they needed to catch their breath. Bishop decided not to listen. It look less than a second for the explosion to tear through four of the seven men. Bishop, Vosloo, and the point man remained unharmed except for the blood that stained their uniforms. It wasn't their blood though. The trip wire had activated an anti-personnel mine that filled the air with metal fragments moving at more than a mile per second. Two of the four men died instantly as the metal shredded their bodies in grated cheese without effort. They felt no pain and by the time they fell limp, onto the ground, they were already dead, their bodies horribly disfigured and maimed from the explosion. The other two men weren't nearly as lucky. Both sergeants, like Bishop, they weren't green but they were much younger. They bled from nearly every part of their body and the air smelled of burnt flesh. Razor-sharp, searing hot, jagged pieces of metal lay embedded in their flesh, some shards only a few millimeters deep, some embedded in organ tissue, and others had passed clear through. It had all happened in less than a second. Vosloo and the point man carried the two sergeants to the helicopter but when they arrived, they had no pulse. Somewhere along the way, they had died. Though the mission had been completed, the four fatalities were difficult to bear for command and, after reviewing the After Action Report, Vosloo was relieved of command and given a court martial. Bishop was given the same dishonorable discharge.

A year later, on yet another fateful day, the two ran into one another for the first time since their court martial. It had been at a bar called Bleekers, a favorite stop for backpackers and other lowlifes in Praia. By then, Vosloo was one such lowlife. He had never been able to find a job after being dishonorably discharged and he had more than a few encounters with the police, serving thirty days in jail for an assault charge in a bar fight. He had only been released a week prior to that particular evening and this was his first time in a bar since. When Bishop walked in at half past ten, Vosloo was already four beers and nine shots in the hole. For most men that would have been enough to put them in a stupor but not for Vosloo, who's tolerance was as high as his temper. He was six-foot-two and weighed two hundred and ten pounds and that didn't help the matter any better. Few could offer a fair fight against him. An hour and a half later, the two men met eyes and Vosloo had augmented his previous alcohol tally by another three shots of some of the hardest whiskey the Commonwealth produced. Whiskey brought out the violence in him and, until now, that violence had been suppressed day-in and day-out. When he saw Bishop's face, the violence could be contained no more. Filthy kaffir! He thought to himself as they locked eyes. Despite his drunken stupor, Vosloo wasn't at any disadvantage. The faces of the four young boys that now laid dead came to his eyes and there was nothing more to be said or done except act upon the impulses within him. He dropped the bottle and went for Bishop, like a freight train down a set of newly laid tracks. The two men connected in the middle of the bar, a fist against flesh with Vosloo getting the first strike. Both men weren't nearly as in shape as they had been in the Special Forces but their training took over and Vosloo went into the mode of a hardened killer. He was there to kill Bishop and nothing else while Bishop went into self-defense mode. For eight and a half minutes, the two of them brawled and it wasn't eight and a half minutes of refusing to strike first. They were hitting, choking, kicking, blocking, throwing, and so on and so fourth for those eight and a half minutes and when it was over, Vosloo had the upper hand. Had the police not showed up, Bishop's neck would have been slit wide open by a small, pocket knife that Vosloo always carried with him. Vosloo needed just thirty seconds more, if that long. Vosloo was sentenced to eighteen years for attempted murder and aggravated assault, with a dangerous instrument. Five years into his sentence, Vosloo was part of a prison break. He and seven others managed to escape one night, killing three guards and taking two more hostage on the way. Eleven inmates were also killed, retribution killings that were done with nothing more than shivs, some dull, some extra sharp, and they were all differently made. Some were jagged and others were carved specially for slow deaths. Of the eleven inmates only three died right away. The other eight suffered, one for a week and a half, begging every minute of every day for the doctors to push a lethal amount of morphine into him as his stomach filled with blood, bile, and its acid leaked out, burning everything it touched. Vosloo had been the only inmate to escape without being recaptured and he quickly made his way for the Congo, where it was easy to hide.

He spent a total of five years, four months, one week, and three days behind bars, or one thousand, nine hundred, and fifty-nine days. It was Valentine's Day 2008, when he broke free and he was in Kinshasa less than a week later. That was when Vosloo began his new life. Prison did much to Vosloo and none of it good. Before he had been court martialed, he would have never taken a life outside of combat. He wouldn't have done so either, before he went to prison, save for Bishop. After prison, things were vastly different. In prison, Vosloo spent five hundred and eighty of those nineteen hundred and fifty-nine days in solitary confinement, twice because he nearly killed two fellow inmates. In the hole, not even his training could help him. He was considered among the more dangerous felons in the maximum security prison and he was kept with the murderers, rapists, kidnappers, and other hardened criminals who more than just influenced his mind, they converted it. Kinshasa was the perfect city for his devious desires. It was a city long forgotten by the Commonwealth. It was not substandard or Third World but law and order were rather absent. Vosloo would fit in well. Until six months ago, he was untouchable but, on that particular evening, he was seated in one of the bar/brothels that he frequented. He stole, killed, and traded in the black market for a living, using his training as a soldier to gain the upper hand over every adversary he faced, collecting cold, hard cash for his dirty deeds. He would then squander his money on alcohol and women; although, he was more respectful to the former. On this particular evening, he was seated with his own bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. He was looking at the balcony above the bar where used and abused whores waited for the next client. They smoked idly and recovered from whatever drug they had just smoked, snorted, ingested, or shot. He knew them all by name and knew when they took their hits. He liked those that put up little fight, those that fought like hell, those that enjoyed it, and those that hated it. He liked them all and they all knew him and feared him. None of them ever wanted his as a client but he was a paying customer who was well-liked by the owner. Their welfare was non-existent and on this particular evening, he eyed Moni, one of his favorites.

Moni was tall and skinny, her skin as dark as the night. Unlike most of the others, she had long hair and was relatively clean, in comparison to the others. She was still filthy. Her body showed the scars of her profession and she was barely nineteen years old, a six year veteran. She spoke fluent French but she wasn't very educated. Wearing skimpy clothes that barely covered her small breasts, anyone could see the healed cigarette burns, knife cuts, and lumps. This particular evening she wore no particular bruises and Vosloo seemed to think that was wrong. Her right forearm bore fresh tracts though and she brushed her nose. Despite being paid fractions of what she earned, she had enough money to afford her two favorites drugs, cocaine and heroin and she took them at leisure, depending on her mood. On days when she wanted to forget, she took a charred spoon and heated the heroin powder to a thick liquid, injecting it into her arm moments later. All day, she would just lay there while slob after slob sampled what she had to offer, not that it was much. Often they would slap her around and check to see if she was alive or dead and in her drug-induced stupor, she wouldn't care and most times neither would they. She wished for death some days while others she had little clue what was going on around her. On days when she needed to maintain her stamina and needed to get things over with quickly, she snorted cocaine. Only a half hour prior to this particular moment, she had stopped a nosebleed, the byproduct of too much cocaine over too long a time. She peered down and saw him, offering a fake smile. In her mind, she was crying, too much pain for anyone to bear, let alone a child. Vosloo smiled back, remembering the time he put her in the hospital, and downed another shot but as he stood up, he found himself quickly sitting back down. A tall, imposing man stood above him, a man of equal stature but twice the strength. He looked down and smiled while another man sat in the booth on the other side of Vosloo. "Captain Daniel Vosloo. Hirgizstanian Special Forces. Court martialed, broke out of prison on Valentine's Day last year. Kinshasa huh? What a place to go. She's the whore of the day?" The stranger said as he looked at Moni, who clung to the railing, curious what had stopped Vosloo, wondering if, perhaps, he was going to be arrested. She knew he was an escaped convict but had little power to do anything about it except let him fuck her.

"Who are you? Police? Federals?" Vosloo asked.

The stranger smiled and picked up the whiskey bottle, pouring a drink for Vosloo. He pushed the shot glass over to him and nodded. "None of those. I've come to you with a proposition that will give you more money than you could spend in a day on all of the whores in this city." Vosloo studied him but took the glass and downed the shot.

"Who the fuck are you then and what are you talking about?"

"I need a mercenary and I can't think of a better person other than yourself Mister Vosloo. And as for who I am? How about you can just call me 'Kyle'?"

"That's not your name now is it?"

"No. No it isn't." Vosloo studied him again and turned his head. The brick wall still loomed over and next to him but he was able to catch the bartender's gaze. He held up the glass and the bartender nodded. He wanted another glass and that bartender took the hint quite quickly and had the glass brought over most haste. "I guess you're interested?"

"Have a drink and I'll see if you're a joke or not." The whiskey was harsh but the stranger smiled as he downed it without effort. Vosloo looked surprised. He half expected the stranger to be a measly pencil pusher or someone taking him for a ride but the test was something that went in both of their favors. "Who do you represent?"

"A very large organization. Very large."

"What's that mean?" He poured another round of shots. "Not yet. Now tell me more. If this shot gets drunk we accept otherwise you best get out of my way."

"Fair enough Mister Vosloo. I need someone to lead a team of six other mercenaries out to represent the interests of my organization in Ethiopia."

"That place is a fucking hell hole! What interest can you have? Wait!" Vosloo thought for a moment about all he knew about Ethiopia. He had debated going there instead of Kinshasa but the place was a war zone and he didn't need that sort of attention attracted to him. "That place is a war zone. What are you, some corporation looking for resources?"

"Not exactly but we're looking for something. Our interests go way beyond resources. What we need is destabilization among other things."

"Why? The place is destabilized enough. What more could you hope to gain?"

"Plenty. The other six have already been picked out, all of them are former paratroopers or special forces like yourself."

"What's the pay?" Vosloo was certainly interested but he still didn't know who this man was, who he represented, and what he really wanted.

"Sizable. Sign-on bonus, let's call it, of a quarter million. Cash or deposited in an account of your choosing. A monthly allotment of eight grand, same conditions. Ninety-six thousand a year." Vosloo laughed.

"Ninety-six thousand? I steal more than that a year! Why would I care about that?"

"Because if you succeed then you get a completion bonus. Two million large."

"How long do you think this will take?"

"We don't know. Your team won't be paid that much either." Vosloo looked back down at the glass but he still had questions to ask and he wasn't drinking until all of them were answered.

"More about the mission."

"Our organization doesn't want to see Ethiopia become stable, conquered, annexed, or whatever. We want to see it pilfered and abused. We want to see the whole country ravaged and raped. We want absolute chaos. There are criminals, mercenaries, rebels, government forces, private corporations, and so on and so fourth all there. We want everyone fighting against one other. You understand?"

"Yes. I do. Six and me? Seven total? You expect seven men to do this?"

"Five men and two women." Vosloo laughed hard now and the stranger looked at him with a bewildered look. The whiskey sat in front of them, still not drank. "They don't bake.

"How are seven people," he emphasized the word "people" and continued, "going to accomplish all of this?"

"The resources behind them will be limitless and we don't deal with leashes. You'll get objectives here and there that are defined but otherwise it's all for you. Anything you can make on your own and do on your own you keep. The place is rich in resources and that means you can profit out the ass. Eight a month? That's guaranteed. You can make eighty a month if you play this one smartly."

Vosloo looked at him in silence. In his mind, he roved over the conversation. There was a lot he liked and little that he didn't like. The money was right and the stranger was right, Ethiopia was full of potential. With limitless, unexploited resources and a team under him, Vosloo could iron out more cash in a few months than he could ever net in Kinshasa. He still had one last question though and unless it was answered, he was walking. This could still be a trap and he didn't want to take any chances. In the bar, he could escape, he could overpower the wall by him and the stranger would go quietly. The bar was friendly territory and the bartender had a shotgun he could use to fight his way out if necessary. "Who's paying my bills?"

"The Layartebian Ministry of Intelligence." The conversation was over and Vosloo picked up the shot glass. The stranger did the same, they tapped them together, and downed the shot in one, quick swoop. The deal was done. Four days later, Vosloo found out who his team was, in person. He nearly killed Bishop again but they had come to an uneasy truce, at gunpoint. The stranger was no pushover, as Vosloo quickly found out when he had drawn his pistol at Vosloo's head but, he offered them a bonus. If either one killed the other, that person wouldn't get paid and they would be handed over to the authorities and there was no escaping the Layartebian Ministry of Justice. They both knew it. If they had been found once, they could easily be found a second time. They were forced to shake on it and now, six months later, Vosloo stared through the fire at Bishop, wishing he'd killed him seven years earlier. They had only been in-country now for four and a half weeks but that was long enough but the money he had coming to him was too much to risk on someone like Bishop. It was one in the morning and Vosloo had been awake going on two and a half days. He hadn't a good night sleep in eight years but still, he shut his eyes on the average of four hours in every twenty-four. This particular week had been a rough one and the visions he saw in his dreams were enough to make him want to stay awake forever.

"Every man has his demons. If you can't keep them at bay, they'll eat you alive from the inside out. Then. There is no cure for the disease that follows. Death is the only way out." Kyle told Vosloo shortly before they were inserted in country. It was the last time he had seen him and they had been on their own since, receiving just one objective in that amount of time. Of course, that didn't stop them from making up their own. Every man has his demons. Vosloo thought to himself as he looked through the fire again. Everything Kyle said in that statement was true and Vosloo wondered what demons haunted the intelligence agent. Vosloo's weren't just demons. They were legions and hordes within him that knew no enemy and never rested. They kept him awake at night, during the day, and whenever he shut his eyes. They haunted him but, in a twisted, demented way, he welcomed each and every one of them. The newest of them was a small child, a girl who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. Her life would never be the same and Vosloo was sure that the blood he made her drink would be a taste she would always remember. The faces of her parents had stared at her, both of them blank with fear and confusion, one of them propped on the coffee table and the other propped on the couch, their bodies a few feet away. Vosloo smiled as he rethought the encounter, giving him some respite from his strong desire to leap through the fire and kill Bishop. Then he remember something else that Kyle had told him, something that was even more ominous. In the eyes of heaven there will be no hiding from your crimes. That stuck out in Vosloo's mind and he didn't understand why. He was an atheist who had seen the horrors of war and could never imagine any sort of paradise existing beyond death. Yet still, the words echoed in his brain as he stared at the words written on his left forearm. The Latin words read, "non serviam." It was as religious as any could get as those were the words that Lucifer or rather Satan himself told to God before he departed Heaven. It was interlaced with a black scorpion that was a symbol for him and the other six mercenaries sleeping around the fire and in their three vehicles. They called themselves the Black Scorpions and it was fitting. The scorpion was one of the more venomous creatures that walked the Earth and the very image of them invokes fear and panic. The mercenaries were, in that way, much like scorpions. They were horribly efficient and especially deadly. They knew the tactics of warfare and they brought total warfare to Ethiopia, in their own way, and soon enough, the very sight of them would invoke fear and panic in their victims before they ever fired a shot.

Daniel Vosloo was the leader of the group and his story wasn't unique. It had its own unique details but he shared little overall difference with the rest of his group, especially his second-in-command, Jeffrey Clint, who stood six-foot-nine, weighed two hundred and forty-pounds, and was thirty-six years old, just three years younger than Vosloo. Jeffrey Clint was a former Layartebian Reconnaissance Force Marine who had been dishonorably discharged shortly after the Venezuelan Uprising in 2007. During the war, Clint was in charge of a three man unit that was tasked with locating and apprehending Venezuelan resistance leaders. His tactics may have been effective but, they violated every code of conduct within the Imperial Layartebian Military. Despite being a conscript force, it was a professional military. Clinton had murdered women and children during interrogations and though it worked to help him accomplish his mission, the other members of his team weren't as thrilled about it as he was. To keep it quiet, the leadership within the military never pressed formal charges but he was driven out of the military and was hiding out in Mato Grosso when Kyle came across him and coaxed him into working for the Ministry of Intelligence, at a salary that was approximately half what he offered to Vosloo. Clint accepted with little fight, he wanted to be back in the business of killing and this was his opportunity. He saw every person in a war zone as a legitimate target, whether they were civilian or not. Aside from Clint, there was one other Layartebian, Vanessa Smith, one of the two women in the unit.

Vanessa Smith had no formal military training because the Empire didn't allow women in the military except in the civilian role within the Ministry of Defense. She did; however, have paramilitary training that was equal to that of any Layartebian soldier. She had served with an illegal militia in Ireland for more than six years but when the militia was broken up by the government, she was dragged before the Ministry of Justice and charged with treason against the Empire. She wouldn't be given the death penalty, her treason wasn't that particularly high but she was definitely going to go to jail for a long time. That was when Kyle mysteriously appeared and coaxed her to the mercenary career path. She was notorious in her militia group for being a ruthless woman who took whatever was thrown at her and begged for more. She had no reservations about holding a weapon to someone's head or throat and seeing their death unfold before her very eyes. Though it couldn't be proven, she had personally executed nine people, six of them with a knife. At first glance, none of this could be told. She was barely five-foot-four, twenty-nine years old, and one hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet. She was reserved, calm, quiet, and almost shy it seemed. She almost appeared to be a woman of innocence but she had her baptism of fire long ago.

Karl Adler was the single North Germanian and while he wasn't the biggest, he was definitely the toughest. He was six-foot-five and two hundred and twenty-five pounds. At thirty-four he had killed more people than any other person in the Black Scorpions. He had been drafted into the North Germanian military when he was only eighteen, as customary to law. That was 1993 and that year, the North Germanians were fighting a war. He served three tours, each lasting a year and by then he was still just a corporal. He graduated to the more elite units of the military in 1996 and served there until his arrest in 1999 for the torture, rape, and murder of a nineteen year old girl who was "holding vital information concerning the whereabouts of a fugitive resistance leader in Spain." She knew nothing and his defense fell through in the military hearing. He would serve life behind bars, the only reason his death sentence was revoked was because of his service to the country. In prison, he personally saw to the murder of nearly a hundred inmates and who knew how many of those he actually committed himself. When the North Germanian Reich fell apart, he used the opportunity to organize a prison riot. During the riot, he amassed most of his credited murderers and, like Vosloo, escaped to Africa. Kyle had found him just the same and recruited him to the Black Scorpions promising him all of the blood he could ever desire.

Michelle West was the only Hawdawgian and the other female of the group. She had been a paratrooper in the Holy Republic's army and she was indicted at the age of twenty-five for, among other things, rape. A small girl that weighed just one hundred and ten pounds and stood five-foot-two, she had overpowered another female paratrooper and raped her one evening. Her victim nearly died from her wounds and would actually go on to commit suicide in 2007, unable to bear the images of this malicious, vicious, and sadistic woman staring at her in her dreams anymore. Whether or not West was a lesbian was up to debate, she had been seen plenty of times in the company of men and most people just thought she enjoyed sex, no matter who her partner was. Unlike Vosloo and Adler, she hadn't escaped from jail but, instead, she had been released in 2007. She was only thirty-two when she came to Ethiopia and she found it a country ready for the taking. West wasn't as sadistic as some of the others but she was no cute and cuddly teddy bear. She was there to steal as much for herself as she could so that she could live out her days somewhere that certain laws couldn't touch her.

The last two members of the group were Hirgizstanian. There was Harold Bishop, who had his own story interlaced with Vosloo's. The other was Robert Duke, a former paratrooper who had ordered the burning of a village during the war in the Ivory Coast. That hadn't gone over so well with command, especially when a journalist exposed that the village was not allied to the enemy. Post-battle assessment revealed that he had ordered the individuals in the village tied up and secured in their homes, to be burned alive. He watched as the huts were engulfed by fire, taking solace in the symphony of putrid screams and the acrid odors that wafted into his nose. While his soldiers had been charged with war crimes and sentenced by the Hirgizstanian military justice, Duke had never been found. He was presumed dead or captured but neither was the truth. Kyle knew exactly where to find him. Mogadishu was Duke's place of hiding and he was one elusive son-of-a-bitch. Kyle had a hard time locating the five-foot-six, thirty-two year old, one hundred and forty pound genocidal maniac but when he found him, Kyle promised him two things. The first was obviously money and the second was that his record would be wiped clean. One of Duke's biggest desires was a desire no sane man could have. He wanted to return to society in the former Commonwealth and speak to the public about what he saw and did in the war and defend his actions even though there was nothing to defend. There was no tactical, strategic, or whatsoever advantage to his burning of the village to the ground. He did it to hear those people scream, to see them cry, to watch as they bled from the butt of his rifle, and as they scampered away, clothes ripped and torn from whatever some soldier under his command did.

The Black Scorpions was a group that Kyle put together personally and had it not been a black operation, he would have been given a commendation for how well he fulfilled every objective. He was told to gather the most disturbing and most vicious, blood-thirsty scum that served in the armies of the October Alliance. It took him nine months to track all of them down and another eight and a half months just to get to them all. Six months later, they were in place, in Ethiopia, ready to cause the havoc and pandemonium that the Layartebian Ministry of Intelligence wanted. Their goal was simple, to tear the country inside out and do it with a smile. They would be given, from time to time, objectives that would suit their overall goal but largely, they were given the freedom to act upon their own. This was in a category of operations that would be colloquially referred to as the "blackest of black operations" because there was no term to use to describe it. Authorized by the Emperor himself in a very closed session with just the Minister of Intelligence and one other individual, the operation was to have no ties to the Empire at all and it didn't. The Ministry of Intelligence had made sure of this and did so quite well. When they were inserted in-country, they joined the menagerie that was Ethiopia and there, they didn't stand out whatsoever. They fit in and that was the scariest part of all. Their murderous, insatiable lust for horror, violence, and all of the worst that human kind could offer was not all their own. Dozens upon dozens of mercenaries, some acting on behalf of governments, others on behalf of corporations, and still others on behalf of themselves had descended upon the forsaken, Africa country by then. Ethiopia was ripe for the picking and every government and corporate entity in the world knew it and, if they had the resources available, took advantage of it.

The Black Scorpions were, by no means, the only group in the ravaged country, which was to become just another African nightmare. Those caught in the middle of it, the truly innocent people, would be the victims of things they didn't fully understand and never would. To them, what they saw was a smidgeon of the whole picture. They saw only the worst of it, the violence at their level. They saw the abductions, the fires, the tortures, the murders, the rapes, the pillaging, and so on and so fourth. What they didn't realize about this was that those actions and horrors were all driven by actual policy, policy that was cemented by men and women far sicker in the head than those committing the atrocities. Everything these mercenaries did in Ethiopia was thought of first in some boardroom or during a brainstorming session at a cubicle somewhere, in some air-conditioned and heated office, where workers freaked out if they saw ants or if someone ate the last doughnut. These were people who didn't know suffering or hardship in the same way that these Ethiopians would. They looked at them simply as obstacles and that was why these were the real sick people. They wouldn't do any of the acts themselves but they would carefully pick out each and every method to be used. They formed the policies and the directives and slept soundly at night. Their demons were completely at bay and would never gain the upper hand. One such individual had transmitted the Black Scorpions' second directive in their four and a half weeks in country and had done so with a smile. He had carefully crafted it as he read through dispatches and intelligence briefs. This was a mission he was particularly proud of and he eagerly awaited not only its approval but also the results of it.

That was why Vosloo and his band of miscreants were sitting by a campfire outside of Goba that morning, where the temperature hovered just above freezing. The sky was dark above and anyone from a big city would have been amazed at just how many stars actually could be seen from the planet known as Earth. Vosloo had gazed up a few times and wondered, philosophically, where any of those galaxies were and whether or not there were people like him there. He determined that they would be a threat and he would have to kill them if he ever encountered them. He could have no duplication, it would be bad for business and he gazed at his watch. It was one in the morning. The mission would be coming in fifteen minutes and that was all the time he needed. He pulled himself to a stand and brushed off the back of his pants. The dirt from Ethiopia clung to the fabric and he didn't need it there. He hadn't showered in more than two weeks and the grime that collected all over his body was layered upon layers. He didn't really need any more but it was futile to brush off any of the dirt. The whole country was filthy.

He and the Black Scorpions had driven to this remote area in a small group of trees that was about one and a half square kilometers in size. In the middle there was a patch without trees, which was where they built the campfire. The country was dry enough that he didn't need to start a forest fire in the one place he needed to accomplish his mission. Their three vehicles were parked underneath the trees and covered in camouflage netting. A campfire in and of itself was not unusual but one with trucks parked near it would definitely attract attention. His vehicles were military too and they consisted of a single Eagle IV, which he drove. It was armed with a light machine gun, a Layartebian-made M35A1 firing a 7.62x51mm projectile. The other two vehicles were AGF Serval tactical trucks that he used for reconnaissance and transportation of supplies. One was armed with a forty millimeter grenade launcher and an M35A1 Light Machine Gun and that was the scout vehicle. The other carried an M2HB Heavy Machine Gun that fired a massive 12.7x99mm projectile at ranges exceeding two kilometers. That was the transport truck and it was loaded with supplies, most of which they had been given but plenty of which they stole for themselves. Duke and Bishop drove those two trucks and the seven of them split up between the three vehicles. Vosloo usually traveled with West, who manned the gun above. Duke traveled with Clint and Smith and Bishop stuck with Adler, who was big enough to protect their supplies. They could, between the three vehicles, carry twelve people in total and their seven meant room for up to five passengers, comfortably but, when they kidnapped people, they weren't traveling comfortably. In those cases, the only limiters for their passenger capacity was simple mathematics. An individual took up a particular volume and they had a limited volume to work with in each vehicle. If they exceeded that number it would be physically impossible to carry that load. Of course other factors such as weight played into the situation but weight was rarely a concern as they rarely fit that many people into a vehicle. Anybody they didn't want to take along was generally left lying by the roadside or village or wherever they were for the buzzards and vultures to peck at after they departed.

Vosloo walked over to the nearest vehicle, the AGF Serval dedicated to scout roles. All six of his soldiers were asleep, trying to get a few hours in while they could. They would only be getting two and a half in this short spat and that was enough to keep them going for many more. "Duke, wake the fuck up!" Vosloo shouted as he came up to the side of the vehicle. On cue, Duke woke right up and looked outside the front windshield before he turned to see Vosloo, just five meters away, approaching. "Get the goddamn missile ready already!" Duke nodded and jumped out of the driver's seat of the vehicle. He had layers upon layers on to keep himself warm. He and Adler opted for that route since their sleeping bags were less than sufficient. Everyone else slept in sleeping bags that were hardly anything more than cases to keep them from getting too dirty. They were cover in grime that included animal feces, mud, dried blood, dirt, and who knew what else. There were holes, rips, tears, and scuffs in them that reduced their overall effectiveness to keep the individuals inside warm. Instead, everyone wore layers but Duke and Adler wore layers alone, sleeping in their vehicles instead, to keep them off the dirty, cold ground. The seats in the vehicles were marginally more comfortable but they slept in the most uncomfortable of positions.

"Got it man. Here, she's ready to go." Everyone stirred behind the two as Duke pulled a hard-plastic, black suitcase out of the bed of the AGF Serval. He laid it on the ground and crouched in front of it, quickly unlocking the four clasps that held the two covers together. He quickly pulled off the top cover and put it behind the case to reveal a missile launching system, an FIM-186 Wizard surface-to-air missile. Layartebian-made, the LDC had exported enough of the missiles, especially to October Alliance nations that their usage would certainly not imply the Empire was involved at all. Vosloo looked down at the missile and Duke handed him the whole system after carefully assembling the components one-by-one. He attached the missile to the launcher base, clipped in the trigger and grip, locked in the sighting system, and attached the guidance system last. Vosloo was now holding a forty-five pound weapon that consisted of a fifteen pound launcher and a thirty pound missile.

The FIM-186A Wizard missile was guided by imaging infrared and it was a small missile, only five feet, three inches long and three and a half inches in diameter. Its wingspan was four and a half inches when fired as the wings popped out of the missile, making it easier and more compact to store. They were spring loaded of course. The missile traveled at two and a half times the speed of sound against targets as far away as eight kilometers and as high as seven thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-five meters. It used an eight pound warhead to obliterate anything it touched and that was a fact. The Wizard had one of the highest launch-to-kill ratios for man-portable, surface-to-air missiles in the world. The Stinger was around one and a quarter missiles launched per kill while the Wizard hovered at one-point-zero-five missiles launched per kill, almost as perfect as could be had. That was mainly due to its ability to turn at over sixty degrees per second as well as its nearly unspoofable guidance. The missile, in skilled hands, was a surefire way to down an aircraft at low and medium altitude and that was what Vosloo was going to do.

He walked away from the AGF Serval and to the campfire. He looked down at his watch again. "We've got twelve minutes to pull this off. Everyone on perimeter except West. You're with me. Now!" The order was obeyed immediately and everyone grabbed their weapons from next to them and sprang to action, manning the weapons on the trucks and their own weapons at various, key positions around the encampment. Vosloo and West, on the other hand, took a stroll, three hundred and fifty meters away, exiting the forested area entirely. There, they stood on flat terrain without much in their way. Vosloo hefted the launcher onto his right shoulder and looked at West. "Make sure nobody's around." She nodded and took off, putting her night vision goggles over her eyes as she walked away. Vosloo put his right hand on the grip and elevated the missile launcher so that he could turn the system on, simply by pressing a single switch. The system would take thirty seconds to boot up and another forty-five for the missile seeker to become active. During that time, he oriented himself to the southwest. It seemed like an hour for the system to come online and every few seconds felt like a few minutes to the impatient mercenary who wanted to accomplish this objective so that he could get back to his own, which included the raping and pillaging of a nearby town. Time ticked away as he oriented the missile launcher upwards to the cold sky. If it was barely thirty-five degrees on the ground it would be far colder in the sky. That would make the hot exhaust from even the smallest of aircraft visible from far away. Finally, that exhaust was what told him that his objective was nearing. He activated the missile system and began to track the target. An invisible laser departed the missile launcher and hit the fuselage of the aircraft a split-second later. This wasn't to guide the missile but rather to get data on the approaching aircraft. The missile launcher's thermal sights had targeted it but it couldn't give the more accurate firing data that the situation provided. The laser returned speed, altitude, and range instantly and he saw that the target was well within the range envelope of the missile.

The plane was a Douglas DC-3, an airframe that had been designed more than seventy years earlier. This particular aircraft had been built fifty-something years earlier and it was used by government forces to transport supplies around the country. This particular flight was flying into Robe, thirty kilometers to the east. Robe, like Goba, was controlled by government forces and this was a government transport mission except they weren't moving arms or supplies. They were moving people. Only hours earlier, they had evacuated an orphanage and were moving the children as well as their caretakers, four nuns, to Robe and eventually out of the country. This was a fact known to Vosloo who targeted the aircraft as it flew past him. Eventually, it was entirely past him and flying away. The orders had been transmitted to him earlier that day by the Ministry of Intelligence through their secretive and encrypted channels. They knew all about the government's plan to evacuate the orphanage and move the children and their caretakers to a safer part of the country. The rebels knew it too and this was an attack that was made to look like a rebel attack. A village only a few hundred meters from the forested area was rebel controlled and nothing more needed to be done. The government forces would understand the rest, just as the Ministry of Intelligence wanted from them. It would help the destabilization that the Ministry of Intelligence sought out so much. Vosloo watched the plane fly and looked at the probability of kill indicator on the missile launcher's screen. It was a number that gave the percentage that the missile would hit under the launching circumstances. It was based on environmental conditions, electronic countermeasures, target data, and so on and so fourth. When it read zero-point-nine-five, he fired and that meant he had a ninety-five percent chance of hitting the target. The missile ejected from the launcher by a low-powered rocket, designed to get the missile far enough away from the launcher so that when its main rocket fired, the launcher wasn't harmed. It was a process that lasted less than a second. The missile streaked upwards, trailing no smoke, only a bright, green flame. Moments later, when the missile traveled its four and a half kilometers to the target, it hit. Vosloo smiled as he watched a fireball erupt from the DC-3s port side wing, right where one of its two propeller engines were. The DC-3 wasn't more than thirty-six hundred meters off the ground and it wasn't flying faster than two hundred and forty kilometers per hour. It had no chance of evading the missile, even if the pilots knew it was there but they didn't, not until after it hit.

The warhead explosion shattered the engine and subsequently damaged the port side wing. The explosion of the engine, on the other hand, did more damage, structurally weakening the wing beyond its critical limits. Shrapnel was also ejected into the air and the aircraft's fuselage. While it injured some of the children and one of the nuns inside of the aircraft, it also damaged the port-side, rear stabilizer of the aircraft. Severely weakened, the aircraft began to lose speed because of the lack of power to its port-side engine, which began to burn uncontrollably. As the pilots began to counter the loss of the engine, they put extra stress on the wing and in less than five seconds, the entire port-side wing snapped in half and the DC-3 was now uncontrollable. It spiraled into a nose-down spin and smashed into the country shortly thereafter. Those terrifying last seconds were unimaginable for everyone on board and Vosloo thought about that as he watched it fall out of the sky, trailing black smoke and flames behind it as it spiraled towards the ground. When it impacted, the rising fireball from the ground was all he needed to know that the mission was a success. He quickly walked back to the clearing and began barking orders. They were out of there and it took them less than a minute and a half to pack up and get ready to go. He doused the flames of the fire with water and jumped into the Eagle IV without saying anything other than orders. Everyone operated with precision and speed and that was what he wanted. As the three vehicles entered the road and began to head to the north, headlights off, guided by their night vision goggles, Vosloo looked in his rear-view mirror and saw the flames. Just more blood for this god forsaken country to absorb. Yeah. In the eyes of heaven. Fuck heaven! He thought to himself as he drove off, keeping his speed around seventy kilometers per hour. The other vehicles followed and they skirted past the rebel village without ever being noticed, not even by the guards who were asleep rather than vigilant.

[Heaven Hieghts]

August 16, 2009
5:45 PM
Monouska, Currouse
“You’re sending me where?” Johanna Abelev growled lowly in Russian. Jo couldn’t believe what she was hearing, right out of Robert’s fucking mouth. Charlie was gonna rip his head off for putting her on this story, at least she hoped.

“Ethiopia.” Robert said idly, facing his large office window. Snow blanketed the city outside, draping everything in white. It snowed a lot in Monouska, Currouse, considering it was almost in the arctic circle. “I believe this would be a good story for a novice like you, Johanna.” He sipped his coffee like this wasn’t a big deal at all, when in reality it was.

Johanna had heard about the other journalists that had been sent to Ethiopia. Twelve went and only four came back in the Currousian circle of media. Not to mention other journalists from say Russia and other countries that never came home.

“What the fuck Robert! Are you trying to get me killed?” Jo yelled at him. This whole situation made her angry but the way he acted so idle and casual about it really pissed her off.

Robert turned around and sipped his coffee. “Now, now, Joey, don’t you think your over reacting?”

Johanna stood up straight. Perhaps she was, but him pointing that out was only making her that much more angry. The phrase never trust an editor came to mind, damn valid point that was. “Why couldn’t you get anybody else on this?” Her tone was more than perturbed.

“Because they wouldn’t take it. And why not give the story to the novice? You’ll be good at this Johanna, you and your camera. You have nothing to worry about.”

“The story being easy isn’t what I’m worried about here, Robert and you know damn well what it is.” She snapped.

Robert looked Johanna in the eyes and said. “You’ll be fine, your not going to die.” He sounded almost sarcastic. Abelev had heard enough and turned to go but Robert said one more thing before she had the chance. “Johanna, you’ll be leaving next week on Tuesday. I’ll give you your plane tickets then oh and here,” He started to dig around in his desk and finally pulled out a small book that looked to be printed in Currousian. “it’s a book on how to speak Amharic, you may need it.” He said with a cute little smile that really got her blood boiling. Jo snatched the book out of his hand and stormed out of his office before she decided to turn around and punch his nose in. Damn Romans.

One Week Later

August 23, 2009
11:37 AM
Port of Monouska International Airport, Monouska, Currouse

Johanna looked out of the glass wall at the air field. Her arms were wrapped around her camera bag like it was her child, in theory it was. Damn thing cost nearly three-thousand dollars and she treated it as so. It was her only film camera aside from her grandfather’s WWII Argus and was by far her favorite. Jo also had one of her digital Nikon cameras with her, just incase something happened to her Cannon.

She was to report the political status of Ethiopia after the fall of the COH. Didn’t seem hard but something told her this story was gonna be one hell of a goat rope. Johanna sighed and pushed her blonde hair out of her face. Jo didn’t exactly get a good feeling about Ethiopia, dead journalist or not, something about it wasn’t right.

The snow had been falling nonstop since Robert landed her on the story. She presumed it to be some sort of omen, not the good kind either. Jo looked at her camera bag. Just you and me now, buddy. She thought.
Johanna looked at her wrist. Абелев was tattooed just below her palm, it was her surname spelled in Russian. Well if she did die and someone who read Russian found her they’d know her name at least. Yeah, fat chance.

One hell of a trip this was gonna be…

***
August 24, 2009
8:55 AM
Goba, Ethiopia

Soon enough she was on the ground in Ethiopia. It was credibly hot out and already she had to strip off her jacket and button-up blouse down to her tank top. Made her glad she chose not to wear a black bra. Jo could feel herself get sun burnt the moment she stepped off of the plane. Mosquitoes and flies were every where and were constantly in her face. God, she was hating Ethiopia already.

After she got her luggage from baggage claim, she headed outside. A man wearing dark sunglasses approached her and spoke with slightly accented English. “You must be Johanna Abelev.” Abelev nodded to the man, this must be her guide. He offered her one dark skinned hand and she took it in a firm hand shake. “I am Stephan, welcome to Ethiopia.” Stephan said with a smile. He took one of her bags and started walking to a black Jeep. She followed him.

“So, how are you liking Africa so far?”

Jo replied in her thick Russian accent with a less than happy tone. “It is terrible.”

Stephan chuckled at that as he loaded her bags into the back. “Robert said you might act this way.” He said giving her friendly smile. “He speaks rather highly of you, you know.”

Johanna flashed a sarcastic smile and took a picture of him with her Cannon. Stephan just gave her smile in response.

“Where are we heading to?” She asked flatly.

“Out of the city, to an outpost where a friend of mine works. He’ll tell you a lot about what you need to know.” He said closing the trunk and heading to the drivers seat.

Johanna walked around to the front and piled in the passenger seat.
As Stephan started the Jeep and began to drive from the airport she figured this to be a good time to interrogate him. “So what would describe the political situation as?” Her accent was pretty thick but most people didn’t have a very hard time figuring out what she was saying.

“Political situation, heh, none. If there was one it would most likely be chaotic. Just like everything else here now. War and genocide have sprung up just about every place you look now that the COH is out of the picture, and it seems to me that aid from Brink is doing little if nothing to help. All sorts of rebel groups have taken this chance to reek havoc upon the more and try to take position of power.” Stephan shook his head. “It’s a shame to see this happen to such a great country with such a great culture.”

After Johanna finished writing down what he said, she took another picture of him, this time with her Nikon.

“Where is this outpost?”

“Way outside of the city, near a small village.” He said. “How long are you supposed to be in Ethiopia?”

“Two weeks.” She said, fiddling with her camera. He nodded to her and she asked. “What is this contacts name?”
“Earl Cummings.”
“Is he Roman?”
“Yes, he is.”
Johanna finished with her camera and looked up. They were heading down a highway of sorts. She sighed and took a picture of the shanty towns they passed. It was a little depressing to see people live this way, Jo felt sorry for them. It made her glad she lived in a wealthy country like Currouse. Though the government was run by a psycho dictator, at least its people were treated fairly well. Johanna put her Nikon back and pulled out her Cannon. She put on a fisheye lens and took another picture of the shanty town.

Jo sat back and put her Cannon in her lap. “How long will it be?”

“You mean the drive? Oh a couple of hours maybe.”

Johanna sighed deeply in response, not exactly what she wanted to hear. She leaned forward and put her Cannon back in its bag with her Nikon and sat back again. Jo had slept horribly the night before and sleeping on the plane had been out of the question for her. Johanna closed her eyes and drifted into a light sleep.

***

“Johanna, Johanna, wake up.” She felt herself being shaken and she opened her eyes. Stephan had been the one shaking her, he didn’t sound right, like he was suspicious and maybe even afraid.

She found that they were on a dirt road surrounded by a lot of forest. Johanna looked a head of them; there was a road block and behind it stood a handful of men carrying automatic weapons. It honestly didn’t look good.

“What? What is wrong?” Jo said sleepily.

“Just stay in the car.” He said. Stephan opened the driver side door and pulled

The sleep drained out of her when he said that. “Stephan, tell me what is wrong.”

He didn’t answer, instead he just got out and pulled something from under the seat. On closer inspection she realized it was pistol. Stephan slid in the back of his belt and pulled his shirt over it. Johanna looked a head of them; there was a road block and behind it stood a handful of men carrying automatic weapons. It honestly didn’t look good.
Jo felt around for her camera bag and once she found it she pulled out her Cannon and turned off the flash. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice her taking a few quick snap shots, that could result badly. She lowered the camera and watched the scene unfold. Stephan approached them carefully and they soon began conversing in Amharic, she could only understand a few words they spoke only having read a part of the book.

They soon shared a short laugh and Johanna relaxed. Stephan walked back to the car smiling as one of the armed men moved the road block. He got back in the car and started it.

“What was that all about?” Johanna asked suddenly.

“Well, I’d heard of a Rebel group that was setting up road blocks and killing or capturing those who dared to go past. Not to mention terrorizing villages and such.” Stephan took off his glasses. “I figured I should be cautious, we’re trying to keep our rate of dead journalists down you know.”

“What’s the name of these rebels?”

“I wasnt told that much.”

“Hmmm…” Jo sat back and looked at her camera. The lens needed cleaning, she pulled a cleaning pad and wiped all the smudges away.

Abelev sat back, she figured they’d reach the outpost soon. “Where do we go before we reach the outpost?”

“To the Hotel, we’ll head out in the morning again first thing.” He said. “I’m gonna take you to the shanty town we saw earlier so you can talk with its residence about the current situation.

“Would they want to talk?” Abelev asked.

“If I was your translator they might.” He said.
Johanna leaned against window and cursed under her breath in Russian. This was going to be a very long two weeks.

***

Johanna had dozed off again and but woke when she felt the Jeep stop. She surveyed her surroundings and found that they were in a man made clearing that had a large warehouse looking building in the middle. Next to it, stood a Quonset hut type of building. The clearing was surrounded by barbed wire and razor wire and various wooden towers that had men of various statures holding automatic weapons.

The scene made Johanna nervous at first but then she relaxed when she saw how casual he acted about it. Jo pulled out her Cannon and put a normal lens on it then slipped the strap around her neck. Stephan got out and started walking towards the Quonset hut and Jo followed suit. He seemed to know a lot of the men who worked here because he’ often smile and wave at any of them who passed.

With this she began to wonder what connection he had with Robert and if they knew each other well and if Robert had a connection with the people here. Johanna put her blouse back on and buttoned twice. She’d have to have a little discussion with him when she got back.

Two men stood on either side of the door to the hut, they paid no heed to Johanna as she stopped to take a picture of them. They entered the Quonset hut and found it to be air conditioned, it was quite a relief for her considering she was very much a cold weather person. Johanna felt almost instantly refreshed when she stepped in.

In the middle of the room was large table with several men and women standing around it. They all had grim looks on their faces as they went on discussing matter of various degrees. A map of the country was laid out on the table.
A tall blonde man stood up straight and looked at the two of them with a smile as they entered.

“Stephan!” He said welcomingly with his arms open. They greeted each other with smiles briefly in Amharic then the man turned his attention to Johanna. “And must be the lovely Miss Johanna Abelev.” He said with a smile. “I’m Earl Cummings.” Cummings held his hand out for her to shake and she gave it a firm shake.

“A pleasure to meet you.” She said, her thick Russian accent marring her English.

He nodded to her in agreement. “Come, there is much we have to discuss.” Earl said with a friendly smile, he put his hand on her shoulder and led her to the table with Stephan in tow.

Johanna studied the map as they approached it, there were all sorts of different colored pegs that covered it. She suspected this to be a map of the different forces at work, from ally to enemy it was all mapped out here. Johanna took a picture of it and received a few suspicious looks from they men and women around the table but that soon died down.

“Tell me about the rebel forces.” She said taking a picture of a woman at the other end of the table who didnt care to notice her.

Cummings sighed. “That is a very long story.” He scratched the back of his head. “Well, we have reason to believe that the rebel forces are becoming neutral as far as doing and good go, seeing as they oppose corrupt government groups that have quite obviously failed to keep the country in check but then again they are causing large bits of war and genocide all over the country. All in efforts of one rising to power over Ethiopia, though to me that seems unlikely.”
After Johanna finished writing all of this down, she continued with her questions. “What about forien aid?”

"Well, there isnt really any. At this point that could be just wishful thinking." He sighed and scratched the back of his head. "This country is in terrible shape is all that I can really say for sure. Though even thats an understatement."

"What about the Government?" She said, taking another picture of him with a fisheye lens on.

"To be quite honest, it'd be better if the bastards were out of the picture. They're only making things worse, well aside from keeping the rebels at bay. If they get the upper hand I'd say we're in deep shit considering how corrupt and ingenuine they are but even then its a chance at peace." He shrugged. "Though peace at this point seems to be a distant wish and with the whole continent like it is I doubt any such thing would come to arise."

"Oh geez..." Stephan said behind them suddenly.

Abelev turned in unison with Cummings. Stephan was staring at his watch with a worried, he looked up at Johanna and said. "If we want to make check in time we need to go."

Abelev looked at Cummings who looked to be a little disappointed. "Oh, so soon?

Stephan nodded to him and he turned back to Abelev, giving her a warm smile. He held out his hand. "Приятно встретиться с вами." He said, nearly perfectly.

Johanna was caught off guard by that. She took his hand and shook it firmly. "Вы также."

He nodded to her and she turned around to head for the door. "Come back sometime!" She heard Cummings shout and she waved back at him in agreement.

She followed stephan out to the car and they both piled in. Stephan turned the key in the ignition and soon enough they were back on the dirt road again, heading back toward Goba.

Johanna sat up and pulled down the sun guard. A blonde, blue-eyed woman with fair skin stared back at Johanna in the mirror. This was her default look, though it was just a front to hide the hurt and traumatized little girl she actually was.
Her childhood in Tiksi, Russia hadn’t treated her well. Her father had worked on military projects that the government wanted kept secret. They took him and killed him for trying to tell the truth to the public. Afterward her mother had sent her away to Currouse to live with her aunt and uncle, she never heard from her after that. Two years later, her aunt and uncle died in a house fire on their southern farm. Subsequently, she was deported back to Russia and was circulated from foster home to foster home. When she became an adult, she went back to Currouse and went to college to become a Journalist. Johanna moved to Monouska after graduating and was hired by The Currousian International Inquiry.

She sat back and closed her eyes. This trip was going to be quite interesting....

[Rhodesian States]

Rhodesian States Captain Frikkie Bothas next assignment was from one euphemistic hellhole to another and Botha having the seemingly insatiable lust for violence like the celtic warriors of old did not hesitate in the sligtest when his commanding officer the newly promoted Frans Ludeke gave him the assignment.

"Botha my dear fellow, our esteemed Prime minister has seen fit for Rhodesian States to interfere overtly in the escalating Ethiopian crisis"

Botha pretended to be suprised by what Ludeke had to say but chimed in non the less.

"Ostensibly to finish off the Lords Fist hiding in South Ethiopia?"

Ludekes calm but somewhat beneviolently old geriatric boozehound demeanour showed no suprised at Bothas wit.

"Indeed frikkie, Rhodesian intelligence suggest that isaiah Benjemutu the leader of the Lords Fist has eluded our security forces completely as stanlyville fell and recent captured high ranking officers of the Lords fist have pin pointed his new location"

Botha poiletly quiried

"what do i really have to do with the scheme of things sir" calling Ludekes bluff

"well Botha a man of your intellectual and martial calibre is deemed an asset to this new nation, Old Smithy was particulary impressed by your efforts in the eastern offensive, we want you to rendevous with the other "invested parties" in Ethopia and facilitate potential discussions on the possible demarcation of ethiopia on various lines of influence as well as search fo benjemutu but thats secondary, that verdomde kaffirs nine lives are slowly running out"

Botha smiled at Ludekes stoic stuck in the past expression for the blacks, the adapt or die mantra expressed by Smith to the Hard Core racist elements of the new Rhodesia certainly would not go down well for Ludeke,whom Preferably would want to do the latter than accept the former.

[Rhodesian States]

Frikkie was suprised as he arrived at the Airport with the Number of high Ranking Rhodesian States military and corporate personelle flying out of Grahame Smith Airport, obviously he wasnt in a specialist elite group flying out to exploit the Ethiopian situation rather he was seemingly part of a vast flying circus full of power hungry ambitious Rhodesian Colonels, Ruthless Mercenaries and greedy captains of industry out to make a fast buck in the proverbial "promised land"

[Rhodesian States]

The linguistic barrier was the only area that the Lords Fist commander had difficulty in acclimatising to, most notably in negotiating drug cuts with the established Cartels in the region, but at best these local drug smugglers were rank amateurs, with boy soldiers haphardardly crossing the Ethopian- Kenyan border with little regard for the safety of the goods, Benjemutu had to instill the notion that transporting the goods to the final destination had paramount importance over their human vehicles, not the other way around, Benjumutu thought to himself with contemptous exasperation

[The German Region]

God is no longer watching us. That was the feeling amongst the people of Ethiopia. If God didn’t care to watch them then there was nothing to stop the horror that had ensued. After the collapse of the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan the power of the nation had been fractured into smaller groups, with numerous warlords seeking to take the untapped resources the land had to offer. This couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Huge amounts of natural gas lay ready for the taking in Ethiopia. The warlords had neither the money nor the equipment needed to mine these materials and this is where Germany came into the picture. Natural gas consumption was at an all time high in Germany after the huge overhauls to the German Bundeswher and the main gas producer, Wintershall AG in Germany couldn’t keep up with this. Ethiopia seemed the perfect solution.

The country though was in a state of utter chaos. The possibility of getting a huge corporation into Ethiopia seemed almost impossible. Every warlord in Ethiopia and nations of the world were fixed on the resources in the country and it seemed a distraction would solve all these problems.

August 25th 2009 – 11:00
Hawassa Slums
Ethiopia

Alex Zernicht studies the gruff surroundings of the room he was in. Never before in his life had he had a meeting in such a disgusting place. He was surrounded by every bit of scum and villainy Ethiopia had to offer. Prostitutes and whores stood at the bar, their bodies scarred with the signs of their line of work, seducing numerous men for a chance of money despite the fact that disease amongst them was rife in Ethiopia. Murderers and criminals filled the shanty bar, the acts they had committed unspeakable but still Alex waited, waited amongst the filth of a nation.

Alex had been waiting for nearly forty-five minutes now and was beginning to grow a little tired of the lack of respect he was being shown here. He took yet another sip from the dirty glass of whiskey in front of him. He would have liked something more tasteful but he knew not to expect much from a seedy place like this. The sound of ice clinking against the glass always seemed to sooth Alex in meetings like this, he could escape to his own thoughts, trying to detach himself from what was around him.

As he began to loose patience he heard the rumble of a vehicle outside and he knew this was whom he was waiting for. Nobody in these slums owned a car and this person wasn’t just anybody, he must have commanded some power around here to be confident his vehicle was safe. Alex took a deep breath and stood from the table as the doors of the bar slammed open revealing three figures. The first two men were jet-black Negro’s, built heavily and wearing their scars with pride. Both clutched onto AK-47 assault rifles, which didn’t surprise Alex, these weapons were found in every corner of the globe, cheap and reliable. The third figure was the man he wanted. Tunka Manin. Manin was one of many powerful warlords in Ethiopia and had control of his own militia. He was a typical Ethiopian, most of his own teeth were gone, replaced by gold to show his power and he surrounded himself with all manner of criminals as his guards. He dressed in the battered remains of an old Hirgizstan uniform stained with the blood of his past enemies and he wore jet-black sunglasses to hide the evil in his eyes. This was the man that Alex’s company wanted for the plans in Ethiopia.

“It’s a pleasure we’ve finally been able to meet Mr. Manin. I’m sure you’ve already been in contact with other representatives from my employers.”

“Enough with the formalities. I’ve already spoken to men like you and I don’t see why I take orders from you lot.”

“You wont be taking orders exactly” Alex replied as he took another sip from the whiskey glass, the burning sensation from it in the back of his throat almost making him choke “My company has seen an opportunity for a lucrative business deal here in Ethiopia but I’m afraid we’ll need your help for some of it.”

“And what do I get for helping you? I don’t care for gas. I care for power! ”

“My employers control a lot more than just “gas” Mr. Manin. Ever hear of Heckler and Koch?” Alex said in a rather smug tone as he watched the expression on Tunka Manin’s face change to a more enthusiastic one. “If you comply with what we are asking of you, then I think a few extra assets can be passed on to you.”

“Ha ha ha! Very good, very good. You’re starting to understand how things work here Mr. Alex. Now tell me what I do to get these assets.”

“That’s simple Mr. Manin. Right now the remnants of the Hirgizstan Government aren’t too open to the idea of my employers coming into Ethiopia. 10 miles outside of Hawassa is a small airfield that we can get your supplies to. Unfortunately it’s guarded by a number of governmental forces.”

“So all I need to do is take this airfield and I get my weapons?”

“Exactly Mr. Manin. Exactly.”

[Layarteb]

Disclaimer: The content listed below may be offensive to some readers. If you are turned off by unpleasant things you should skip this post. You do not have to read this so I kindly ask that if you object to the content below you simply do not read and do not make a fuss. Thank you.

Stave I
"Non Serviam"
Verse II
"Sins, Lies, and Fortune"

August 31, 2009 - 05:40 [UTC+3]
Jimma, Ethiopia
1,350 meters east-northeast of Aba Segud Airport
(7°40'18.53"N, 36°49'45.22"E)

The first glimmers of the day had only just hinted upon the early morning skies. A calm breeze swept over the government-controlled city of Jimma as the temperature hovered just over sixty degrees. Clouds hung high in the sky above, a dirty, gray overcast that meteorologists said would turn to light rain as the day progressed. Vosloo had read the reports only twelve hours earlier as he sat in a bar in downtown Jimma, a glass of gin in his hands and a cigarette burning in the ashtray in front of him. He put the report down just before six in the evening and looked at the bartender, an old soldier from the old days, before the Commonwealth fell to pieces. He stood up from the booth, the gin in his hands, the cigarette left to burn itself out on its own. "Yo Thomas!" He called out as he strolled over, still not drunk yet. "I need something tonight. Something good." Of course, he was talking about company, the kind one paid for but he didn't want any of the girls in the bar. "I want someone new. Someone untouched." He added as he drew closer. Only the two of them could hear his words and Vosloo leaned still closer. "Think you got what I'm looking for?" Thomas, the bartender and old comrade-in-arms smiled and confessed he didn't have anyone for Vosloo but he knew someone that Vosloo should talk to, a black market dealer who called himself Abdi. Vosloo found Abdi living in a dirty shack in a shantytown not far from the airport.

Abdi was tall and skinny, a stereotypical-looking black market arms dealer who wore Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses and slung an AKS-74U carbine rifle over his right shoulder. The small rifle was designed for us by special forces, paratroopers, and anyone else who would benefit from an assault rifle with a small size and light weight. When Vosloo approached him, he took note of the carbine immediately. The weapon was dirty and not well taken care of and Vosloo figured that the entire thirty-round magazine would produce at least a jam or two. The weapon had a short barrel for a 5.45x39mm round that was designed to tumble inside the flesh of a person, causing horrific wounds, much like the NATO 5.56x45mm round. However, the NATO round was much more powerful and the tumbling of the Russian-designed 5.45mm round was largely overstated. It had a lower muzzle velocity than a full rifle carrying the same round and this meant a reduction in both range and energy. In reality, though the weapon could easily hit targets three hundred and fifty meters away, it wasn't very effective past one hundred meters. On fully automatic fire, the AKS-74U had a cyclic rate of fire of six hundred and fifty to seven hundred and thirty-five rounds per minute but it was barely controllable. A skilled operator would know to fire the weapon in short bursts, two or three rounds at a time to make it an effective weapon. Vosloo smirked, knowing that the weapon was clearly inferior to his own, a weapon Vosloo was always carrying on him. Vosloo's weapon was a Doomani-made M118A1 AVIR, a bullpup weapon that wasn't as light as the AKS-74U but clearly a superior weapon. It fired a larger and heavier round, the 6.7x35mm CTA capable of effectively killing a target at eight hundred meters, especially with the tactical, ACOG scope that he had on the weapon. Not only that, the AVIR also had a fifty round magazine versus the thirty rounds the AKS-74U carried. Additionally, Vosloo's weapon was in perfect condition. He regularly cleaned it and had customized it as well, with a front fore-grip, a scope, and a suppressor. The AVIR hung from his shoulder just the same as the AKS-74U from Abdi's.

Abdi greeted him at the door of the shack, chewing on a khat leaf at half past seven in the evening. The two of them had met before, plenty of times. "Ah. Mister Daniel. Thomas told me you were looking for something special." Abdi said with a great, big smile.

"Something like that. Let's go inside." The sun was in the process of setting in the west, behind Abdi's shack. Abdi nodded and opened the door, following in behind Vosloo. Abdi's shack was a disaster. What furniture he did have was old, moldy, and easily sixth or seventh-hand furniture. Springs popped out of the couch and the cushions were covered in dirt and smelled of old urine. Garbage piled up in one corner and an old television with rabbit ears sat on a box that looked years old. What Abdi used to sleep on, an old cot that barely held his tall frame looked like the only clean object in the shanty. Vosloo didn't want to sit down on anything, even after Abdi plopped down on the dirty couch. "Did Thomas tell you what I was looking for Abdi?"

"No. No he didn't. What is it that you are looking for Mister Daniel? He tells me it is worth my while." Abdi said, his accent as stereotypical as his demeanor and appearance.

"I'm looking for some company this evening. Maybe disposable company. Someone untouched." Abdi's smile turned to seriousness as he listened to Vosloo's request. Vosloo made it quite easily and Abdi wondered for a moment what he meant by "disposable."

"What do you mean by 'disposable' Mister Daniel?" Abdi took the khat leaf out of his mouth and looked across the room at Vosloo.

"I mean someone that I want to use for the evening and perhaps take with me. Someone you won't be getting back. You understand?"

"For this I must charge a lot Mister Daniel. These girls are hard to come by and they are especially young nowadays. I must charge you twenty thousand for this." Vosloo nearly broke out in laughter at the asking price. "Mister Daniel I thought you understood how business in Ethiopia is done. You see Mister Daniel. I am in a dangerous situation. The government, they think I'm working for the rebels. The rebels think I'm working for the government. Both sides are looking for me Mister Vosloo so you see coming by anything is not easy."

"Cut the shit Abdi. Two thousand."

"Two? I cut my fucking throat for two thousand. I could cut my wrists for fifteen."

"At fifteen you're getting more than you get for ten of these whores. Make it five."

"Five is garbage Mister Daniel. Twelve. Do you want to keep buying from me? I have to afford to pay people off Mister Daniel. Most of my money goes to the bribes."

"Bribes my ass you know everyone in this fucking country. Eight and a half."

"Ten!"

"Done." Vosloo stuck out his hand as Abdi put the khat leaf back in his mouth and stood up, the smile back on his face.

"Mister Daniel. You drive a hard bargain. Yes you do understand how business is done here. I wish you didn't I would be twenty thousand richer. African Marks."

"How long for this?"

Abdi looked at his watch carefully and noted it time. It was after seven but not yet seven-thirty. "How long you say? Two hours. Bring the money back here at nine-thirty. You care much about this girl?"

"She better be good looking, none of those tubby ones! I want her skinny. You got that Abdi?"

"Yes. Yes I do. Trading in women is second nature to me Mister Daniel. They are for the taking. Come back here in two hours. With the money. Cash. African Marks. Or I shoot you myself. Understood?" He tapped his weapon and Vosloo suppressed a smile.

Abdi you fool. With that piece of shit you'd be lucky to shoot up a piece of paper. If you could even hit a piece of paper at fifty meters with that thing I would be surprised. "You got it Abdi." Vosloo left, opening the door himself. It shut behind him and he was gone without anything further being said. He went to collect the money. Ten thousand African Marks was a lot of money to just "collect" but he had people in Jimma who owed him money and he knew exactly where to find them. Ten thousand would take him the better part of those one hundred and twenty minutes to find and he had little time to waste. His Eagle IV was parked only a few meters away from Abdi's shack, its doors locked to keep the skells from stealing anything; although, they knew enough not to mess with military-style vehicles. His Eagle IV was just that and he found it right where he left it, completely untouched. A few of the lowlifes that lived in the shantytown were sitting around, admiring the vehicle and he paid them little mind. Two hours later, he was pulling back up to the shantytown, to collect his goods, a young, fifteen year old girl from somewhere "up north," as Abdi explained. Just like Vosloo asked, she was skinny. "Abdi. You've come through for me. I'm glad. Here's your money." Vosloo handed over a briefcase with the cash, ten thousand Africans Marks, a lot of money for that region. Nobody in the shantytown, save for Abdi had ever seen more than three or four hundred their whole lifetime. Vosloo looked over at a scared and scarred teenager sitting the ground. She was shivering and looked up at Vosloo, who towered above her in the flickering dark. "What is your name?" He asked of her but she didn't respond, just looked up at him. She had drawn her knees to her chest and wrapped her frail arms around them, looking up through the dark, past the flickering light of a few candles in the corner. "Answer me. What is your name?" She was quiet a second time and Vosloo smirked. He bent down and with that sadistic smirk he nearly patented, backhanded her with his right hand so hard she fell clean on her side. "You had best answer me when I speak to you!" She was crying now and struggled to look up at him, tears blurring her vision, her right cheek instantly hot from the strike.

"My name is Nadia." She said through tears, whimpers, and sniffles while she protected her body and rubbed and her cheek with her hand.

"Nadia. Good." Vosloo straightened back up and stood over her still. "Get up Nadia. I have a few more questions for you." She straightened herself up too but didn't stand up until he reached down and yanked her up, grabbing her underneath her biceps. She wasn't ready for the force exerted by Vosloo and nearly fell down when he let go, unable to get her feet steady on the ground quick enough. She stumbled but maintained her balance and she calculated just how strong he was. She knew this couldn't be good. "Abdi why is this one so irritating?"

"Mister Daniel. She's still a virgin. Like you asked. She was taken only a few days ago. A real special one yes?"

"Sure Abdi. Nadia. Are you really a virgin?" She nodded her head. "Yeah how do you know that Abdi?"

"They checked her when they took her. I've been doing this a long time Mister Daniel. She's worth a lot more than ten thousand you know. I could sell her to a bar for forty. But for a favor ten thousand, like you gave."

"Sure you could Abdi. I bet. So what do you want?"

"I want you to take care of someone for me. No charge. He's a brutal rebel commander. I cannot stomach the very thought of him living."

"Is that so Abdi?" Vosloo took his eyes off the ground for a moment. "Why is that Abdi?"

"He does horrible things Mister Daniel. To his own country."

"So do I Abdi."

"Mister Daniel you are a white man and this isn't your country. Yes you are from Africa but not like this man. He is different. He does it to his own country. Mister Daniel I don't pretend to play stupid to what you white people do to us Africans, inside Ethiopia, and I know what you intend with this girl. I get you things because I am a businessman but you and I will never agree on philosophical terms. Shall we leave that part there?"

"That may be so Abdi. So what's he done to you?"

"More than I care to speak of. You will kill him for me?"

"You know that's expensive."

"Mister Daniel. That girl is expensive. If you want to continue to do business with me in my country you will do this. Do you see?"

"Sure Abdi. I see. What's his name?" Vosloo knew what Abdi was saying. If he didn't go along with Abdi, Abdi would be selling him out to the highest bidder. He could shoot Abdi, take the girl, and ignore the rebel commander. That was an option that he was contemplating but he realized that Abdi was well connected if he could get a girl like Nadia in only hours. Abdi was better off alive.

"He goes by the name of Colonel Arrow. I don't know his real name. You will please find him and kill him. I want a most unpleasant death and before he dies you tell him my name. Okay?"

"Sure Abdi. I'll do it."

"When you do this I want you to search him. He carries a shell casing in his pocket with an inscription on it. Return this to me. Understood?"

"Yes Abdi. I understand." Vosloo turned back to Nadia and smirked again. His smile was sadistic and she hated it already. "You and I are going to go for a ride and you will do what I say. Do you understand me? If you follow my directions and don't do anything stupid, when the sun rises in the morning I will let you go."

"Okay." She wasn't too sure yet if she believed him or not but she knew the threat was real. Vosloo yanked her out of the shack moments later and pushed her into the back of his Eagle IV. He used handcuffs to restrain her to the vehicle so she would not escape and slammed the door shut, casting her into darkness. Feeling some semblance of satisfaction, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and pulled out the last cigarette. He threw the empty Marlboro pack onto the ground and put the cigarette in his mouth before he lit it with a Zippo lighter. He took a deep puff before he entered the cab of the vehicle, where he started it up, and drove away quickly. In the back, Nadia bounced around dangerously, hitting her legs, hands, and head along the journey back to the bar Vosloo was in earlier that day. Bars in Ethiopia were more than just bars. They often doubled as brothels and inns. This one was all three. When Vosloo entered, he gave a nod to Thomas, all the while pulling Nadia along. He ascended the stairs to the second level, pushing past prostitutes who looked for their next clients.

Vosloo had a room on the second floor in the furthest wing of the bar. There were seventeen rooms in total and eleven of them were earmarked for travelers with the other six for the prostitutes. Regardless of who they were earmarked for, all seventeen rooms were filthy, decrepit, and disgusting. Vosloo pushed the door open after using a half bent key to get the wooden door open. It wasn't a particularly thick door and it wouldn't take much more than a powerful kick to force open. The bed was atop a rusty frame with most of the springs broken from too many overweight travelers and too much rough sex. There was a bathroom with a toilet and a stand up shower that hadn't been cleaned in months. The floor was wood, cold, and splintered in certain spots. There was a small, rickety desk in one corner, and a dresser in another but neither were very fancy. Vosloo tossed Nadia onto the bed and she landed uncomfortably, a spring popping in the frame underneath the mattress. It wasn't that she was heavy, it was that the bed frame was in that poor of shape. She didn't know what to expect except that it wouldn't be pleasurable for her. Vosloo locked the deadbolt on the door and turned around, taking off his jacket calmly and laying it on the chair in front of the desk. "Nadia. Would you like a drink?" He walked up to the dresser and opened the top drawer, removing a half empty bottle of hard whiskey. She shook her head but Vosloo looked over at her with the same look he had given her earlier in the evening when he first met her. "I believe you'll be having a drink. Ice is for pussies and you'll be having it straight. It's easier just to down the whole drink. You understand?" She nodded and he poured her a shot in a dirty shot glass he had in the drawer along with the bottle. He poured himself a shot too and looked over at her. She stood up and shyly came over to the dresser. "Here..." She picked up the glass and stared at the brown liquor. First, she sniffed it and the smell was instantly repulsive to her. She shot her head backwards, nearly spilling it and looked at him with tears coming back to her eyes.

"I smells awful. I don't want to drink this."

"Drink it. Now!" He pulled out his knife and brandished it in front of her. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and threw the shot in, forcing herself to swallow before she could taste it but she wasn't quick enough. Her eyes shot open as her whole mouth and throat burned horribly. She coughed and grabbed her throat as she dropped the shot glass onto the ground. It didn't break but it bounced loudly as she quickly ran to the bathroom and began to vomit into the toilet. Vosloo laughed and called her back in, she obliged, wiping the vomit from her lips. "Now you see. Because of that you have to have another one. I can't be tasting your stomach you realize." She nodded, crying now and took a second shot. It burned just as much and she coughed just as hard but she didn't throw up this time. The warmth down her throat and into her stomach hurt terribly but she was sure that if she didn't drink she would be feeling pain ten times worse. Vosloo poured her a third and a fourth drink, giving her more alcohol than she had ever seen in her life in just five minutes. For every shot she took, he took one as well and he knew that was enough for her. She felt the effects after those five minutes and everything was strange around her. It was a feeling she had never before experienced. "You're very pretty you know that?" Vosloo asked her as he put the blade of his knife against the skin on her arm. He laid it flat so the sharp edge wasn't against her skin. He didn't want to cut her, not yet at least. Instead, he roved it over her skin and to the straps of her tank top. She had on a bra underneath but not much for it to contain. Instead, he turned the blade over and put the sharp edge facing upwards. With a quick pull, he sliced right through the straps of her bra and her tank top. The right side of her tank top instantly slid downward and he worked his way over to the other side as she continued to cry, begging for him to stop but he just shushed her and cut the other side of her tank top and bra. He put the knife away, reached forward, and yanked down both her bra and her tank top, exposing her small, still developing breasts and smiled. "Get on your knees..." He ordered her and she begrudgingly complied. "I think you're going to learn a few things tonight."

Hours later, as the sun rose over Jimma, Vosloo stirred on the dirty, disgusting mattress of the bed. Nadia lay still, on her side, facing away from him. Her body was bruised, bloody, aching, and she used a thin sheet to cover herself. All of her clothes had been ruined and she had nothing to wear so, instead, she lay there naked. Her mind raced with thoughts of homicide, suicide, and shame. Vosloo hadn't slept a wink and she knew it. She was waiting for him to fall asleep so that she could kill him or escape or both but he never gave her the satisfaction. Instead, he lay there, all night, smoking a cigarette here or there. She had been summoned more than once during the night and, all told, she had been raped and abused for the entire evening, until four something in the morning, when Vosloo had his fill. He was pleased with his escapades of the evening and turned his back to her as he put his feet on the floor. He lay naked as well and she turned over to see him. The room was dimly lit all night long but now that sunshine was coming through the windows, she could see the tattoos and scars on his back, legs, arms, neck, and chest as he stood up and walked over to the whiskey bottle. She had drank enough of the liquor during the night to throw up three times and she still felt awkward, still buzzed enough to not be able to focus properly on far away objects. "You had a good night." He asked without looking at her. She didn't respond, instead just lay there, pretending to be dead. "I guess so. Well the sunlight is coming up. When we first met I said that if you were to cooperate I would let you go. I would set you free, did I not?"

"You did." Regardless of whether she was set free or not she could never go home. She was shamed and she felt that shame deep down in her body. She was terrified by what the elders of her village would say when she came back. She couldn't hide anything from them. They would accuse her of being a whore. They would shun her, exile her, perhaps kill her. It was a conservative village with morals that didn't quite make sense in the twenty-first century except in backwater places like where she was from, like most of Ethiopia. "Are you going to let me go free?"

"Yes. I am going to free you. Go into the bathroom and wash yourself up." She complied, keeping the sheet wrapped around her. When she got into the bathroom, she closed the door but he yelled to her to keep it open. She complied and turned on the shower, taking off the sheet to step inside. There wasn't any soap and the water was frigidly cold but she didn't care. Blood washed off her body from fresh and still unhealed wounds on her flesh as well as elsewhere, washing down the drain, polluting the dirty water with blood. The cold didn't feel good on her body and her wounds hurt from the cold but it was water. She felt as if she were washing away a sin but she really wasn't washing away anything and she knew it. Whatever lie she told herself when she started the shower was obviously untrue now. She was about to turn off the shower when the door to the shower was opened and there stood Vosloo, still naked, holding his knife in his hand. "I am going to free you!" His smile turned to seriousness as he drove the knife forward, deep into her left shoulder. Whatever fight she had left in her tried to push him off but it didn't work and now there was a fresh, deep wound, hurting beyond any other hurt she had felt the previous night. He pulled the knife out and drove it deep into her stomach next. When he pulled the knife out a second time, she fell to the floor, painfully. She gasped for air as both wounds bled profusely. He reached down and yanked her back into the air by her hair and completed his task. He stabbed her once more, right through the center of her chest, before he slit her throat and left her to bleed out on the floor of the shower. He kept the water running, washing all of the blood down the drain. It took her a few horrific minutes to die but she eventually did and then Vosloo prepared himself for round two.

[Phillippanoa]

Hans Föro is an employee from the Thor Security Corporation (or T-SECORP) a corporation that provides security contractors in war zones for VIP protection detail and security, Hans is leading a team from T-SECORP to Ethiopia to secure a drilling contract or else to secure the land over the oil in the name of Christiana Drilling Corporation; his brother Kristian Föro is his second in command; close friend and mercenary Piet Maslassan will lead a team of Phillippanoan and Gambian mercenaries to help the contractors and to secure gold or other valuables; his cousin Hilda Vishmar will also lead a team of mercenaries and provide security for the prospectors from the oil company. The four of them live in the Gambia and will travel by boat to Ethiopia along with their teams of 30, 9 and 15 respectively. Their boat will be a converted fishing trawler owned by Piet Maslassan and they will be escorted by a pirate and friend of Piet, Leif "Red-eye" Johanssen (his nickname comes from his unusual red eyes) who commands three converted fishing trawlers and two assault boats (for boarding other vessels). Before departure, Hans Föro was sitting talking to Karl Svensen (brother of the president of the Gambia, Fafnir Svensen) in a small room in Hans Föro's house a few kilometres south of Banjul. Few knew of their meeting and they were the only two to know the subject of their meeting.
"The crates will be waiting in a warehouse in the northern docks, everything you need will be inside. My name or that of my brother, his grace Fafnir are not to be mentioned at all during your mission in Ethiopia, unless I tell you personally, understood?"
"Yes, your grace"
"Good, now see if the coast is clear"
A few minutes later, Hans returned and told Karl that the coast was clear. Karl hurriedly exited the house and stepped into the car followed soon after by Hans.
"Sekou, get somebody to inform Fafnir that everything is going as planned."
"Yes, sir"
Hans frowned and was going to say something but Karl shook his head slightly.

The next day, Hans and Kristian were on their way to the docks in a pick-up truck. Arriving at the warehouse that Karl had talked about, the six men in the back of the truck jumped off and ran inside to get the crates. Two more pick-ups arrived soon after with more men and Piet. Finally the pick-ups were loaded and they were all on their way to their boat. At the boat, the Marjan Karla, they unloaded the pick-ups and were soon ready to leave. The 54 men, Hans and Kristian Föro, Piet Maslassan and Hilda Vishmar were all on board waiting for Leif "red-eye" Johanssen and his ships. The gangplank was just about to go up and all but two of the mooring lines had been pulled in when four military jeeps with machine guns on top raced out from behind a nearby warehouse. The men jumped out of the jeeps upon arriving near the Marjan Karla.
"Customs" whispered Piet to Hans
"Let's go, we cannot be delayed. Tell Leif to meet us off shore somewhere."
Piet smiled and passed on the word to his crew. Carefully and quietly the crew severed the remaining mooring lines and prepared to start the engine and to throw off the gangplank. As soon as the customs people started to walk up the gangplank, Piet gave the signal. The gangplank was pushed off causing the men to fall in the water and the boat moved off towards the mouth of the river.

The next day they met up with Leif, and carried on south towards Cape Town after which they would go north again to Ethiopia. Hans and Kristian opened up the crates a few days before they were supposed to arrive in Ethiopia and found guns, ammunition and food inside. They distributed most of it among their men. They also found three motorbikes and side cars as well as money and fuel. They had only been able to bring along two pick-up trucks and thus they hoped to acquire more vehicles in Ethiopia or in a neighboring country. To enter Ethiopia, Leif had lent them three landing crafts. They landed under cover of darkness north of Assab (Eritrea). They set up camp in near the beach and planned on acquiring jeeps or trucks in Assab before continuing.

[The German Region]

*CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND RACIST COMMENTS. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

10 Miles outside Hassawa
Ethiopia

“I don’t see why we need to be here to watch these idiots take that airfield,” commented Rudolph Kleber as he took another long puff from his opium cigarette. Despite the nature and chaos of the country he seemed to be enjoying himself out here, splayed out across a rusty chair soaking up the burning rays of sun. Rudolph always wondered why he had gotten himself in the Mercenary business, sometimes he wanted to just enjoy the silent life back home in Germany, but know he was thrust out here in this shit hole babysitting a bunch of local militia.

“Because we want to be alive to spend all the money we gonna be getting” laughed Kurt Hellborg as pulled the pair of binoculars that hung from his thick neck up to his eyes. Down below him was the small airfield that soon enough would be taken by the militia that had been recruited alongside them. Kurt was a huge man, built like an ox and had been through everything imaginable in his life. Despite his size he was probably one of the most cunning men in all of Germany and knew how to get his money worth. Kurt had never fitted in his small peaceful village and had left it at the age of just eleven. While alone he learnt that you couldn’t trust anyone in the world and that the world was in chaos. So why not add a little bit of chaos of your own? “Anyways why should we die when we can just get the to do it?”

“Too true Kurt” added Hugo Stege as he finished cleaning the dirt from under his filthy nails with his KM2000 combat knife before putting the tip in his mouth and spitting whatever he had scraped out from them. Hugo was an ex Unteroffizier of the Heer for ten years before he was packed off to a high security prison for the rape and killing of six Czech women. Hugo though could nowhere in the world without finding someone he knew. He could go in the middle of the Sahara desert and end up with someone owing him a favour. Busting out of jail he put his killing skills to good use by joining the next mercenary group he found, Kurt Hellborg’s mercenaries. “I say we use those damn niggers up then finish the fuckers off!”

“That’s not what we’re getting paid for. I’m not having us lot do stuff for free. If you wanna do stuff like that, then go back to the Heer. I’m sure they’ll take you back” Kurt grinned as he looked over his quite repulsive comrade. “I’m sure if Alex wants us to take care of them, he’ll tell us soon enough.”

“Suppose” Hugo shrugged as he wiped his knife down his trousers “Where is Alex anyways? Making more deals with the fucking locals is he?”

“I sent him out with Meier and Wolf. He could do with seeing what we’re dealing with.”

“Fucking business types. They don’t know what we do everyday do they Kurt? I mean even you Rudy, you’re a new guy, you aint seen some of the shit me and him av been through, no you aint.”

“I’ve had my fair share” Rudolph sighed reclining back into his chair “As soon as I get this money though, I’m going -.”

“Here they are. Your gonna wanna watch this boys. We’re either gonna see a right good show or a royal fuck up!” laughed Kurt as he spotted the vehicles of the militia making their way to the airfield.

***

Jonah Wasswa breathed heavily the vehicle he was in continued to make its long journey to what could possibly be his final destination. Jonah was sweating uncontrollably, but it wasn’t from the heat, he had grow accustomed to the high temperatures of his home. It was fear. He clutched onto the AK-47 he held on his lap and prayed that he would be able to use it, Jonah forgot that God had turned his back on Ethiopia. As he sat here, amongst criminals and murders he began to think how be had got himself in this god awful position.

Jonah was just nine when they came. It was early in the morning and he was out in the yard playing with his sister. He could hear her laugh even now as if she was sitting just next to him and he remembered how happy he had been. As they played they heard the shouts and screams of their mother and father who had been inside. Jonah had frozen with fear when he had heard them screaming but he seemed compelled to see what had happened. He had slowly crept towards the window; he could remember the tears that flowed down his face as he thought what must have been happening to them, what had happened haunted him even now. Sprawled out on his kitchen floor was his father, the back of his head had been cracked open with such forces that fragments of his skull littered the ground, the soft pink flesh of his brains had oozed out on to the floor and been crushed under foot of the attackers. Jonah had stood silently in fear as he watched the two men beat and rape his mother, he had wanted to save her but he just couldn’t move. They slit her throat and mutilated her. Jonah had been spared this fate along with his sister but he never saw her again. He though was press ganged into joining the militia of one Tunka Manin and was subjected to the some of the most brutal fights and punishments. He was a child of war.

And now here he was still taking orders from Manin. Even worse he had learned he was obeying the orders of foreigners. They would be the ones sending him to his death. Jonah was hit across the head by the man next to him, and it snapped him out of his day dreams. The man held a finger up to his mouth signalling that they were here. Jonah could just about make the voices coming outside the truck.

“What are you doing here?” came the first voice in a slightly arrogant tone, which Jonah guessed must have been the government troops stationed here “You know the rules, no civilians in the airfield!”

“We have equipment” came the simple reply of the driver. Jonah smirked, the lies were never going to work, and the violence was soon to begin.

“We don’t need equipment here! Were are your papers? Get out the vehicle or you are a dead man!” A bust of automatic fire rang out followed by another making Jonah jump at the sudden noise. He was grabbed by the man next to him and dragged out into the chaos.

Laying in a pool of blood in front of the door of the truck was the pulverised body of the guard. His face had been replaced by a black hole filled with scraps of flesh and shards of bone. Thick, warm blood slowly poured from the huge crater in his face, he was barely recognized as a man anymore. The governmental forces guarding the airfield had been taken by complete surprise and their fate was already sealed.

Jonah rushed forwards through the destroyed gate as dirt was flicked up from the ground as automatic fire searched the area trying to hit the attackers. Dodging from side to side, Jonah threw himself behind an armoured vehicle in front of him. Jonah was surprised he was going to make it behind the vehicle. It had been a good 9 metres in front of him when he jumped and it seemed as if he was soaring toward it. In reality he had just escaped the blow of an exploding RPG and was thrown forward by the force of the blast.

Jonah slowly sat up, the force of the explosion had knocked the wind out of him and it seemed as if everything was happening so slowly. Jonah watched as the feral men he called his comrades set about butchering the guards. They relished the blood lust and it almost made Jonah throw up. He watched as the man who had been sitting next to him drove his blade into the neck of another man and began twisting and sawing away before wrenching it clear. The mans hands desperately tried to block the hole but blood sprayed out everywhere.

Jonah stood dazed and disgusted trying to get away but he was suddenly knocked down on his back. Suddenly it seemed to Jonah that there was nothing going on around him, he was somewhere else, at home back with his mother, father and sister. It felt … it felt peaceful … like everything was at last right …………

30 Minutes later

Roaring overhead was the huge engines of an Airbus A310 heading in for a landing at the newly taken airfield. The Airbus bore the insignia of the German Luftwaffe and it became clear to Manin that it wasn’t just a company interested in Ethiopia. It was a whole damn nation.

The Airbus bounced on to the floor and began hurtling down the runway towards Manin and his mean that were eagerly awaiting the promised equipment on board. Slowly the cargo plain came to grinding halt in front of them and the passenger door opened to reveal a gruff looking soldier.

“Step back from the plane!” roared the figure that Manin recognized as a German Fallschirmjager. “You’ll get what you want soon enough!” he barked again brandishing his Koch G36 and aiming it threateningly at the militia surrounding the cargo doors which began to open. Two Fallschirmjager released the buckled holding onto a number of crates and let them fall down onto the ground which was then set upon the by the Ethiopians.

“Look at them” spat one of the German troops “Like fucking savages!”

“What did you expect? Bunch of fucking niggers. We’ll be back soon enough to finish them off!”

Brought before Manin was the large amount of guns and munitions given to them by the generous Germans. G36s, MG3’s, Panzerfaust’s and even a bulky MILAN missile system. With a roar of triumph the men surged forwards and gathered the best equipment they could get their hands on. The chaos in Ethiopia was about to get even worse.

***

“I don’t believe it! How the fuck did those bastards pull that off?” roared Hugo as he threw the pair of binoculars he held down on the ground and cursed to the heavens in rage.

“That’s $20,000 you owe me when we get the money!” laughed Rudolph as he jotted the amounts down on a scrap of paper and stuffed it back in his pocket “What happens now then?”

“We meet back at camp with Meier and Wolf. Alex will give tell us what we need to do next” Kurt replied and grabbed hold of his weapon and made his way towards the land rover car that would take them back for some rest

“I think I’m gonna go for a night on the town” Kurt sighed as he continued to mope around after losing the bet to Rudolph. One fucking thing those damn Ethiopians could’ve failed and they ended up succeeding in it. Just his rotten luck he thought.

“Where the hell are you gonna go? There nothing to do in this shit pile!” Rudolph laughed again.

“Were do you think? I’m gonna get myself some cunt mate” Hugo roared and grabbed hold of his gear for what he though was going to be a good night.

“Fine take your leave!” Kurt said before getting in the rover along with Rudolph “But where a fucking condom, these local whoare’s have every fucking disease you could think of. I don’t want you taking that back to that brothel in Germany!” They all roared with laughter before going their separate ways for the night.

[United States of Brink]

Situation critical. That’s what the wrinkled manila envelope said in commanding red, its papers scattered across the hard wooden table. Large TV’s surrounding the room flickered through images of Ethiopia, statistics ticked along the bottom of various news channels displaying the unimaginable horrors unfolding. Flustered aides scuttled back and forth bringing updates, the latest body counts for the day. It was a dizzying ballet, a sad play unfolding before his very eyes. Each character was a demon, a new evil playing its part with horrific precision. There was no pattern, no objective, an endless waltz of chaos and anarchy. It was a country seeped in depravity, the darkest of men’s souls brought to the light. The boundary between this world and hell was nonexistent. Ethiopia had shed all the tears it could; now it only had blood to spill.

Baruti sat low in his chair, the weight of a people’s genocide firmly upon his shoulders. His health was failing, his body becoming more fragile by the day. Wrinkles held his eyes down, his mouth a perpetual frown. A cane kept his body upright, though his back didn’t allot him much time to stand. His legs trembled when he stood and ached when he sat. His fingers were crippled by arthritis. Thick glasses now rimmed his faltering eyes, his hearing useful only with the help of a hearing aide. He kept his frail state to himself. He was still the face of a country, a hero in the eyes of his people. His voice wasn’t booming like it used to be, and his speech not as quick, but he was still commanding. Time had ravaged his body, but he kept his mind fighting back. He was the type of man who still thrived on learning, on accomplishing all that could be done. His heart might be dying, but his soul was still burning bright.

Samuel Briddick, on the other hand, was a trembling mess. His glasses slid off his beak like nose so much because of his hurried state that he haphazardly tied string across the back to prevent them from falling to the ground. His disheveled hair was curly and everywhere, making his overall appearance that much more comical. His eyes had taken up the habit of constantly darting back and forth, a nervous tic that couldn’t be helped. His shirt was out and unbuttoned at the top. When nervous, to the pleasure of all his coworkers, he often stuttered. Tall and lanky he was the complete opposite of Baruti. It was a friendship only the two understood. Despite his flustered state, Briddick was undeniably brilliant, and for the good of the country the friendship necessary.

Finally the two were in the same room, along with some members of Baruti’s cabinet, and aides to both them and Briddick. Baruti had been in the same room, the very same seat, nearly all day. He had been watching the TV’s, reading reports, and talking with whoever he could. His eyes were a fury of pain, his mind nearly numb. Sitting had caused his knees to roar in discomfort and he tried walking around but once he sat the stiffness returned. The news of events unfolding did little to improve his health. He was experiencing a full on bodily assault. Each new piece of information sunk him deeper into his chair. Medicine did little to thwart the throbbing annoyance located around his forehead. Briddick had been busy too, running from office to office, acquiring detail after detail. He had been meeting with national ambassadors, foreign advisors, and local heads of state, anyone that had been on the ground. He had been given what could only be described as an army of aides to use and use them he did. He had pulled every resource, assembled every player, and did whatever he could to understand the situation. Each report that found its way back be it from a local spy ring, or a fishery biologist, dampened his spirits even more. Bloodshed and it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

When Briddick entered the room Baruti felt the man’s mood. His tired legs matched by his tired eyes. He motioned for him to sit which Briddick happily accepted. He fell without grace, thumping into the deep chair with heavy shoulders. He pushed his glasses upwards and attempted to rub the stress from his bewildered brow. Pain rushed through his temples forcing his eyes closed, stiff wrinkles forming at their ends. Baruti removed his glasses and set them on the table, changing his weight in the chair. It grumbled as the leather gave way to Baruti’s stiffening back. Baruti motioned the aides and cabinet members out of the room and suddenly there was an uneasy quietness, the electric hum of the TV’s providing a soothing song for the two battered men. For a moment they sat in silence, just wishing the pain away.

“Ngozi…”

Baruti stopped him, holding his finger upright, asking for silence for a little while longer.

“Do you hear that Sam?” asked Baruti. A slight rain began to tap on the window behind him, thick grey clouds darkening the room.

“The rain?” responded Briddick in confusion.

“No Sam, not the rain,” continued Baruti with certain sadness in his voice, “the tears, the sorrow, the screams? Do you hear the cries, the remorse, the confusion? Can you not hear their fear?”

“Ngozi?”

“I can Sam, I can.” A single tear rolled against the darkness of his cheek, cutting a trail in his path. He let it slide down towards his chin before taking a hand to it.

“There was nothing…”

He was cut off again, “Nothing? There was nothing? No Sam, there was something. We knew this would happen. Deep down we knew. It is this place, my home, Africa. Why has god forsaken this place Sam? These people…these people are beautiful people. This land is beautiful. Why have they, have we, turned so evil? Why have we betrayed our fellow man so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. Neither do I.” Baruti stood now, the pain in his legs numbing his mind.

“Sometimes I wonder Sam if I was wrong. Perhaps, just maybe, good isn’t natural. What if mankind was doomed to destroy itself? I wonder sometimes Sam, if it is all worth it.”

“There is still plenty of good in this place!” replied Briddick.

“Is there Sam? I don’t know. I am asking you. Is there?”

Sam thought a moment.

“Does it matter though? Good or evil? When I look at my children I see all the destruction in mankind. Men can do terrible things.” Briddick had focused on some far off place. He was looking inside himself now, staring into nothingness. The words just came. “I cannot control what they become. All I can do is show them the best path that I know. I have tried to teach them right or wrong, the difference between good and evil. In the end the path they choose is their own. I love them, Ngozi, I do. I would do anything in the world for them."

He stopped for a moment.

“The point I am trying to make. When I stand in front of St. Peter that is all I am going to have. I will look him in the eye and tell him I did everything I could. Whatever my children become I never gave up on them. I never gave up on myself.”

Baruti studied the man with great care. Briddick shook himself out of the trance and looked back at Baruti.

“There is a line from Psalms. Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other. Truth shall spring out of the earth; and righteousness shall look down from heaven.”

[i]“85:10-11,”[/i] replied Baruti to the surprise of Briddick.

“I never took you as a religious man,” commented Briddick.

Baruti seemed to ignore the comment, fought the pain, and sat down. It was a slow process and his eyes winced as his body screamed at him. He left forth a sigh of relief when the job was finished.

“I’m not,” he replied.

[i]“Send for the cabinet. We have a decision to make.”[/i]

--

Sven took a long drag on his cigarette. It was a warm day, dry, with a slight wind blowing easterly. He sat, alone, on a bench near the center of town. It was a small town, a typical village in Eastern Mali. It was quiet and, except for the occasional breeze, still. He liked it that way, it let him think. The sun pressed against his dirty face, tiny particles of dusts trapped in his black scruff. He took another drag, let the smoke caress his face.

From behind him he heard the sound of feet crunching against the sand and gravel. It was a slow methodical march, the man both hesitant and determined. Sven smiled at the thought. Even the people that lived here, that were born here, hated this place. Sven, well, Sven loved this place. It was his home.

His cigarette was almost finished. The thought made him sigh. He tapped the ash out to his side as the man came around the bench. He was a tall man, his clothes somewhat tattered. His eyes were deep and dark, his mouth fierce. He sat next to Sven, not saying anything. He looked over, eyeing Sven’s dying smoke.

“Cigarette,” he asked in a deep broken voice.

Sven looked disappointed. He felt around in his pocket and pulled out his pack. He carefully removed the lid and found his last cigarette. He took it between two fingers and handed it over to the man. The man brought it to his lips and leaned in. Sven fingered his pocket for a lighter and flicked it open. The man nodded as Sven lit his last smoke.

“Do you have the disc?”

The man studied Sven for a moment, “Do you have the money?”

Sven reached for a briefcase beneath his feet.

A pink mist formed behind the man’s head as it snapped backwards. His arms suddenly went limp and his body shrugged to the side. Sven’s cigarette went out and he sighed. He reached over and began to search the man’s jacket. In his left pocked he felt the disk and removed it. He sat back down and tapped his head twice. He looked back over at the man and took the still lit smoke from his bloody lips. He tossed the briefcase at the dead man’s feet and walked away.

--

Baruti stood at the podium, the colors of the nation embroidered on the wall behind him. Sam stood at this side along with a few members of his cabinet. An array of microphones grew out from the podium towards his lips. Though his body was frail, he stood tall and proud.

[i]“It is my duty to inform the African people, and those of the global community, about the events unfolding in Ethiopia.”[/i]

Sam stood with a steadfast determination as he listened to Baruti’s speech. He was no longer flustered, no longer sweating or nervous. His lanky body stood straight and powerful. His cause was just, his mind inspired. The path of his journey, his country’s journey, and that of Africa’s was now set.

Baruti continued, “At this time we are mobilizing a peacekeeping force that will have two objectives. First, we will prevent further bloodshed. Second we will stabilize the nation. Make no mistake; we will use the full extent of our armed forces to accomplish these tasks. We will utilize the arsenal of democracy. We will bring about peace from chaos, stability from anarchy. We will restore Ethiopia to the great nation it was and can be. We are calling not only our fellow Africans, but all people from around the world. It will not be an easy task. Make no mistake we are witnessing the beginning of a genocide. Make no mistake we will stop this genocide.

“Africa will no longer be known for bloodshed. Africa is our people; it is our land, our heritage, our culture. Africa is our home. For too long we have ignored the cries of our people, we have ignored the injustices of our land. That ends today. Ethiopia will thrive once again. The African people will thrive once again. Africa will thrive once again. We are one people, we are one Africa.”

[Rhodesian States]

The long ardous ride along the dramatically lush landscape of southern ethiopia was exaberated somewhat by every pot hole Bothas modified Kaspir Troop carrier drove through, with every Jolt Botha cursed the logistics department in New Salisbury for overlooking despite the fact the southern ethopia was relatively flat they omitted rather offensively that the roads where predominantly rough dirt tracks occaisonally interspersed with the odd bit of tarmac.

anyway Botha digressed from the task at hand he was to rendevous with Blackhawk commander Mike Hoskings 300 km away at the blackhawk basecamp to facilitate the governments covert resource interests in the region and to make arrangements for Fresh Rhodesian military ordiance to reach Black Hawk forces...

[Layarteb]

Stave I
"Non Serviam"
Verse III
"Mysteries of the Hood"

September 9, 2009 – 19:04 [UTC+3]
Bedele, Ethiopia
Town Center
(8°27'19.45"N, 36°21'8.44"E)

Bedele, a rebel-controlled hellhole, was nothing more than a glorified garbage dump containing twenty-five thousand savage cockroaches. It was a dangerous place and, as a haven for filthy, walking around unarmed was a big mistake. Everyone on the streets could be seen carrying either a rusty, old AK or a tetanus-inducing machete. Situated one hundred kilometers north-northwest of Jimma, Bedele was in the middle of this power struggle between the rebels and the government. Since tensions had first erupted in Ethiopia, Bedele was at its center, seeing its fair share of open conflict. Mortar and artillery craters lined the streets, most of them only partially filled in with garbage, dirt, and rocks. Bullet holes decorated the walls up and down the city's streets. Dried blood painted parts of the sidewalk, street, and plenty of walls. Debris lay everywhere and only narrow paths down the streets wide enough for only one vehicle at a time had been cleared by the rebels. In contrast to every government-controlled city out there, Bedele was substandard, not that standards existed in Ethiopia anymore. If you wanted arms, drugs, women, stolen goods, or whatever else your heart could desire, Bedele was the place to go. It was under the control of Colonel Arrow, the same warlord that Abdi in Jimma hated so much. Colonel Arrow was a perfect person to hate and Abdi wasn't unjustified in his loathing of Colonel Arrow. He ruled the city of Bedele as if it were his own nightmarish paradise and he was king with absolute power. He was influential with the rebels and he did their bidding but mostly did his own bidding first. Whenever he knew government troops were on their way from Jimma, he set up ambushes. He stopped civilian aide convoys moving outside of Bedele and robbed them. All of this was secondary though to some of his more heinous crimes. Colonel Arrow was a fan of going from village to village, raiding it, killing those who were too strong, raping every woman that wasn't quick enough to get away, regardless of her age. He kidnapped children and sold them off or recruited them into the rebellion, which had thousands of child soldiers, kids barely strong enough to lift an AK, let alone shoot it effectively. They kept them high and drunk, made them loathe their parents and their heritage. They did more than just indoctrinate them, they full on brainwashed the children into thinking they were super heroes with lightning speed, invulnerability, and even the ability to fly. That was the way the rebels operated and while everyone knew it, their support was growing all too quickly. The entire city of Bedele was loyal to the rebels and any attempt to convert them to government support would have been foolish. The government commanders knew that, flat out and knew that the only way to subdue the city of Bedele and cure it of its foolish, rebel leaning habits was to obliterate it off the map.

To that end, Bedele was the perfect place for Vosloo and the Black Scorpions to raise hell. The rolled into the city during the middle of the night and skulked about while everyone was sound asleep, in a drunken and stoned stupor. By the time the sun rose on the morning of September 9, they were well past whatever sentries guarded the city and mixed into the town's populace, which remained sound asleep. As the day wore on, they went about their business, acting normally, blending in all too well. There were mercenaries throughout the city and they would arise no suspicion in being there. Instead, there was nothing suspicious about them whatsoever and that was how they wanted and how the Ministry of Intelligence wanted it. Vosloo had spoken with his handler, Kyle, on hours before rolling to Bedele, from Jimma. Kyle had flown in country to speak directly with Kyle and gave him a major assignment with three objectives. The two men met at the same bar and inn that Vosloo was staying at, where he raped and murdered a young girl he had bought from Abdi only a few days prior. "How's the conflict treating you Daniel?" Kyle asked the moment he sat down in the makeshift booth that Vosloo had virtually claimed as his own. A bottle of bourbon sat on the table and there were two shot glasses, one for Vosloo and one for Kyle.

"It could be treating me better. What did you come here for?" Vosloo was instantly short with Kyle, he had better things to do, not that they were good things. Vosloo would have much rather been on top of some poor, helpless, skinny girl, letting her bleed out from her wounds. "I've got things to do," he added with a degree of anger.

"Well I believe that raping and murdering underage girls can wait for a little while. How about you just sit pretty for now?"

"Whatever you say there." Vosloo angrily looked at him and took a shot of bourbon. He emptied his glass and refilled it quick enough while Kyle left his alone. "Ain't you gonna drink?"

"When we've reached a deal on something."

"What you want me to stop hurting girls?"

"I could care less Daniel. What I want is for you to head off to Bedele."

"Bedele?" Vosloo downed the next shot but didn't immediately pour himself another. Instead, he waited a few minutes, thinking about what Kyle had told him. "Why Bedele? That place is ruined enough, there's nothing we can do there that can make that place any worse. In fact we'd probably be cleaning up the place."

"Well that's not quite how we see it. It's a rebel stronghold and the last time the government troops went up there, eighty-five of them didn't come home."

"So you heard about that?" Vosloo poured himself the next drink while Kyle quickly downed his, tapping the rim of the glass for Vosloo to pour him another. "I haven't said yes yet."

"You don't have a choice Daniel. Besides when do you turn down murder and mayhem?"

"Never." Vosloo smirked and downed the next shot, Kyle joined and they filled up their glasses again but waited a while before proceeding. Kyle had made sure he ate a big lunch that afternoon, to soak up the alcohol that he would be drinking with Vosloo. "So what do you need done?"

"I want a car bomb set off in the town center. Something big, maybe a few hundred pounds. Make it really rudimentary, something that either the rebels or the government troops would make. Nothing sophisticated that a white mercenary would make. Got it?"

"Simple. So long as I can find a few artillery shells and link them together with detonator cord."

"Add a drum or two of gasoline then. Get some fragmentation devices in there too, ball bearings or nails or whatever. Still, keep it simple you know?"

"Sure. What else do you have?"

"That's the primary objective. The secondary is take out Colonel Arrow, the rebel leader in the city. I want both of them accomplished, you hear?"

"Crystal clear Kyle." Vosloo smirked and downed the next shot but Kyle held off for now, "More?"

"A few more things. Make sure that you aren't seen when you get into or leave the city. We need to make the rebels think that either the government has penetrated their city or that a rival commander is coming after them. I want them so paranoid that they're ready to slay one another out of suspicion. Simple as that. Whatever you can get for yourself in the process isn't of concern to me."

"Well then, I guess then I will be taking this. When do we start?"

"I want you there after midnight, in the middle of the dark. The car bomb should go off at some point in the evening. Whenever you take out Colonel Arrow isn't of concern but I would wait until after you set off the car bomb. If you can pay some stupid driver to drive around with it then go for it. Set it off remotely. I'm fine with that, just get it accomplished. Alright?"

"You got it boss! Now drink up before you spill it." Vosloo downed the last shot and so did Kyle, who stood up shortly after slamming down the glass. He was out of the country before the Black Scorpions ever left for Bedele. Now, with the Black Scorpions inside of Bedele, the town's time was quickly expiring. Just as Kyle had suggested, Vosloo and his band of mercenaries had found a poor sap to drive the car, giving him a hundred African Marks to transport a kilo of heroin through the town to Colonel Arrow. He graciously accepted and got into the car at 19:00 hours. Using a remote control detonator, Vosloo and Duke watched, from the roof of what used to be a luxury hotel, as the car wound through traffic. They gave the driver a very specific route to take and he was honest about taking it. For one hundred African Marks, he would do just about anything they asked and he put his rusty AK onto the passenger seat of the rotting sedan and drove off with a lurch as he pulled out the clutch. Adler and Smith watched him drive off while Clint, Bishop, and West guarded their vehicles, parked on the farthest end of the city, towards the north.

From eight floors above the street, Vosloo and Duke watched in silence as the sedan neared the town center. "He's almost there. Maybe another minute and a half." Duke commented as Vosloo's finger hovered over the button to the detonator.

"Yeah, he's close." Vosloo looked down at the blinking red light on the detonator. It was armed, ready, and receiving a signal. He wasn't more than a half mile from the town center, close enough that he was definitely going to feel the blast but they had taken some precautions. By using the eighth floor, they put themselves high into the air and would use the building's walls to shield themselves from the blast, hiding underneath the sill once they detonated the bomb. They doubted that any of the shrapnel would come back at them but they had packed nearly eight hundred pounds of explosives into the car along with gasoline and fragmentation objects. When it went off, it would devastate the whole town center and at 19:04, Vosloo watched as the car pulled into the town center. He pushed the button and less than a second later, the car bomb detonated and both Vosloo and Duke dove below the windowsills as the whole building and city shook. They wouldn't peak up again until four minutes after they had actually detonated the bomb and what they saw was exactly what they expected, devastation. Bodies were skewed about all throughout the town center and half of the shanties lay in rubble. A giant crater in the center of the town was where the car had been when the bomb was detonated and nothing remained of it anymore. Thick, black smoke belched into the air and flames burned bright and high from the incendiary effects added to the bomb.

[Rhodesian States]

The Sweltering Heat made idle conversation with his black cohorts almost untenable, still two hours from the Blackhawk Camp, The two armoured Kaspir trucks were driving at a decidedly languid pace and the fact that this area was rife with guerilla activity did not help matters.

"Hey Big Boss, what does Black Hawk want from us anyway, they military ordinance is equal if not better than our own" sergeant Mdunza perked up with one hand casually on the wheel.

Botha was suprised conversation could promulgate in this Aura of silence but non theless attempted a somewhat arbitrary reply to his loyal bantu seargent/bodyguard.

"oh just the standard formalities Mdunzu, our PM has a large vested interest in Blackhawk it is his defacto private army of sorts, Kind of makes Rhodesian States look non interventionalist in the eyes of the international world wheras we covertly intend to milk this land dry"

"Finding the Lords Fist leader would be a bonus huh Big Boss?"

Mdunzu replied back

"Indeed Mdunzu that is the sub pretext, we have also contracted Blackhawk to carry out, I am simply here in an officiating capcity"

The conversation was abrubtly halted by a direct armour piercing round that ripped into the front end of the kaspir reducing Mdunzu to a viscereal bloody pulp in a matter of seconds.. Botha acted instinctively taking the wheel from the very dead Mdunzu and maintaining a level of control over the huge vehicle until he could ascertain where the shots where coming from.. "The scrubland 700 meters northwest" Botha shouted to his troops, get the fok out and fight there looks to be a small group of about 18 bandits or mercs"

This situation was similiar to the fire fight situations in the Southern Rhodesian states without Air support as Botha and his men rapidly dispersed from the two Kaspir trucks to take cover in the Savannah foiliage. as they were doing so Private Bob Samson was struck in the leg by a sniper round before he could scream in anguish he was silenced permanently by another sniper shot to the throat which left him in a paralysed heap.

"fokken leave him, hes gone" Botha shouted to his clearly disarrayed troops as the men run from a crescendo of opposition gunfire into the shrubland...

[United States of Brink]

September 5th, 2009
Goba, Ethiopia

The helicopter was jet black, a dark gunmetal tint, as it flew through the air. The blades cut through the cold wind as it rumbled along the dark African night. The trees beneath, just black objects moving quickly along with the helicopter, sang a quiet song as they swayed with the passing of the metal beast. A single red light was casting an eerie shadow within the chopper, its cargo unflinching. Another helicopter was a few yards behind moving just as quick. The two danced above the treetops in perfect harmony, two shadows grazing the night sky. The helicopters came upon a small clearing of woods; the wind gave a thunderous howl. Scattered clouds hid the moon and a gentle mist could be felt. The two beasts stood motionless, cold, silent. A rope fell to the ground, and then another and another until four ropes were lying across the near frozen ground. Still the beasts stood still, deftly attending their duties. Shadows, nimble and quick, moved within the holds of the choppers, flooding out, down the ropes. Silently the shadows touched the ground and vanished into the frigid night. One by one until the ropes were cut lose, tumbling to the ground. The metal beasts turned, rose up, and retraced their paths across the night sky until you could no longer hear the hum of their engine. The forest grew quiet and still. The clouds had lifted for brief moment and the shadows became visible no longer ghosts but the outline of men. The moon was soon covered again and the men faded to nothing.

-

September 4th, 2009
Windhoek, Namibia
New African Republic

“Where do we stand right now Briddick?”

Sam Briddick pushed up his glasses and reread his notes. He was up walking around, pacing a bit, his own way of calming down. He glanced over at Baruti who was seated comfortably in his worn leather chair.

“General Oofsu puts us at about 75% readiness. That’s a couple of days behind schedule.”

Baruti seemed uninterested.

“I should think to take this chair,” she said admiring his seat, “when I leave office.”

Briddick looked over curiously.

“Oh come Sam, we haven’t really ever done this before. We are doing well.”

Sam was his usual nervous hypochondriac self.

“Still Ngozi, the situation is deteriorating by the day. A couple of days could cost hundreds of lives.”

“You are right, but we can’t will our forces ready. We are doing what we can how we can. Remember Operation Red Coyote has already started. Those are the best.”

“You have read the reports right, about Layarteb and German involvement?”


“Of course Sam, but what can we do? We can’t prove anything, not yet at least. If we make accusations now, after what just happened, we will look like damned fools. Hell we already look like damned fools. Let Operation Red Coyote do its job.”

Sam was seated again. He had found himself a glass of water and took a sip. It was cool and relaxing.

“Why are you so confident in this operation?”

Ngozi looked over at Briddick who was looking back with a very sincere look.

“Sam…have you ever heard the saying ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

[VARTEM]

*DISCLAIMER. VIOLENT SCENES AND OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE. READER DISCRECTION IS ADVISED.*

“Chaos had preceded us here. Everything we relish and wish to inflict upon this Earth is already taking place in Ethiopia.”

“They say it is the country that God has forgotten.”

“God has not just forgotten this country. He has forgotten the world. What is happening in Ethiopia is a prelude to what is soon to begin. What happens there will show to the world the horror that man can do on to one another. The horror that we will soon unleash.”

“Then why do we become embroiled in Ethiopia? There are bigger fish to fry in this world. Ethiopia is finished there is no coming back for it, chaos already has its hold on it, we are not needed there.”

“You think what is happening in Ethiopia is true chaos? The world doesn’t know the true meaning of the word. We will show them what man can really do. The depravity of each mans soul will be revealed here and the world will come to fear everything and everyone. Our dream is being lived out here. We will turn our dream into the world’s nightmare. It starts here, in the cradle of life.”

* * *

November 19th 2009, 09:00am
Zhanaozen, Kazakhstan

The guttural engine roar of the Antonov AN-22 sprang into life as it prepared for its take off from the small hastily prepared airfield in Western Kazakhstan. Soon the four mighty turboprops began rotating as the mighty craft made its way onto the runway. Inside the plane were a mix of over 29 crack Russian soldiers or like minded mercenaries across the world who had either fallen under the lure of the money that was promised or simply because they were drawn for the lust of battle.

The craft soon hurtled down the runway and began its ascent up into the sky and began the long journey that would bring it to Ethiopia. Leading this band of mercenaries and war addicts was one Vladimir Makarov, given the task of creating the most unspeakable horrors imaginable. Makarov was up to this task. He had served in the Nerotikan Army that had invaded the Cottish Realm and had taken part in some of the worst crimes against the civilians but had escaped before judgement could be past on him. What he found next was what he had always been looking for. An organization dedicated to creating chaos upon this Earth and at last he was where he belonged.

“Remember our purpose here,” he whispered to a few of the men sitting next to him. Despite his unspeakable acts none had ever heard his raise his voice, he seemed calm and collective despite what he had done “Show no mercy for these people. Show no mercy for anyone. This world has run out of it.”

Within a few hours the craft touched down in Dewele, Ethiopia, which would become the unfortunate host to some of the most degrading acts the Russian men had to offer. Many hundreds of people had made their way from their slum houses to get a glimpse of this new craft that had turned up on their doorstep. First out of the crafts door was Makarov who studied the wretched crowd in front of him and let a slight smile escape his lips. Striding majestically towards the crown he stood before them and looked into the eyes of the poor souls to would soon become the players of his sick and twisted games.

The crowd began screaming and panicking as they saw more hulking figures clutching hold of their assault rifles and making their way towards them. As one small child tried to escape Makarov quickly grabbed her forcefully by her arm and slowly knelt down beside her as she struggled to get way. She began sobbing uncontrollably as Makarov grabbed her cheeks and forced her to look up at him.

“There is no need to cry child. This is the beginning of something new. Something brilliant. Rejoice that you are part of it.” He said in a soothing manner as he watched her continue to cry and scream. Slowly began to close his hand around her neck relishing the sounds of her gasping breath and watching here eyes stare into his desperately searching for some sort of compassion but Makarov had lost that long ago. A sudden cracking sound followed and she fell silent. As she fell limp he gently laid her on the ground, her eyes still looking up at him seemingly asking why? Why this had all happened? Why was he doing this? “Because it is all we know” he answered to a question that had not been asked before looking at the similar scene around him.

He watched an ex Russian officer Alex Krycek grab hold of the nearest women to him and forced her up against the wall of a shack and began repeatedly ramming his blade into her gut, spraying blood and flesh up her and him and he seemed to relish this orgy of blood. Blood poured from her mouth as she began to choke on her own life fluid before Krycek rammed the blade into her throat and through here windpipe. He wrenched it clean from here and watched as she slid down the side of the house, which was now slick with blood. Other men rammed the muzzles of their AK-47s down the throats of men and women causing them to choke on the metal as it was thrust down them. Their necks then exploded in a fountain of blood and bone as they let rip with their assault rifles. Children were forced to watch as their parents were mutilated and raped before stringing them up for all the children to see.

“Gather the remaining children” Makarov hissed as he made his way through the piles of bodies and pools of blood.

“I thought we were to leave no survivors! Why are we gathering them up? Lets just shoot the little cunts and be done with it!” roared one of the men as he began cleaning the end of his bloody knife.

“Just do it” Makarov spoke as he stared into the eyes of the soldier who dare not disobey a second time. In the centre of the village the children were pushed together into a group. The ages ranged from some as young as seven to the older children of sixteen. Krycek and two other hulking soldiers marched towards the group of children with huge jerry cans filled with petrol and fuel.

“Shower time!” roared Krycek as he began pouring it over the group of huddled children who were screaming and crying about the ordeal they had just witnessed. As the last few drops fell on the children Makarov strode slowly towards them and took a box of matches from his jacket pocket while a crew of his men set up a camera in front of the children.

“The world will look on in agony. This is the true extent of mans evil” Makarov said calmly into the camera before turning back to his matchbox and striking a match against it. He stared into the mesmerizing flicker of the flame before looking straight into the camera “The chaos begins.” Makarov flicked the burning match in the direction of the children and for what seemed like an eternity it flew towards them before it landed and ignited the children in a screaming blaze of agony. The shrill shrieks of the children echoed throughout the village and Makarov watched them burn, never looking away and never blinking. The flesh of the children burnt and the fires entered their very bodies burning them from the inside, their screams continuing until they became charred empty carcasses. A new breed of destruction had come to Ethiopia.

[Layarteb]

Disclaimer: The content listed below may be offensive to some readers. If you are turned off by unpleasant things you should skip this post. You do not have to read this so I kindly ask that if you object to the content below you simply do not read and do not make a fuss. Thank you.

Stave I
"Non Serviam"
Verse IV
"Sinners Aren't We All"

September 9, 2009 – 19:08 [UTC+3]
Bedele, Ethiopia
Town Center
(8°27'19.45"N, 36°21'8.44"E)

The carnage down below was unmistakable. The car bomb that Vosloo and his band of miscreants made was far from amateur, even if it were as rudimentary as possible. The car bomb was composed of three, one hundred and fifty-five millimeter artillery shells, the meat of the bomb, each containing just shy of fifteen and a half pounds of Composition B explosive. Combined it was a little over forty-six pounds but, when compared to TNT, it was over sixty-two and a quarter pounds. For a car bomb, this might have been light but, then again, it wasn't really designed for blast purposes. The three artillery shells were just the meat of the explosive and not its claws. To these, Vosloo added fragmentation elements, about thirty-five pounds of ball bearings, forty-five pounds of simple nails, and twenty pounds of quarter-inch, steel nuts. The hundred pounds of fragmentation aides, combined with the two hundred and ninety pounds of the three artillery shells and the twenty-six hundred pounds of the vehicle created a nearly three thousand pound bomb that was made to maim and do nothing else. When he detonated the explosive in the back of the car, it took the car's chassis and shattered it like a brittle piece of steel on a subzero, wintry day and all in just milliseconds as the explosive force of the Composition B traveled at over eighteen thousand miles per hour. That force, power, and velocity transmitted to the elements of the car and the bomb instantly tore the driver to shreds and fill the air, momentarily, with a fine, pink mist, as his body was torn to shreds, unable to support the full force of the blast. That transmitted energy gave flight to the thousands of elements meant for fragmentation instantly and put them through the air at nearly twenty-seven hundred miles per hour. At that speed, even the tiny nut, nail, or ball bearing had the energy equivalent of a high powered, rifle round.

The explosion echoed loudly throughout Bedele. Vosloo had picked a particularly sinister time to set off the bomb, when hundreds of people crowded around the town center, shopping and roaming around after they had eaten whatever slop they cooked for dinner. Children were playing on the sidewalks and street peddlers continued to yell for clients. Cars buzzed around, ferrying things from people and supplies, to just tired drivers coming home from wherever they had been. A few businessmen from way out of town were mixed in and the rebel soldiers that guarded the city could be seen walking around, chatting, smoking, drinking, and eyeing the street hookers, everyone looking for a good time. It didn't matter how much of a rotten, infested hellhole Bedele was, to its residents, it was some sort of home and those were hard to find in Ethiopia. Bedele, being a rebel stronghold, carried some degree of safety and security, from the government that was. The rebels had certainly pillaged the town of its young and its resources but, alas, that was life in Ethiopia. When the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan ruled over the country, things were peaceful and people's anger was suppressed. The horrors of war and the most grotesque nightmares of man were repressed. Now, with all of that gone, the Ethiopians resorted to all that had been oppressed, suppressed, and repressed for so many decades. Evidenced by the actions of post-Hirgizstanian Ethiopia, the people therein had created a plague that not only affected them now but threatened spill over into other parts of Africa.

Vosloo and his team were just part of that mess. When he set off the bomb, he did so knowing what the scene would look like afterwards. He wasn't mistaken either. The bomb had sent the entire chassis of the vehicle and the fragmentation aides into the air at supersonic velocity and without any sort of regard of what they encountered along the way. They tore through the thin, sheet metal or wooden structures of the street stalls and whatever goods hung from them. They sliced through the air and ripped through the weak, soft flesh of everyone standing in the way. They shattered whatever glass existed on the structures surrounding the town center and the traffic circle. The blast itself pulverized an already decrepit statue of some, historical, Hirgizstanian figure to dust. What it left behind was a wake of devastation. The bomb had cratered a hole into the ground around the traffic circle and left nothing but smoke and flames in its wake. It left behind nothing more than a nightmare to everyone around and everyone who was witness to the event. In its wake, only seconds after it happened, the bomb turned the town center into a polluted travesty. Secondary fires burned all over the town center, stalls were torn apart and blown over, goods scattered everywhere, cars toppled over, others aflame and fractured, doors torn from their hinges, windows shattered to bits and pieces no larger than a fingernail. The bomb blast wasn't particularly powerful either but the damage was extensive mainly because of the shoddiness of the town of Bedele. When the thick, black, caustic smoke rolled upwards, into the air, the rebels in the rest of the city were already running to action. Those chomping away on their khat quickly threw the leaves down and ran to whatever posts they had been assigned. Discipline was sorely lacking in the rebellion and that was something Vosloo, the Black Scorpions, and every other mercenary group in the country was going to exploit. Of course, the government wasn't any different either and that only made things easier.

Vosloo and Duke peered down at the scene for a few moments, watching the children crying and the unconscious bleeding. Vosloo smiled a smile that only someone as mad with bloodlust as he was would smile. It was a sick, sinister smile that had been years in the making and only now, as he saw the carnage below did it fully and truly come out of him. He looked down at the carnage below and envisioned himself in the center of it, watching the bloodbath. Licking his lips, he experienced a slight chill of pleasure crawl up his spine. He watched as a child, maybe eight or nine years old, perhaps a boy, perhaps a girl, it was too tough to tell, was walking away from the center, filthy, and covered in blood and dirt, crying, holding its right arm in its left, looking for someone to help. Likely, the child would bleed to death before any help could be had. A man, whose torso had been severed in twain, was crawling at a particularly slow pace away from the wreckage of a car but he stopped after just a few inches, his body crashing to a halt as his heart stopped. People lay dead or dying all around the traffic circle and the town center. Soldiers, who had been manning some sort of post, were tossed into and through the wall of a small shop that collapsed on itself from the blast wave. The shop was more or less a shanty with a sign on the front door advertising what it was. Vosloo didn't care for those details; he only cared to see the horror of his labor. The death that lay before him sufficed that sinister bloodlust that he harbored within himself. He was less of a man and more of a monster.

"What do you think of this?" He asked of Duke as they both looked down at the horror. Vosloo was in a philosophical mood, despite the devastation before him. Adler and Smith had both already doubled back to the vehicles where Clint, Bishop, and West were waiting. They could see the rising smoke from where they were hiding and that was evidence enough that the bomb went off as planned. Though Adler and Smith were really the ones to secure the parts and assemble it, Vosloo had been the one to lay out the plans and the specifications for the weapon. He had given them to both Adler and Smith like a master craftsman to his workers. He set them out to do the work while he perched himself high above, to watch the work and oversee its end.

"I think we've done only half the day's work Vosloo." Duke was right, they still had an objective and that objective was to assassinate Colonel Arrow, who would undoubtedly be on edge given the blast in his town center. "We should be going," Duke didn't leave much time for Vosloo to admire his work any longer than he already had and he would have been happier to sit there all day and night, watching the carnage beneath him.

"You're right, good let's clear out of here then." Vosloo stood up first and Duke followed. They left the room overlooking the town center and walked through the muddled mess of the eighth floor of what was once a luxurious hotel. In the years of the Commonwealth, when Bedele and Ethiopia were, together, shining examples of civility, this particular hotel had hosted banquets and conferences on such intellectual topics such as oil consumption and the effects of deep sea drilling on marine wildlife. Now it was a shell, to be used only as a defensible point in the event of a government attack. Rebels would turn the hotel into a deathtrap, rigging it with tripwires, mines, explosively formed penetrators, and grenades. The hotel would serve as their Alamo, their fallback position, where Colonel Arrow would watch his troops fend off the fiends of the government, where he could see civilians being slaughtered in droves, and where he could watch the fires of Bedele engulf everything above and below. The hotel was to be a temple of death, nothing more and nothing less. Vosloo had picked it because of its strategic vantage point and so too would Colonel Arrow, when and if the time came. "Nothing we could do could turn this place into somewhere worthwhile," Vosloo commented as they walked down the stairs towards the rear exit. They couldn't go out the front door, there was simply too much debris in the way now that the bomb had gone off and devastated the town center.

"Absolutely nothing except to burn the place to the ground." Duke added as they came to the rear exit, their weapons now ready to be used against anyone who stood in their way. Vosloo nodded and took the lead, exiting without saying a word or continuing the discussion that he had started eight floors earlier. His mind was focused, on the next objective, the assassination of Colonel Arrow, which served multiple purposes and made several people happy. For one, there was Abdi, Vosloo's contact in Jimma who had treated him so well just a few days earlier with a lovely girl, whom he left for dead in his room. Abdi had been so kind as to request that Colonel Arrow be killed and it wasn't until Kyle, Vosloo's Layartebian handler, handed him the mission that he actually contemplated doing it. As far as he could tell, he would need Abdi's services again in the future but he was easy enough to lie and Vosloo had a million and one excuses he could use. Colonel Arrow was notorious throughout the rebellion and throughout Ethiopia. He wasn't Ethiopian by ethnicity but he was by birth. As far as anyone could tell, he was Congolese. He had ascended through the rebellion simply by killing or exposing those in front of him and now, as a ruthless warlord, he was given command over Bedele, for a number of reasons. Mainly, it kept him away from the rest of the rebel command. He was hundreds of kilometers away from them and that was by design. The rebel command feared and despised him but they couldn't ignore his tactical brilliance, especially after he defended Bedele against government threat time and time again. Secondly, Colonel Arrow was put in Bedele because he wanted to be there. He wanted to be a warlord, with people to command as his own subjects. He was a ruthless, power-hungry savage of a man who fit in perfectly well at Bedele.

Plenty of people wanted Colonel Arrow dead and those people existed everywhere. They existed within the rebellion, within the government, within the civilian populace, within Bedele, within the Empire, within the United States of Brink, within every humanitarian organization. Colonel Arrow was a rapist, a murderer, a pedophile, a sadist, a thief, an arsonist, and who knew what else. Anyone who spoke against him found his head lying on the ground and anyone who dared to rival him watched as his whole family was raped, burned, and executed before his eyes. Colonel Arrow was more than just a rebel commander. He was a symbol of the worst that humanity could do and now, he was plotting his revenge against whoever set off the bomb in his town. Thoughts ran through his head as the minutes progressed. Was it the government? Was it another rebel commander? Was it someone within his own ranks? Was it the whites? Vosloo and Duke could answer that question and so could anyone else who wore the tattoo of a Black Scorpion. Leaving the caustic smoke behind them, Vosloo and Duke headed for the small encampment they had made around their vehicles. They passed through frantic crowds of women, children, and men, rebels who looked at them as if they were invisible. There were whites all over Ethiopia and even in Bedele too since Colonel Arrow had enlisted them to help him. He had a mercenary group working for him but they were far away but only he knew that and not the men under his command. They looked at the whites and quickly looked away. Vosloo and Duke had no reputation, per say, to them but their skin color did. While the Africans, the Ethiopians to be more specific, had committed their own atrocities and killed their fare share of people, the whites were far worse. They made the land bleed far worse and they did so without any remorse. The blacks they had some sort of remorse, after all, it was their land but the whites did so without care or cause. It was as if they were paid for their brutality and, if they were, they certainly made their money and then some.

It took Vosloo and Duke only about ten minutes to walk through the droves of city inhabitants and back to where the three vehicles and five other Black Scorpions rested. The smell of burning rubber, metal, plastic, and bodies wafted into the air and carried through the grim, dirty, dusty, and pathetic streets of Bedele. Vosloo kept the sick, sinister, sadistic smile on his face as he walked through the masses and past the soldiers who looked on only with a certain level of fear. No matter how bad and how tough the soldiers thought they were, they cowered in the presence of the whites. The whites reigned supreme in the land and that was neither fiction nor hypothesis, it was fact. The government knew it and so did the rebels, who looked upon the whites as the cause of all the violence, pain, and suffering that existed in their country. They looked to blame the whites above all else but really, they had only themselves to be blamed. They allowed the travesties to begin and they turned to violence. When the whites ruled, peace ruled. Now that the whites in Cape Verde were gone, having moved on with their lives, looking to the Empire for peace and sanity, Ethiopia was nothing more than a forgotten land. It was a place that God wanted to no part of and neither did the Devil. It was simply a place left to man and all of his dark, grotesque, and magnificently twisted ideals.

Vosloo stood around while the sun went down on Bedele. The night skies brought a chilly air to the city of Bedele. By then, the fires had burned themselves out, lacking fuel for their continued persistence. Now, people looked at the horror before them with only a desire to pick up whatever remained of their lives. Eventually, the damage would be repaired but to their standards. That didn't mean any sort of inclusive repair but rather dirt pushed into the crater hole, the blood washed away as best as they could, the bodies carried away and buried, and the stalls erected once again. All told, some eighty-five people were killed by the blast and another four hundred or so were injured beyond scrapes, scratches, and bruises. As the sun went down and the screams and cries of the inhabitants dwindled amidst their nightly pleasantries, namely khat and booze, the rebel soldiers grew more and more distracted. Some solicited the services of hookers; others inebriated themselves with alcohol, khat, marijuana, or whatever other drugs they could find. They enjoyed the fruits of opium, which Colonel Arrow managed to cultivate in quantities large enough to make decent money and supply his own soldiers with the potent drug. Of course, these quantities were tiny in comparison to what they grew in the Golden Triangle. For Ethiopia though, it was plenty and for Colonel Arrow is more than enough. Colonel Arrow had been so generous with giving away the drug that, during the night, he left himself unguarded. His closest guards were so stoned by midnight that Colonel Arrow was solely responsible for his own defense. It was information that Vosloo obtained through no easy terms. He had first tried to pay off a rebel soldier for the information but, since he didn't want to budge, Vosloo proceeded to torture him into giving up the information. Seven fingernails, one ear, and a broken nose later, the rebel soldier yielded and that was when Vosloo put a slit through throat and left him to bleed out on the floor of an abandoned shanty, his mouth taped shut.

Shortly after midnight, Vosloo, Smith, and Duke crawled beneath the concertina wire that the rebels had hastily lined the perimeter of their base with, failing to take into account the dips and rises of the land in the process. Vosloo and his cohorts found one of said dips and carefully maneuvered underneath the wire and into the base. This was their only perimeter defense and, with the late, night hours upon them, everyone at the base was largely asleep. A few, roaming patrols moved throughout the camp but they were lax and lazy. Nobody was really paying enough attention and that was bad news for the rebels. Again, their discipline was more than just lacking; it was practically nonexistent. Vosloo had given strict orders to both Smith and Duke to be silent. They weren't there to slaughter and mow down the rebels; although, they could have with how stoned, drug, and lax they were. They could have moved through the camp with suppressed pistols and knives and left a river of blood in their wake if they truly wanted but they were only there for Colonel Arrow. They were there to kill him in his sleep and, if not his sleep, wherever he stood or sat and in the most horrific way possible. Knowing the full layout of the camp, Vosloo led the experienced Layartebian and Hirgizstanian through the maze of tents and small structures. They used the concealment of the buildings to block them from the shabby lights that lit the camp. They moved quickly, quietly, and skillfully through the alleyways and to their target, a structure that was four-walled, with a roof but was far from a formal structure. It was more of an elaborate shanty than anything else but it was clearly identifiable as Colonel Arrow's headquarters by the sign that was stuck in the ground outside. It identified the building as headquarters and Vosloo knew that this place was Colonel Arrow's den of death and thievery. He left both Smith and Duke outside to cover him while he walked into the front door. He kept his pistol ready, in his right hand and his left on the hilt of his knife. He walked in as if he owned the place and, in some ways, he did.

The headquarters shanty was quiet and sparsely lit. His footsteps echoed against the walls and down the hallways of the shabby structure and he passed locked door after locked door until he heard a sound at the end of the hallway. It was like a whimper but he recognized the sound right away. It was Colonel Arrow getting off and that meant he was especially weak. Vosloo quickened his pace and walked right up to the door, the suppressed pistol aimed in front of him. He stood there a moment and listened, quietly, as Colonel Arrow scolded someone, probably his whore of the evening. There was no doubt, from the tone of his voice, that she would be dead by morning. Vosloo could have taken the role of a knight in shining armor, there to rescue the girl but that wasn't his style in any way, shape, or form. Instead, he reared his foot into the lock of the door and burst it clear off its hinges, sending it across the room with such force that it practically went through the weak, exterior wall of Colonel Arrow's quarters. Only a few days earlier, the scene there was the same scene as in his own hotel room, with the young, virgin girl he bought from Abdi for the night. Colonel Arrow was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked except for a sheet covering him. A young, probably underage girl was lying on the bed, facing away, crying, and trying to cover herself with the same sheet. Colonel Arrow had a cigarette in his hand and his office was a mess. It was nothing more than a military cot with a desk and papers everywhere. His AK-47 sat in the corner, well out of his reach and his pistol was on the desk. He made a move for it but he didn't get too far, Vosloo quickly stepping in and planting his foot against Colonel Arrow's body. He flew across the room and against the door that was now lying against the wall. The girl shrieked but was immediately silenced by Vosloo, who, remorselessly, shot her twice, seemingly without looking. One round went through his stomach and the other through her head, leaving her dead on the cot, her body half-naked, half covered by the sheet. The shots, while loud enough to alert any sentry, went unnoticed in the sleeping, docile camp.

Colonel Arrow cowered now, his body bruised, knowing that the white man that loomed over him was there to kill him. He took some solace that it would likely be quick but when Vosloo put his pistol away, that solace quickly eroded. "Who are you?" He yelled up to Vosloo and then called for his guards but nobody heard him.

"Nobody will be hearing you Colonel. I've seen to it. Your whole camp is stoned, drunk, or asleep. Your guards are bullshitting and nobody is here to protect you. You may consider yourself a warlord and the god of Bedele but you're just a fool. I'm here to give you an awakening. I'm here to kill you Colonel and it won't be easy for you. I promise." Vosloo smiled again and drew his knife, all in one, carefully orchestrated movement. Colonel Arrow tried to fight but it didn't work, Vosloo kicked him so hard in the gut that he instantly began to gasp for air. His naked body was vulnerable and Vosloo continued to land the kicks, mainly against his gut but as Colonel Arrow huddled himself into a ball, Vosloo had to see another target and he aimed not for the man's balls. Two, three, four kicks later, Colonel Arrow was practically unconscious with pain and that was when Vosloo reached down and grabbed the man's head. He had little hair to grab and so he aimed for an ear instead, lifting Colonel Arrow upwards and onto his knees. "There is no god for you to make peace with Colonel!" Vosloo struck down with his knife, right into the back of his neck which was a terrible wound but not mortal yet. "Sinners, aren't we all!" He added just before he proceeded. He turned Colonel Arrow around and quickly drew his knife through the man's neck, spraying the wall with blood as his body began to bleed itself to death and as the shock began to put him into a coma. He convulsed a little but Vosloo's grip was so strong that it made no difference. He didn't stop there though and proceeded to cut through the rest of his neck, throat, and spine, eventually severing his head completely. This was to be his prize, for now and he left the headless corpse on the floor and exited the building, head inside a plastic bag he brought with him to keep his clothes from getting too bloody. He would slam it onto the end of the stick that held the headquarters sign, for all to see.

[United States of Brink]

Windhoek, Namibia
New African Republic
September 10th

The plan was simple as all plans are. The Northern regions of Ethiopia were controlled by a para government force, which, for better or worse, held a tenuous grip on peace. It was perhaps luck that it ended up that way. The Republic had no direct route into the northern portion of the country so it just so happened to be last on the priority list. It was the southern part of the country that presented the biggest obstacles and, sharing a border with the Republic, meant that it would be dealt with first. Move in quick and with force. It was hoped that the faster the action, the less collateral damage would be inflicted. It was a tight operation in that regard, the Republic’s force’s handcuffed by their inability to use all the force necessary. This wasn’t an invasion; it was a peace keeping mission. Still, resistance wasn’t expected to be much considering the disorganized state of rebel affairs. The latest intelligence reports suggested that any organized effort that is beyond the simple goal of destruction was limited to increased gang violence and nothing more. A few reports did indicate; however, that former Commonwealth military equipment had gone missing and was presumed to be in the hands of rebels. The whereabouts were unknown which was already causing headaches up the chain of command. An organized resistance was one thing; a lone Sabertooth ambushing an unsuspecting squad was another. Even more disturbing was the indecisiveness of the pseudo-government. A number of inquires had already been ignored, and Windhoek’s patience was wearing thin. The Ethiopian government did control a sizeable force of ex-commonwealth forces including division sized armored units.

The real problem wasn’t with the rebels in that respect but rather the government. The Republic had no intentions of controlling the nation, of invading the country. It was a peacekeeping mission as announced to the world and, more importantly, to the Republican people. That was the stance they had to maintain. If the government were to suddenly oppose them it would cause massive disruption and force the Republic between a rock and a hard place. That is, of course, if they opposed the Republic’s efforts before peace could be had. The very idea was already causing miles of red tape in Windhoek.

Another problem quickly becoming a huge thorn in the side of relief efforts was the increase in massive terrorist involvement. The level of atrocities being committed was rising every day in both body count and gore. Death was becoming an art form. The places where these were being committed were in mostly rebel controlled territory so news reports were scarce if at all. It was too dangerous for media to safely function in. Reports still made it through via first and second hand accounts. Photos and hand held cameras had been uploading pictures onto the internet. Where national media couldn’t get, these citizen reporters lived. While the national media couldn’t get in directly, they took these videos and exploited them putting untold pressure on Windhoek. Photographs of children and women burning alive, kids ripped apart by car bombs, and blood filled streets were quickly casting a dark shadow over Africa.
-
The telephone receiver in Baruti’s office rang. It wasn’t a typical sounding ring. It was a soft but urgent hum. It was quiet, so much so that nobody else, even if you were standing right next to him, could hear. It generally caught him by surprise as well, a flinch he passed off to old age when someone asked him about it. It gently vibrations were coming from a receiver located in his ear phone. He had only to press a button on the outside of the device to connect the caller with himself. Nobody else, not even Sam, knew about it. It was his little secret, hidden from even the secret service, even his wife and son. Only one person in the world knew how to contact it. It was the one person in the world he could not be caught talking to.

He listened intently to the caller, leaning back in his chair as if he were taking a quick nap. He felt a bit cool and turned his chair around, facing the sun streaming in from the large window that sat behind his desk. Anybody who was watching him would have been none the wiser.

“None,” he whispered questioningly?

He continued to listen, his question seemingly answered.

“To Bedele then,” he said next.

Another few moments passed by before he touched his ear again. Operation Red Coyote was off the ground and running.
-
Dolo Odo, Ethiopia
Former Commonwealth of Hirgizstan
September 10th

Units from the 1st Armored Division rolled into Dolo Odo, a small commercial city along the Kenyan Ethiopian border, around dawn. It marked the first official Republican units on the ground in Ethiopia and thus the start of Operation Warlord. The city was cold and still, dawn seemingly too early for any resistance. In fact the city seemed eerily deserted. It, surprisingly, was in one piece too, the relative affluence of the populace saving it from ruthless criminal activity. In the dawn light, that soft luminous glow, the city was quite beautiful. It was commonly believed by the rest of the world that much of Africa was still in the third world despite the large gains of both the Republic and the Commonwealth. The fact of the matter was that much of Africa was most assuredly first world and Dolo Odo was no exception. Brick and stone buildings were dotted with the occasional glass lined apartment complex and the rare commercial building. The streets were littered with small open air cafés that were still very much active during the day. The lack of any noticeable government was nowhere to be seen. The small city was an enclave, untouched by the outside crumbling around them. It almost seemed wrong, as if the Republic was taking advantage of the city, by driving tanks down the main boulevard.

The emotions the soldiers had been feeling were instantly challenged. Yesterday the soldiers were being shown images of burnt infant corpses and raped girls, yet this city was nothing short of charming. They didn’t realize this was a different kind of war. Front lines no longer existed on the battlefield. There would be no grand battles or tactically fought engagements. The soldiers didn’t yet realize what kind of world they were entering.

Then came the first casualty. The first shot fired in Operation Warlord, and the only one fired that day, came from the rifle of a thirteen year old boy. The shot killed a 31 year old Captain, a father of twin girls the age of 5. The shooter, frightened by the sound of the rifle dropped it and ran.

[The Third Justice]

September 10, 2009 – 19:08 [UTC+3]
Yubdo, Ethiopia
"MacCallister Manor" Mining Headquarters
(8° 56' 60"N, 35° 27' 0"E)

Iain rolled the pen between his pointer finger and thumb, back and forth, forth and back. He often did this as he thought. It had been a few months since he had finally acquired the Yubdo Ultramafic Complex from Mr. Benti Tassisse. Mr. Tassisse had been given full control of the mining complex when the political situation in Ethiopia had deteriorated beyond repair. The Minerva Resource group had literally packed up and left. Leaving everything that couldn't walk on its own.

The rumors of a few elderly people being left behind and then being massacred by Sidamo rebels had been well propagated by the underground press, but no one cared enough to take any real action. In general the world had stood by as the peoples of the state of Ethiopia swallowed each other whole. There were exceptions of course. A number of mercenary companies had taken advantage of the chaos and claimed a piece of turf. Aid agencies had made a token show of enthusiasm, but even that soon waned as the aid workers were either killed or kidnapped on a massive scale. But organized groups were not the only people who flocked to Ethiopia, Beelzebub-Investors, so called as they took the opposite approach as Angel-Investors, and economical hit-men, moved into the war-torn land, hoping to carve out a piece of the pie for themselves. Iain MacCallister was one of these BIs, although not intentionally.

9 years prior, Iain had graduated with a dual degree in Resource Management and Mining Techniques and set about becoming a mine foremen. Work was scarce as the competition was fierce. He had roamed Europe and after losing more jobs then he could afford to put on his resume, he set his sights on Africa. He had been forced to the Dark Continent for a number of reasons. His wrap-sheet was almost as long as his resume itself. His employers usually fired him on the grounds of undue endangerment of workers, and each team under him grew to fear him in very short order.

It wasn't so much that he was a task master, but that he had Antisocial Personality Disorder, i.e. he was a sociopath. His charm and charisma got him past most employers interview processes, and his need to dominate and his entrepreneurial nature made him popular among the owners of the mines we worked. Yet every time his workers would complain about abuse, threats, and physical violence. Iain always countered this with progress and results, but with such laws in place the administrations of the mines had to let him go. He had been suspect in the dynamiting of a mine a week after he was last laid off in Europe, which led to his exodus to Africa.

Africa was a totally new game for Iain. The lack of regulation drew him in and he worked for a number of rebel mining camps, harvesting diamonds, gold, and silver. It wasn't to last as the programs were far to small to keep his interest, but his violent nature gained him the trust of every rebel leader he knew. He learned to shoot, and use a whip, neither at an expert level, but well enough to hunt and leave searing lacerations along the back of workers without wounding them enough to stop working. Many souls had perished as he was taught the basics of each craft.

In January of 2009 he had been working a rebel diamond mine in the Sudan, when a contact had alerted him to the possibility of taking advantage of an opportunity in the collapsing southern border nation, Ethiopia. With permission from the rebel chieftain he took his leave and traveled the rushing muddy waters of the Blue Nile. He met his contact, Simon Bakundi, in Debre Mark'os and they traveled up into the lush green southern highlands of Ethiopia. There Simon had introduced Iain, to qat, a mild narcotic grown in the north of the country, which Iain immediately became addicted to.

When they arrived in Yubdo, Iain was underwhelmed. He had known Simon for 5 years and he had never received a bad tip from him, but all Iain saw was a series of shallow pits and a large park of mining and exploration vehicles and equipment. Of course it had potential, but there was no one to drive these highly technical machines. In addition the area was controlled by a large Sidamo rebel faction, headed by the ruthless and vengeful Ibrahim Saldakhim.

Ibrahim was the de facto ruler of the Yubdo woreda (district). He and his boy army had torn the woreda apart and formed a rag-tag kingdom with the pieces. Ibrahim's rebels, Jmla Gdya (ጅምላ ግድያ), Mass Murdering, had killed approximately 1,390 people, in their woreda alone, in the the month and a half leading up to the meeting. Their signature was to cut out the tongue of their victims after they had killed them, and wear them on a shoulder strap until they dried. They would then grind the dry tongue into a powder and mix it with a combination of PCP and coffee to give them the high needed for the next raid. They had set up their headquarters in the old mining laborer barracks and used the various outbuildings as supply caches.

Some high ranking officers in the Jmla Gdya, had been present at the meeting between Iain and Mr. Tassisse. They guided the conversation and when Iain made excuses to try to back out they gently placed their guns on the table, signifying that he had better reconsider. Simon had sent Mr. Tassisse a copy of McCallister's resume, and as such Saldakhim had run over it a few times, and was impressed as much with MacCallister's degrees as he was with his inability to work within the system of legitimate business. Saldakhim had sent his men with the verdict decided, and all Iain needed to do was legally purchase the land and rights from Mr. Tassisse.

Benti Tassisse was a nervous man. Being in business with Minerva had been a stable pillar of his life for almost six years, it had been a comfort. Now that Minerva was gone, he owned a mining complex but neither the man power or the expertise to operate it. He had initially put out feelers for a Mining Director, and this information caught Simon's eye, but after his family was slaughtered by the rebels he no longer wanted to wait around for his turn. The offer went from Mining Director to full owner. Benti had saved up enough money to get out of Africa, and had e very intention of doing just that. While the rebels made him nervous, their forceful ways provided him an excuse to leave even earlier.

At midnight, 1 July, 2009 Iain MacCallister became the full owner of the Yubdo Ultramafic Complex. He had spent the interim months retracing his footsteps in Africa and offering anyone jobs he felt was either a quick learner or had some semblance of training in the mining industry. He went to various weapons markets and bought anything that exploded to get started. He bought det cord, slow fuses, blasting caps, plastique, C4, hand grenades, RPG-7 rockets, mortar and artillery shells, and much to his personal pleasure an old British Foreign Service Zulu War Era replica pith helmet. His opening budget was -$14,930.08.

Ibrahim and Iain became professional acquaintances during the first month. Ibrahim was 5'8" with rich deep black skin. He wore his hair at a medium length and was always adorned with his customary sunglasses, cigarette, and red head band that made him "invincible" according to local clerics. Ibrahim had told Iain that God had appeared to him in the body of a child and offered him the headband as protection. Ibrahim had taken the head band then cut a slab of flesh off of the child's thigh and eaten it. Iain had failed to see how that bit related to the story.


One of the things Iain had picked up in his travels was the strategy of a good game of chess. He played on the long bus and train rides around Africa with the small magnetized travel set. Ibrahim had from time to time stopped in for a game and while Iain let him cheat in order to win, he kept a mental note of how many times he could have won himself. Some of Ibrahim's deputies were formidable opponents after the first few days of lazy chess games in the scorching sun of midday. Below them the tormented bodies of 129 forced laborers toiled in the beating sun. The laborers condition didn't improve much at night, they would pitch tents along the tiers of the main pit and amid the stagnant water and grim of their profession they would search for sleep.

On this particular day Iain rolled the pen, pith helmet next to him, and sighed with exasperation. It was time to look for a vendor for the platinum. Sure he had it stockpiled, but it wasn't worth anything until it was sold. He sent out a massive communique:

To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to inform you of a fantastic offer. I am offering pure platinum at $1500/oz, which saves you $90/oz on todays market index. Order now to lock in the price.

Best,
Ian McCallister

He was pleased, now if he could turn a profit then he could start to pay himself back for the capital invested and then pay the Jmla Gdya their due share.

[Layarteb]

OOC: We are breathing new life into this RP. This is not a gravedig [as I am the thread creator]. Simply put, this thread was too good and carried too much potential to allow it to die any further than it already has. We will restart after this post and flash forward to 2011. I figured that I should properly end by first story arc before this happened and so I invite anyone else to do the same, if they are still watching. If you are new to this RP then you MUST follow the instructions as detailed in the first post. Happy readings everyone!

Stave I
"Non Serviam"
Verse V
"Where is your God?"

November 18, 2009 - 13:30 [UTC+3]
Debre Tabor
(11° 51' 38.19" N, 37° 59' 48.07" E)

Summer turned to autumn in Ethiopia and September slid into October and slid into November with little resistance. The bleakness of the situation in Ethiopia was certainly not lost as the traditional death of winter rapidly approached without as much as a hurdle for an obstacle. The civil war that had brewed for so long and spilled over on more than one occasion soured beyond spoilage in those early autumn months. It seemed as if little could stop the spirally decline of Ethiopian civilization and as it circled the drain; it threatened to drag half of the region with it. Smoke polluted the skies day and night from the decrepit remains of the toys of war and the burning villages left in their wake. The body count skyrocketed to astronomical levels, eclipsing that of Porto Velho even, where gangs and a fiendishly corrupt government had turned the city into a veritable killing field. Ethiopia was not solely a killing field; it was a black hole of obliviousness and apathy. The world left it and its one hundred million people to die a slow, painful, agonizing yet silent death. Nobody seemed to care about Ethiopia and by right, neither did Ethiopians.

The immortal battle between rebel and government was not good versus bad nor was a battle of any sacred birthright. It was a battle of greed and all of the darkness and blackness that could infest the human soul. It was a battle whereby the weak, the innocent, and the meek were not merely victims but tools for one party to use against the other. The gruesome deaths of those unaligned were a trigger against one side and a trigger against the other. Bodies draped across the roofs of armored fighting vehicles and the ever echoing crunch of bones beneath the metal treads of a tank were sights and sounds that no one needed to here but yet, in Ethiopia, they were as common as the buzzing of a fly. Streets bathed in blood remained stained even after the rain and it seemed that no one could escape, regardless of how deeply they hid or how quietly they existed. If a busload of school children stood between a rebel platoon and a government platoon, the only guaranteed casualties would be those children. Each side would blame the vicious attack on the other and vow to avenge their deaths for justice.

They were all liars! By some twist of putrid irony, the least evil of those bearing swords in Ethiopia may have just been the mercenaries. They flocked to Ethiopia for two reasons and two reasons alone. The first was the most obvious, profit. There was money to be had in Ethiopia, both in fighting for one side against the other and also in the utter lawlessness that not only enveloped the country but also soaked it to its bones. Where there was crisis and there was misery, there was opportunity, especially for mercenaries who robbed from all and sold to all. They stalked the streets day and night in vehicles better than the government and with more ammunition and guns than the rebels did. They took years of hardened and honed skills fighting with the various militaries of the world and brought that death and destruction to bear upon Ethiopia. It was by that regard that their second reason for being there was death and destruction. They thrived off it almost as if it were a valid and genuine lust within their bodies and minds that they simply could not combat. When they killed, they did so with excited smiles.

It was intriguing on a psychological level just as much as it was harrowing on a physical level. Adrenaline that surged through the veins of mercenaries as they traded bullets with undisciplined rebels or ill-equipped government troops was better than any drug one could inject. Heroin was secondary in its potency compared to adrenaline and unlike heroin; adrenaline was free and limitless. When they stood over their kills, chests heaving, they didn't look down with reverence or respect. They looked down upon the mangled and sometimes annihilated corpses of their enemy of the moment and looked upon them as a hungry vampire looks upon a strong, young human being. They hungered for the violence, for the mayhem, and for the power to take life as they pleased. They were unholy warriors, to say the least and none among them was true and genuine nor were they honest and forgiving. However, they were there to rape the country and they told no tales to the contrary. They let their intentions be known from the start and that and only that was what made them better than the rebels and the government troops, who both claimed to be fighting for the people.

They slept with the dried blood of their victims on their cheeks and never stayed in one place for too long. When they encountered their so called "allies," they simply passed on and ignored them. They were nomads in nearly every meaning of the word and could have been called nomads had it not been for their sanctuary, their one place of safety, so to speak. That place was Asosa, a rat-infested den of thieves, murderers, and all of the soldiers of Satan. It was "Merc Town" and that meant no go for the rebels and no go for the government. Nestled only a stone's throw from the border of Sudan, Asosa was a fortress town, if there ever had been one. Mercenaries set up shop in Asosa just to protect the town. They profited off of every nomadic mercenary group in Ethiopia and they did so without honor and certainly without respect. They established Asosa as a place to fear and that fear had been instilled in their foes and their allies. Nobody dared cross the imaginary Line of Death that surrounded the city. If they did, they did so only to enter the town to be summarily exploited.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Vosloo and the Black Scorpions found Asosa one of the few places they could hide out while the rebels reeled from the death of Colonel Arrow. Despite being rejected and loathed by most of the rebel forces, Colonel Arrow was influential and he was powerful. The vacuum created by his death was completely counterproductive to the rebel cause and left his whole group fighting amongst itself. It virtually destroyed an entire rebel controlled zone. Government forces, too inept to recognize the situation ultimately never acted on their plans to seize Bedele, which they very well could have in the wake of Colonel Arrow's death. Bedele now stood as a continued stronghold of the rebellion and nothing more than a wasted opportunity for the government, who struggled now to find legitimacy in their continued fight. Progressively, they were losing control of even their own strongholds and it didn't help that mercenary forces could be easily swayed in battle by a simple renegotiation of payment. On more than a dozen occasions, mercenary groups fighting with the government turned their guns on their allies and slaughtered them. On several of those occasions, they subsequently turned their guns on the rebels and stood alone.

To Vosloo, none of them was worth a damn. He avoided fighting alongside them and made it his business always to know who was around and what they were up to, just so that he could avoid them. The Black Scorpions were, because of this, sort of like outcasts amongst the legions of mercenaries within Asosa. When they entered bars and taverns, they were given a wide berth because everyone knew that the Black Scorpions were in Ethiopia on behalf of some higher power and authority. Nobody knew exactly who was funding and helping the Black Scorpions and the theories were just as numerous as the corpses littering the country. Their solitude was also a major contributor because they survived better than any other group and profited more than any other group without ever straying from their own numbers. The seven of them in the Black Scorpions were legends in the mercenary world and quiet whispers often included their names. If one were to believe the stories, Vosloo himself had personally eaten the heart out of the chest of a rebel commander before barbequing his body to feed to a group of prisoners he summarily executed afterwards, just for laughs.

Of course, the legends of the Black Scorpions were largely gross embellishments but neither Vosloo nor his team did anything to correct the glaring errors. They had practically the respect and adoration of every mercenary group in the country and though they were outcasts because of their "only us" attitude, they were definitely not disrespected, by even the most crass of mercenaries. Asosa was a place for Vosloo and the Black Scorpions to lay low while the rebel forces regrouped and tried to figure out how to proceed. There was a decision to make and the rebels had no easy time making it. They could put a bounty on Vosloo's head and perhaps they could convince at least one misguided mercenary group to hunt for him and kill him but there was no guarantee for success. On the other hand, they could leave it be, accept that the deed was done and that Colonel Arrow was more useful dead than alive and attempt to win the Black Scorpions to their side. Vosloo had executed more than one messenger in the months after the Bedele affair and he sent one back limping with a message to give, "We are our own!"

The message was received and the rebel leadership let bygones be bygones. They curried favor by staying out of the limelight when it came to the Black Scorpions and left Vosloo and his team alone in Asosa. They wouldn't have dared venture into Asosa regardless and expected that the Black Scorpions would likely stay there for a while and spend the spoils of war that they had so fiendishly collected since August. Things naturally simmered down and by late October, the Black Scorpions were established as a force to ignore and not to cross. That was when Kyle showed up in Asosa and strode through the mercenary town as if it were Layarteb City. He was a man without fear and a man who walked through the streets staring down anyone who stood in his way. It was then that many of the hushed rumors and theories that the Black Scorpions were funded by the Empire seemed to become true. Still, without any sort of viable proof they would remain simply rumors and hushed theories. No mercenary dared find out if the theories were true, especially since they knew that the Empire could level Asosa from afar without even trying.

Kyle found Vosloo sitting in a bar, his team nearby. They drank in forced silence and ate with little regard for the starving servants who brought them their plates. The two men connected eyes almost immediately and Vosloo quietly cursed underneath his breath, knowing that a visit from Kyle meant nothing good. "What do you want?" He said with a sneer as he downed the rest of his whiskey and loudly called for another.

"I want you to get back to fucking work instead of sitting here and hiding like cowards," a servant boy, barely eight years old, cautiously and frightfully approached with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He stuttered as he explained that the bottle was for Vosloo and that he would have it added to his tab. Vosloo gave him a wave of approval and sent him back to his master, not having any patience now.

"What do you want me, us to do? You haven't given us any assignments." Vosloo didn't pour Kyle a shot this time. Instead, he took another one and stared across the table, knowing that Bishop was staring just the same. He loathed the very concept that this man forced him not to kill Bishop, Kaffir!

"Fine you want an assignment, here, since I guess you can't run freely without my permission now," the tone in Kyle's voice was unmistakable. He was irritated beyond belief and Vosloo sensed it without hesitation. "Debre Tabor is home to a major network for the government. They use the town to bring in drugs from the Far East, particularly the Golden Triangle and Afghanistan. They bring in tons of the stuff every month around the middle of the month and ship it out throughout the country. The rebels get their cut and both of them distribute it. Yes, the government sells the drugs to the rebels and they know it.

"Debre Tabor is in the hands of Abay Berhe, a commander with the government military. He's on our payroll."

"So? A lot of people are on your payroll."

"A lot of people aren't Berhe. Berhe is genuine in his pursuit of money. He could care less about his own family and would leave them starving in the street if it meant he could make extra cash. Unfortunately, the last batch of cash to him was stolen by rebel forces that infiltrated the military. They made off with two hundred thousand shingrots and we want that money back as much as we want to make sure Berhe gets his next payment, on time."

"So you want me to be an armored car service?" Vosloo laughed and poured himself another drink. "How pathetic is that?"

"It's a matter of necessity. He's getting a double payment and if he doesn't get that payment, he's no longer going to do what we need him to do. Do you see how badly that goes for us?" Vosloo nodded. He wasn't a child; he could put two and two together.

"That might be the case but how is this destabilizing the country?" Kyle laughed and snatched the drink from Vosloo and dumped it on the table. Vosloo fumed but he did so silently and without giving it away.

"Because you fucking moron, who do you think is paying for the drugs to get into this goddamn country? Mostly us you inbred son of a bitch. If Berhe stops importing it and trust me, without us backing him he will and our whole plan goes to shit. Berhe's no moron unlike you. He's maneuvered himself in such a way that he oversees at least three quarters of all the drugs coming into Ethiopia. He's singlehandedly destabilizing this whole goddamn region. He's basically the only man who the drug lords in the Far East and Afghanistan will talk to and without him in the picture, they're going to cut off the trade so do me a favor, sober the fuck up, get your head in the game, and deliver this goddamn payment to him."

"When?"

"November eighteenth," Vosloo looked at his watch. That was only three days away. "Think you can handle it? There won't be any excess in the suitcase and he'll count it so don't try to fuck us, he knows we're not going to short him. He'll have his own guy count the money before it reaches your hands."

"Sounds like a smart man," Vosloo said sarcastically.

"Learn a lesson from him, will you?' Kyle departed thereafter, just as quietly as he had come, leaving Vosloo and the Black Scorpions to stew inside of the bar. Nobody else took note of the conversation and certainly, Vosloo's small tirade afterwards did not go unnoticed but nobody paid him any attention. To do so could warrant swift, harsh, deadly, and unprovoked punishment.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

The money arrived in Asosa by helicopter just after midnight on November 18. Kyle had transmitted the information to Vosloo and the Black Scorpions and they were there to meet the Layartebian-built but not Layartebian-flagged UH-1N Huey as it touched down. Just as Kyle had said, Commander Berhe had his own guy waiting as well and he counted the money inside of a rickety shack in front of Vosloo. Satisfied with the fact that the money was there, Berhe's man made a phone call, spoke in Amhara, and sent Vosloo on his merry way. Eight hundred and thirty-nine kilometers later, the money was arriving in Debre Tabor, where only one road led into and out of the city. That road was a dirt road that was in terrible shape but it could be easily defended by government forces if the need arose. The city was like Asosa in the respect that it was a fortress. Commander Berhe didn't just control the drugs coming into Ethiopia, he controlled the whole city and, by proxy, most of the region of Amhara, which remained staunchly in ironfisted, government control. Vosloo found himself at home, as he passed through the third and final checkpoint.

His three-vehicle convoy contained a bevy of weapons and all of the Black Scorpions and they all had an ulterior motive as they pulled to a stop in front of the gate leading into the warehouse complex and it was certainly a complex. There was one large building in its eastern quadrant, which was the barracks. Two machine gun nests guarded it from attack from the north, south, east, and west. In the center of the complex, there were three medium sized buildings, which served as the processing centers and storage facilities. Four smaller buildings served as administrative buildings. A fifth, square building served as a maintenance shed for vehicles. Two small buildings on the southwestern corner and the western side served as prison cells for holding and interrogation. Vosloo counted eighteen vehicles present, seven M35 trucks, two Ratel 20 infantry fighting vehicles, a pair of T-62 main battle tanks, and seven RG-33 armored vehicles. He estimated, based on the vehicles and the size of the barracks building that there were as many as eighty men at the complex. This was one heavily defended complex but that didn't put a kink in his plans whatsoever. He would simply adapt accordingly.

Vosloo gained admittance and parked in the center of the complex while the other two vehicles flanked him on either side but maintained a sort of tactical formation, as if they were ready to attack and run if the need had arisen. They all faced the gate and the keys were left in the ignitions while Vosloo and the Black Scorpions huddled together quickly in front of Vosloo's vehicle. He gave him quiet instructions and took Adler with him as he entered Commander Berhe's private building. Under the escort of two armed guards, both of whom were dedicated to the man who occupied this building, Vosloo and Adler surveyed every step they took. Neither of them appeared nervous nor were they but there was something to be said about the sense of anxiety both of them now felt towards the future events that lay before them. They were masters of their own destiny and they had committed themselves to a path that had not existed a mere four days prior. Kyle's visit had been an awakening to Vosloo and it was an awakening that was more than overdue. He wasn't necessarily a changed man but he was neither the same.

Command Berhe was a fat and lazy slob who sat in his office chair and smoked a cigar while he had a soldier count the money for him. Vosloo and Adler stood stiff as they watched the counting, both of them silently and emotionlessly counting in their heads as the seconds ticked away towards the appointed moment when both of them would act upon not their impulses but rather upon a plan that was detailed and precise. When they acted upon it, the two men moved with the speed and precision of twenty-four year old operators in an elite Black Operations Force. Vosloo reached for his knife and threw it hard through the hard, summoning all of his strength but doing so without so much as a grunt. It hurdled the short distance and found itself embedded within the chest of Commander Berhe, piercing his heart. Vosloo had aimed for a tiny target, by respect, and struck it without so much as a millimeter off of his intended aim point. Adler had used his own knife to cut the throat of the soldier counting the money and, in one quick movement; he snapped the soldiers' neck and set him down.

Vosloo watched as Commander Berhe's faced went to shock and the cigar fell out of his mouth and onto his soiled, uniform shirt and began to burn a hole. He quickly reached forward, took out the knife and set the cigar in the ashtray. Burning clothes and flesh could waft a smell that would seriously alarm everyone else in the complex and it was broad daylight. Vosloo and Adler wiped the blood off their knives and calmly put the money back in the suitcase before locking it up, securing it for themselves. There was four hundred thousand shingrots in there, enough to go around to all of them for quite a long while. They quietly left the office and entered the hallway, where the two soldiers stood guard, both of them with their backs to the door. One of them turned to glance at the opening door but it was the last glance he took. Both Adler and Vosloo hurled their knives into the backs of the two soldiers and reached forward to catch them as they slumped to the ground in rapid death. They dragged the bodies back to the office, left them, and made their way towards destiny.

At the front door, Vosloo gave a distinct whistle. It was loud and it echoed but it was heard by Clint and Bishop outside, who walked over to the ammunition carrying truck and reached into it. West and Smith entered the two AGF Servals, started the engines, and smartly manned the grenade launcher and the heavy machine gun. Vosloo and Adler exited and Adler made his way right for the Eagle IV, where he climbed in and started the engine himself. He stepped back out and walked around to the rear of the truck, where he opened the door and reached inside but stood there, still and motionless for just a moment in time. Vosloo strode forward and gave another whistle. The soldiers around the area never noticed that the suitcase in his hands was the suitcase that he had brought and when he placed it inside the passenger seat of the Eagle IV, he did so without so much as a hint that he wasn't supposed to be in possession of it. He gave a quick scan around the area and took note of what soldiers were around and what they were carrying before he whistled one last time.

The third whistle was the final one for a reason. No one would be able to hear a fourth if he was to give it, not that he would. All at once, the seven of them sprang to action. They had rehearsed this very act twice before they ever received the money and in both instances, they were completely successful in what they wanted to accomplish. West and Smith opened fire first, West placing a pair of forty-millimeter grenades into the guard boot at the entrance, instantly turning the two sentries into heaping, smoldering corpses. West rapidly turned her heavy machine gun and trained it on one a group of soldiers, slicing all four in half before any of them could react. As West swung around and lined up her sights on the vehicle maintenance shed, Bishop and Clint appeared with a pair of AT4 rocket launchers each. They both sprinted towards a safe distance away from the vehicle and flipped the safeties off the two launchers. They had prepared the launchers for firing before they ever arrived at the complex. Both rockets screamed through the air and slammed into the front hulls of the two T-62 main battle tanks.

Both tanks were instantly engulfed in a fireball as the high-explosive, anti-tank warheads, which could penetrate up to four hundred and twenty millimeters of armor, tore through the puny shielding on the front of each tank, which was less than two hundred and fifty millimeters, at best. The armament inside began to cook off moments later as the two men dropped the empty, plastic launchers and ran back to their vehicles, both of them grabbing their weapons in the process, a pair of assault rifles with grenade launchers attached to them. In the process, Adler appeared, carrying an M35A1 Light Machine Gun with a two hundred round magazine attached to it. Vosloo picked up a second one and the two of them took up positions and raked about a dozen soldiers who darted out of the administrative shacks, bewildered and unaware that they were being sieged from within their "walls." West swung around as they did and blasted all three administration buildings with three grenades a piece before aiming at one of the three processing buildings. She hit the door with a powerful two-round shot and blew it clear off its hinges killing several soldiers on their way to fight.

Duke, who had been missing throughout all of this, heard the shots and opened fire himself, except he wasn't with the rest of the team. Duke had jumped out of the vehicles not long after they passed the final checkpoint and now he was watching the barracks with his suppressed rifle, a semi-automatic M110A1 sniper rifle. He had a full magazine of twenty, 7.62x51mm rounds loaded and two within reach. From a range of less than one hundred and fifty meters, he fired rapid but well aimed shots from his rifle, which was supported by a bipod. Those shots took down the machine gun nests protecting the barracks, which remained silent thanks to a blocked field of fire. Then, he turned his weapon on the soldiers rushing out of the barracks, dropping them as they came out of one door. He kept his shots accurate and fast to make the enemy think that there were two snipers hunting them and within seconds, he neutralized the entire barracks through a combination of kills and fear. Soldiers were afraid to leave as long as their buddies were dropping like flies in the process of exiting either of the two now opened doors.

Vosloo and Adler traded off with Clint and Bishop and split into two, two-man teams with one machine gun and one assault rifle per team. Without a second thought, Vosloo teamed up with Bishop and the two of them entered one of the processing buildings while Clint and Adler entered the other. It was Vosloo and Adler's job to lay down covering fire while Bishop and Clint rushed through the buildings. In less than thirty seconds, all four men cleared the two buildings and left a wake full of bodies. The sound of Duke's sniper rifle was barely audible above the sound of the heavy machine gun and the grenade launcher, not to mention the two exploding tanks and their entire ammunition loads to boot. The four men exited, having set remote controlled C4 charges and together stormed the third and final building. In here, the soldiers were waiting for them and no sooner did they burst through the door than did the return fire come their way. Clint and Bishop advanced first as Vosloo and Adler held the hostile soldiers at bay. Knowing that they could not exit for fear of the heavy weapons, the soldiers stood their ground.

Leapfrogging forward, they used the cover of a fragmentation grenade cooked off to its second to last second to get themselves into betting firing positions. That was when Vosloo found himself next to Bishop, the two former commandos reunited in some sort of fabled tale of decay. Unfortunately, it was a moment neither of them could cherish as a bullet whizzed through the air and struck Bishop directly in the forward. He slammed backwards, lifeless as his grip on his assault rifle went limp. Vosloo immediately took cover and felt Bishop's neck for a pulse, doubting that he would actually find one. "FUCK!" He cursed loud enough for everyone and their dead relatives to hear. Without thinking a second thought, he pulled a concussion grenade from his belt and tossed it to the very back of the warehouse. It detonated with tremendous force and left all of their ears ringing, not that they weren't already. That single grenade ended the fight and the three men stood over Bishop's body for just a moment before they stripped him of his gear and placed a C4 charge under his lifeless corpse. Good riddance you piece of shit, Vosloo thought happily to himself.

What happened next was a massive exfiltration from the compound. All three men darted towards their vehicles and jumped into the driver's seats. They sped forward with both West and Smith covering their exit. Knowing that they still had to get Duke, Vosloo swung around and came around the west side of the complex. West continued to fire at targets in the complex and Smith poured heavy machine gun rounds into the structures. The thin, tin metal walls did nothing to stop the half-inch wide bullets. Duke watched as the vehicles spun around and quickly he threw a pair of smoke grenades into the ground in front of him to cover his escape. He grabbed his rifle and left the two, empty magazines where he dropped them, darting for the lead vehicle, in which Vosloo was the only occupant. He jumped in and quickly manned the light machine gun as the three vehicles turned around and peeled off to the north. They would blow through each checkpoint, firing upon them with precision as they kept their vehicles at near maximum sustainable speed. They would head towards Gondar, which was a safer bet than heading west, to Bahir Dar, a government stronghold. Eventually, the plan would have them make their way into Sudan and come south through Sudan and then back to Asosa. It wasn't going to be a short journey and once they neared Gondar, they relaxed a bit, accepting that none of the checkpoints or the warehouse complex had placed a distress call. Gondar was one hundred and fifty-five kilometers away and, by then, they were running low on diesel. They filled up and continued their journey northward, towards Sudan, knowing that not only had they dealt a significant, unrecoverable blow to the government but also to the Empire.

[United States of Brink]

November 30th, 2009
Windhoek, Namibia
New African Republic

The news was as frustrating as it was endless. Progress through Ethiopia had been painstakingly slow. What had started as a quick assault against ad hoc rebel units and rapidly declined into an agonizing trudge through organized resistance. The causality count was mounting and so too was the pressure on Windhoek. The calamity that was the Ethiopian campaign was now placed squarely on the shoulders of president elect, Sam Briddick. Briddick was not new to the scene however. He had been Baruti’s right hand man during his later years in office, and oversaw the decision to provide peacekeeping missions for Ethiopia. Along with Baruti’s public blessing, it was this fact that ushered his victory in the most recent presidential elections.

The campaign had started in September and saw quick success. Dolo Odo was secured within two days, Moyale in one, and Gode in five. These cities had been firmly in rebel control prior to the Republican assaults. However these rebels will ill prepared and unsuited to combat Republican forces. They were neither an organized fighting force nor where they unified for that matter. These units of irregulars were quickly dispatched causing minimal casualties. Even more uplifting was the lack of civilian casualties. Dolo Odo, for instance, suffered zero civilian casualties. The success of the campaign did not last long, however. The further into rebel controlled territory, the more violent the rebels became. What was once undisciplined rebel mobs quickly transformed into competent fighting forces, wreaking havoc to Republican units. Insurgency had become a major issue, rebels waging a guerrilla fight against Republican supply lines, and non front line combatants. Insurgent groups would remain silent for days, weeks, even months allowing Republican forces to push through before launching deadly surprise attacks. Roadside IED attacks plagued highways and back roads alike. Rail lines were cut or bombed. Land mines, placed randomly throughout towns, were taking the lives the peacekeepers and civilians alike. Progress through Ethiopia had begun to grind to a halt. Bogged down in this, peacekeeping casualties began to rise as well as pressure on Windhoek.

Still, the peacekeepers trudged forward in a bloody slugfest for every inch of ground. The rebels had become surprisingly ruthless and efficient. The further into the country the Republicans moved, the more sinister the reprisals. It started with attacks on the actual peacekeepers. First a bus had been loaded with children and explosives, a guise to allow it to pass through Republican checkpoints before detonating. Next was the use of forced suicide bombers, random civilians captured, tortured, and strapped with explosives. After which Republican peacekeepers simply found mass graves, littered with the bodies of innocent men and children, women notoriously absent. The horrid atrocities that the peacekeepers had been sent to stop were still taking place, and with terrible frequency.

Such carnage began a slow descent into bedlam. Republican peacekeeping forces, comprised of mostly Marine divisions, saw lapses in professional conduct. Cases of rape had begun to surface, causing public outcry back in the Republic. Such was the depravity that murders and suicides became an actual problem within the Marine divisions. Even desertion had troubled Marine high command. New units had to be cycled and cycled quickly to reduce the likelihood of post traumatic stress disorder. Each new city or town encountered saw a smaller and smaller percentage of prisoners captured.

It only took about two months before the entire operation had been halted both by rebel forces and forces back at Windhoek. Peacekeeping units, now entirely army stood as far inland as Harer and Awasa. Harer was a rebel stronghold and attacks had been frequent and unrelenting in that area.
-
Briddick could feel the stress, had noticed his first grey hairs. He could only sigh whenever he looked in the mirror, his once youthful face now showing signs of wear. His glasses, which at one point could never seem to stay on his nose, now seemed etched into him, cut by newly formed creases. He had even developed a twitch. It was subtle, not everyone could notice, but he could. He had just recently been in a meeting, one of many he had sat through the past few weeks. It covered everything from recent casualty counts to waning public opinion. Very little of it consisted of anything positive.

‘At this rate I’ll be dead before the rest of my hair turns grey,’ he thought.

Back at his office his secretary was working diligently at her desk just beyond his door. He walked by, expecting her to say something about any calls, mail, meetings, anything. She was silent save for a small nod she gave him as he walked by. ‘Finally,’ he thought, ‘some respite’. He opened his door and closed it gently behind him. The cool dark silence of his office was inviting. He removed his coat and loosened his tie before slumping heavily into his chair. He allowed himself a moment of cool quiet rest, his eyes and feet thanking him for the brief relief. After a few minutes he opened his eyes and oriented himself just as a folder on his desk caught his eye. It was a manila envelope unmarked on its cover. Puzzled he opened it to the first page. In simple black font were the words: Operation Red Coyote. At that moment he stopped reading and clicked on his intercom.

“Ekua has anyone been in my office since I left?”

“No Sam, I don’t believe so.”

He paused for a moment. Ekua was a good secretary, trustworthy and fair. The two had become friends since his election. He trusted her.

“Is everything alright,” Ekua continued.

“Yes, sorry.”

He looked back the folder and documents inside. He turned over the cover sheet and began to read. After a few pages he stopped and laughed.

“Unbelievable,” he chuckled uneasily.

He continued to read, shaking his head all the while, when the telephone startled him back to reality.

“Hello,” he questioned.

After a brief pause he heard a voice on the other end, “no names.”

Briddick’s body stood rigid with attention. His mind began to race, a panic building in his stomach. His mind was numb and a wave of uselessness overcame him. He fumbled for a reply, “of course.”

“He said you can be trusted. That is why you have been contacted.”

Briddick wanted to say it, Baruti, but caught himself. No names, he remembered.

The voice continued, “The documents in front of you are real. After you have finished reading them you must burn them. Do not take notes, do not look at it twice, do not tell anyone.”

“Have you met any success?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss the current stages of the operation.”

“How will I contact you?”

“You won’t.”

The call ended as abruptly as it started. Briddick held the phone to his ear for a moment longer, transfixed by the hum of the dial tone. He gathered himself, his mind still a blur, and grabbed the folder. In his pocket was a lighter. He removed it and lit the folder and its contents on fire.

April 15th, 2010
Somewhere in Ethiopia

Operation Red Coyote was classified above top secret. Documentation of the operation did not exist. There was not a single computer file, folder, or napkin with any information regarding its objective for the members involved. No names, from the time of its inception till present day had been used. Every member of the operation from high command down to field operatives used code names. Field operatives could not be contacted, tracked, or identified. It was completely invisible to anyone not involved. Nevertheless it was almost into its first complete year.
-
A brick wall looked back at them, five men in all. The men, naked, stood motionless. Cracks in the brick where past bullets had impacted them were all the wall offered. Still the men, all but one, stood stoic, their fate already sealed.

Raptor was kneeling, feeling the dirt beneath him. He stood examining despondently the hills beyond them. A warm breeze kicked up pits of gravel and sand.

“They won’t tell us anything we don’t already know,” said Widow.

A man from against the wall spoke out, “either you kill us now, or they kill us later.”

“Then you understand your fate,” questioned Raptor.

“I’ve heard about you,” the man replied, “and so have they. They will come for you. They will kill you. You are no different then I.”

Raptor stood, absorbing the man’s words.

“I am no different then you. They will come for me. He will come for me,” he said.

He removed his pistol, an Mk .23 and stood behind the man. The shot startled the men in line, some beginning the shake now, whimpering gently. Raptor walked to the first man in line. Another shot. Then the second. Another shot. The third man was already on the ground. The fourth. Another shot. The fifth man was sobbing. Another member of their team, Reaper, stood next to him whispering into his ear.

“Tell us.”

Raptor stood behind the fifth man and put the warm barrel against his head.

“Ok,” the man shouted, “Ok, ok, ok, ok, please, ok.”

Raptor kept the gun to the man’s skull, pushing it in.

“A woman. A woman. A black scorpion tattoo. I met her in Goba.”

Another shot.

Reaper had a bottle of spray paint he found in one of the men’s packs. Against the wall, now covered in a fine mist, he wrote the words: What you reap is what you sew.

March 3rd, 2010
Windhoek, Namibia
New African Republic

Briddick was no faced with a major dilemma. The military had been taken significant losses in the past few months while making no new ground. Problems within the engaged military units was further deteriorating the situation. Images of bloodied soldiers so close to home feed a media frenzy in a military operation that did not pose an immediate threat to the Republic. Public protests marched on Windhoek daily while opposing sides clashed in ever increasing violent riots. Public opinion of Briddick was dropping fast and pressure was being put on Congress to halt further operations in Ethiopia. The opposition to Briddick had grounds to speak on too. The situation in Ethiopia had worsened since Republic intervention, with an increase in civilian casualties seen throughout the country. The public outcry over the way the operation had been carried out was as loud as it was persuasive. While the military was not taking any ground, Briddick was losing it.

April had seen a complete halt in forward progress. The cities of Kelago, Gode, and Imi had seen a skyrocket in insurgency. The cities, along the Wabe Shebele River, were the Republican’s best supply line for operations inland. With that supply line in jeopardy, the mission bogged down. This halt in military operations came along with a halt from Windhoek. Congress passed a temporary bill halting further operations much to the chagrin of Briddick. Since that time, Congress was waging a war of its own within its halls. Briddick stood mostly as a spectator, his own opinions unable to sway one side or the other. He held firm, however, in his beliefs. If nothing was done now the situation would be worse for the long run of the nation, both Ethiopia and the African Republic.

The halt in military operations wasn’t a complete one however. While military forces were busy dealing with insurgency and rebel assaults, Special Forces kept busy. More and more, Republican forces were encountering a new enemy; one much better organized and trained then the rebels and insurgency. Mercenaries, whom had run rampant in the country prior to Republican intervention, were now being hired by local warlords to engage Republican units. With Republican forces not constructing more defensive positions while Windhoek deliberated, mercenary attacks became less frequent. High command understood mercenaries were not going to waste supplies and men against well fortified positions; they would wait until the Republicans’ moved forward (or backward). Instead of waiting for this to happen Special Forces’ units were deployed in seek and destroy missions to which they happily took.

All along the battle lines small, but intense, firefights erupted. The fights were generally one sided affairs. Despite the professionalism of some of the mercenaries, they could not match the firepower of the Special Forces. Spec Ops had the aid of close air support and dozens of air fields within range of their engagements. Unbelievably enough, the numbers of mercenaries far outnumbered the amount of Spec Ops soldiers the Republic could field and the raids were an uphill battle. Nonetheless the ceasefire that had ensued was nothing of the sort, just another savage war of peace.

March 10th, 2010
Goba, Ethiopia

The road was quiet, just sun and dust. It sat a few miles outside of town. It was just past noon and the sun was perched high above the clouds.

“I was expecting you’d want more.”

A man, sharply overdressed in the desert, stood in front of two men, equally clad as their SUV idled behind them.

“Greed is a sin,” Smith replied, her eyes shielded by dark tinted sunglasses.

“Perhaps we can find more business between us,” the man said.

“No business.”

It was not the answer he was expecting.

“We can up our price.”

“Greed is a sin.”

“Says the sinner,” the man replied.

Smith heard the soft sound of a whisper but did not flinch as the two body guards behind the man fell, a puff of brain matter left in their place. When the sound had finally reached them it was already too late, the man turned around only to take a bullet like his associates. Smith acted quickly running toward the dying man, catching him before he hit the ground. She pushed him forward, using her body as force, towards the car. The whispers turned to thuds as bullets impacted the man’s body, shielding Smith. She reached the SUV and climbed in. She had driven to the meeting in a badly outdated motorcycle, a vehicle that offered little protection in this scenario. A louder bang came now, something larger that impacted the driver side of the car killing the driver. Ducking beneath the windshield she kicked the driver out threw the SUV into reverse and slammed the pedal. She fingered her sidearm but did not pull, knowing full well she was out of range.

“What’s the ETA on the drone,” shouted Raptor back where the firing had originated from.

“Two minutes, already plotting an intercept course,” was the reply.

“Get in the jeep, we have to follow.”

The team gathered its gear and began the pursuit.

“Engine and tires, we need her alive.”

Smith swung the SUV around after a safe distance and headed back for town, a place she thought would be safe. If this was a government team they would certainly have trouble moving in through the rebel controlled city. She did a quick inventory check in the back of the SUV noticing a few surprises.

The drone was quickly approaching, outfitted with two missiles under each wing. Raptor’s jeep was a few miles behind but keeping pace. The land was flat and no doubt Smith saw her pursuers.

The SUV bumped along the dirt path kicking up rocks and debris as it passed. The city was in sight now, its stone buildings overshadowed by a few commercial buildings, a unique blend of old and new Africa. Then came the explosion. The drone had come up on Smith’s blindside and launched a missile that struck the SUV in the rear passenger side. The SUV spiraled out of control, barrel rolling across the desert. Smith, who neglected her seatbelt, was tossed about the vehicle. Finally the SUV slowed and stopped, coming to rest in a cloud of dust. Smith fought to maintain consciousness, her head pounding, her body numb. She tasted blood in her mouth and felt it dripping from her head. She coughed her insides on fire. Still mobile, she crawled into the back, the sun beating in from the opening caused by the explosion.

Raptor saw the explosion and cursed under his breath.

“Keep up this pace, she may be alive.”

The front of the SUV was facing them leaving them blind to the back. The drone hovered overhead. The jeep was within a mile now and quickly closing the gap. A rocket flashed upwards, catching everyone in the deep off guard. It hurtled up chasing the now frantic drone. The drone could not help itself, the missile crashed into the drone sending its remains plummeting to the ground in a fireball.

“Fuck,” Raptor muttered again.

They were close now, only a few hundred years.

“Ram this into that SUV, we’ll bail before.”

“What?”

“Now!”

The team ducked and rolled out of the jeep which plowed into the remaining SUV. Smith was caught in the force, the back of the SUV slamming against her, knocking her to the ground unconscious. The team, bruised but ok gathered themselves, checking their surroundings before cautiously approaching the back of the distressed SUV.

“Clear,” called Reaper.

Raptor knelt besides Smith, her body crumbled and badly distorted. Her eyes opened, driving into Raptor’s. She tried to speak but only could gurgle.

“We aren’t getting anything out of her,” said Reaper frustratingly.

Raptor lifted up her shirt just above her stomach. A black scorpion was tattooed on her side.

“This is who we were looking for,” replied Raptor.

Smith gurgled again, “What you reap is what you sew.” Her head fell back against the dirt, her eyes closed this time.

March 15th, 2010
Goba, Ethiopia

A special event was taking place in Goba, the first of its kind. It was an event to celebrate the cession of military force by the Republic, indefinitely at the moment. Briddick had been fighting a losing battle against Congress and the Republican people. Much to the dismay of himself, and the entire country of Ethiopia, the Republic had halted forward progress of its peacekeeping campaign. This meant the now border city of Goba would remain in rebel control for at least a little longer. Rebel forces took this time to reinforce the city, as was the case with every other border town in the country. The influx of rebels and mercenaries almost tripled the population overnight. Goba was quickly becoming a rebel stronghold.

It wasn’t all glorious for Goba however. So many armed unsupervised men with nothing to do had the potential for disaster. So, instead of allowing the city to become a wretched hellhole, the leaders decided to do the most logical thing possible.

The tournament would start in the morning around eleven of clock. The city, coincidently, contained a large clock tower near the town center, one that could be remotely controlled. Normally this sort of thing would happen only at noon, when the clock stood straight. However, time was one commodity the city didn’t have as the Republican forces certainly wouldn’t stay immobile for long. So they would reset it every fifteen minutes, allowing the next set of shooters a bit of time to manage their nerves. The tournament was a huge success before it even started. Signup sheets, fueled by drugs, alcohol, and tales of bravado, filled up quickly. The city would host the world’s largest and only quick draw tournament.

The rules were simple. Twenty paces in either direction. Weapon of choice had to be a pistol, caliber did not matter. Iron sights only. One round per shooter. Fire when the clock struck noon. Cheaters would be killed on sight. The prize, surprisingly, was not cash or women. It was pride. It was credit that could not be bought.

One of the names on the signup sheet was a man that went by Duke. Nobody knew where he had come from or what he was doing here. It didn’t bother anyone. He smelled just as bad, looked just as bad, and killed just as frequently. He fit in, he blended in. The name just beneath Duke’s was Raptor.

Raptor’s team had stayed in Goba. Duke’s presence kept them there, his name another on Raptor’s list. Still, with the influx of soldiers, getting to Duke was going to be an issue. He had too many connections here, with the rebels and mercenaries. His death would trigger fallout that would cause complications trying to exit the city. Not to mention the death of two black scorpion members in the same town no less would complicate their search for the other mysterious members. However, if Duke’s death were to come during the tournament, it would provide a cause of death that was not suspicious.

The tournament kicked off much to the pleasure of the entire city. There were no doctors or medical help waiting nearby. It was understood; play at your own risk. Raptor couldn’t risk losing Duke before he could gather intel. Duke was not trying to hide from anyone. In this city, as it stood, no place was safer. He, like Smith, was expecting a more official set of units to track her. It was a mistake she didn’t live to regret. He sat, in a chair, cleaning his pistol, a menacing looking fifty caliber cannon. A half empty beer sat in front of him. Widow, avoiding annoying cat calls by drunken men, entered the lobby of the hotel. She noticed Duke right away, a black scorpion tattooed onto his right forearm. She slithered up to his seat without catching his eye and spit into his beer. Duke, disgusted, looked up surprised to see a woman before him.

“I will kill you like anyone else.”

“Unless you can draw that unloaded desert eagle before I can pull a trigger I think you are mistaken,” she said with confidence, her sidearm already aimed at him underneath the table.

He laughed a moment, “You think you can walk in here and threaten me? There are five men in this lobby waiting for me to give the signal to kill you…or worse.”

Widow knew he wasn’t bluffing, did not even glance to find them.

“It seems you and I are having a lucky day. I’m not here to kill you." She slid a note across the table. Duke picked up the piece of paper and read it over. As he looked up Widow was already on her way out, slipping away into the crowded streets.

The tournament was ironically civil. The rules were being followed as no one dare tested their enforcement. Every fifteen minutes a gunshot, or two, echoed through the city followed by thunderous applause, the ravenous crowd indifferent to the outcome. To the normal person, such an event was mind boggling, a cruel game of fate. This, sadly, was not a normal place. An evil festered here, and evil unknown to the outside world. Life was meaningless, a game of chance. Duke was no slouch with his weapon. He moved through the first three rounds, claiming a life each time in the process, his fifty caliber not leaving much to the imagination. Raptor, in his arrogant gamble, kept pace, finding himself in the ever shrinking pool of constants. Three rounds concluded the day, the body count a horrifying reminder of the place this had become.

March 16th, 2010
Goba, Ethiopia

A crowd, understandably smaller than the previous day, gathered around the town square. The foul stench of sweat and blood filled the cramped space. The sun slowly crawled into place above the clock tower, its metallic glow illuminating the square in all its grotesque glory. The spots where the shooters stood, twenty paces, were marked by the dark stains of blood from previous encounters. The brackets stretched across a wall nearby, a comic reminder of the game they were playing. On this day, as it happened, Raptor and Duke were scheduled to square off in what had quickly become the anticipated match of the day.

They were up second, two men facing off just before them to start the day. The officials called them both to the center, a traditional handshake required. Raptor eyed his sidearm, a pristine Mk .23. It was light with a firm grip. His fingers fell naturally into place, its handle worn from use. He made no modifications from its original form. He had learned its idiosyncrasies overtime, its weight, its pull, its release. He wasn’t the quickest but he was accurate, something he figured would come in handy against a cumbersome desert eagle.

Duke, at the other end, looked at the piece of paper Widow had given him the previous day. He laughed before slipping it into his pocket, a look of stubborn defiance. The two approached each other in the center, Duke’s eyes catching Raptor as the neared.

“So it’s true what they say, you’re not dead after all,” sneered Duke. He looked around before continuing, “I don’t suppose I’m leaving this place alive either way, huh?”

Raptor shook his head.

“I have heard a lot of stories about you. They all end the same.”

The officials motioned for them to take their places to which they both obliged. Raptor stood, hands resting at this side. He breathed slowly, taking a deep breath every so often. He was not nervous nor was he confident. The sun was high now and hot but he didn’t notice he simply looked in front of him, glaring at Duke. If it was his time, then so be it, he was living off borrowed time as it was.

The clock ticked forward, counting down now from one minute. Raptor slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He clicked it twice before pulling out a single cigarette. He took a lighter out of his other pocket and lit it, showing a sort of calm coldness. Duke laughed nervously, his weight shifting, his confidence slowly turning to terror. His fingers rapped nervously against the grip of his pistol.

The clock stuck twelve.

The ground, for a brief moment, was quiet and still. Duke stood, motionless, nervous. His arm outstretched in Raptor’s direction, a wisp of smoke trailing from the barrel of his gun. He was alive. He smiled. Though his smile was that of ironic misfortune. He had missed. Raptor had not flinched, had let Duke fire his round. His cigarette still burned. Raptor carefully pulled his Mk .23 upwards, aimed, and fired. Duke fell to the ground, his body limp. The crowd erupted, the excitement overwhelming. Duke’s body was carried off unceremoniously as Raptor watched.

March 17th, 2010
Goba Ethiopia

The tournament was still continuing, the rounds growing shorter each day as did the crowd. Some contestants outraged by the disappearance of Raptor, others relived. His team had vanished, gone to continue their mission with methodical efficiency. Red Coyote had found limited success. Two members of the Black Scorpion unit were dead. How many there were left was unclear. How many were still in Africa was a mystery. Who sent them and why? Their ruthless reputation was their undoing. Their presence was now widely known. They were different than the others, had no code, no sense of purpose. They were harbingers of chaos. Demons of another life. Their day of reckoning was coming, one way or another.

Clint was one of the remaining members. He had watched his comrades fall, one by one. Unlike his previous two counterparts, he understood the gravity of his circumstance. He was being hunted, though it did not bother him. He was done with all the games. This land had soured him, made him lose his interest in humanity. He was bored. It was a welcomed change from his daily doings. He could finally be himself now.

He had found the body of Duke. He was in line to be shoved into a mass grave, commonplace in Ethiopia. Though the grave had remained yet unfinished. He was not there to pay respects. He was there to learn from previous mistakes. He noticed in Duke’s pocket, a piece of paper. He removed it, the paper half covered in blood. The words, however, were clear. What you reap is what you sew.

[Layarteb]

Stave II
"Nomen Novum"
Verse I
"Upon a Liar's Harp..."

Asosa had changed little in the past year and a half. Still firmly within mercenary hands, the name "Merc Town" most certainly still applied. Remaining a veritable hole-in-the-wall still Asosa was more than just a city beleaguered by the darkest depths of human evil; it was a symbol for all of Ethiopia. In the last year and a half since the Black Scorpions became persona non grata, to everyone, the scope of the country had undergone a dramatic change. Rebel lines shifted, some forward, some back, and so too had government lines. Mercenaries haunted every walk of life and the mysterious bands of Special Forces and foreign intelligence personnel had just about vanished, or so that was how it seemed. Yet, the body count further rose to almost genocide-level proportions.

In the hot air of the summer, any other place may have been a delightful place to be, especially for someone on a vacation. In Ethiopia, there was nothing delightful about the hot air of summer. In arid locales in the southeast of the country, the persistent threat of fire kept most people on their toes and for those at elevated altitudes it was still cold. In Asosa, it meant the mercenaries would be in high spirits, which never boded well for the Ethiopians. Already this morning, four helicopters ferrying mercenaries had taken off for unmentioned destinations both near and afar. Ethiopia wasn't exactly the place where pilots had to file any flight plans with any sort of airborne regulatory group, such as was the case in both the Empire and most modern countries.

The mercenaries who took to the skies could very well have been going to fight one another and they wouldn't know it until they made contact. There it wouldn't matter, not because of battle or any sort of fog of war but rather because of a code amongst the mercenaries in Ethiopia. The main and seemingly most important clause to that particular code was that mercenaries wouldn't intentionally take aim at one another. They agreed that Ethiopians were the enemy and not one another. Of course, incidents happened and whole teams slaughtered one another in both the fields of battle and countless other places out of error and revenge but, generally speaking, they stood by this code, which was merely an attempt to place honor amongst thieves, a truly pointless proposition. It was far from noble and of course, just because it was generally obeyed didn't necessarily mean much. In reality, the instances of adherence were greater than disobedience but it wasn't by much. It was just a wishful, nonaltruistic fantasy concocted by men too afraid to die for the lives they so heinously and easily took.

With the demise, or rather, the disappearance of the Black Scorpions, things in Ethiopia seemed to continue unchanged but that wasn't necessarily the case. In Asosa, mercenaries still spoke of them in hushed whispers but no longer did they fear the anger-filled explosions of Vosloo's temper. Still, the memories of the Black Scorpions lingered in Asosa and the scars they left still shown visibly amidst the year and a half of rubble, death, destruction, and mayhem they left in their wake. Bullet holes from boiled-over bar brawls remained in the dirty, worn facings of both interior and exterior walls. Girls for hire remembered the violent acts of sex and rape the Black Scorpions did to them. Even the graffiti of their logo still lingered around where they had called home.

What once was home to the feared and capable Black Scorpions was now just a massive cache of weapons and drugs under the control of several mercenary groups. Not far away was the Asosa Heliport, or at least that was the name given to it by the mercenaries in a fabled attempt to make Ethiopia seem like a civilized place. It was a pitiful attempt to say the least. Asosa was full of instances of like this. Everywhere that the mercenaries went, they tried to make it seem more and more like home and less like the wilderness of an African nightmare. Along with caches of weapons and drugs were caches of beer. Mercenary groups claimed homes in Asosa without a second thought to the occupants inside and often forcibly evicted them at the barrel of a gun. More often than not, they kept children for slaves and raped daughters and wives while husbands watched, too full of sadness and rage that their tears were dry. They would often die by the wayside shortly after the vile acts of the mercenaries were completed. Residents of Asosa who braved the mercenaries to stay were certainly asking for trouble. On one end of the spectrum, it was their home and who were they to be forced to leave but in a world where might made right, none of that mattered. If the mercenary groups wanted a piece of property, they took it and they did so without any hesitation. They asked no permission and gave no restitution for their egregious seizures. Of course, this was an example set by the Black Scorpions. Most behavior done by the mercenaries in Asosa was behavior that was nothing more than following the example set by the Black Scorpions.

Despite the lack of the Black Scorpions, certain bars were still no-go territory for certain mercenary groups. Some groups had been forbidden to enter certain bars, mostly thanks to clashes they had with other groups. Anyone who clashed with the Black Scorpions found that one particular bar was completely off limits. It still remained as such to this very day and that made little sense to the many groups but still, they dared not tread, too afraid that the ghosts of the Black Scorpions would return to haunt them and take their revenge. Ghosts were what most mercenaries still feared, when it came to the Black Scorpions. Nobody knew, for sure, what had happened to them and the rumors about them were as plentiful as the flies in the sky around dingy and dirty Asosa.

The ghosts of the Black Scorpions most certainly still haunted the nameless bar located in the northeastern corner of town, just five hundred meters from the heliport, which sat in a large clearing. In between the two was where the Black Scorpions had once staked as their own territory. In reality, an area roughly the equivalent of forty-five acres or one hundred and eighty-two thousand square meters in northeastern Asosa was considered Black Scorpion territory. The bar was at the edge of that territory and everything between it and the back edge of the territory was completely within their control. Staking their claim with graffiti logos of a black scorpion, they had made it evident and apparent to the entire town that they were the ones in charge. Those logos remained today but they were certainly faded or fading due to sunlight. The logo outside their favorite and primary bar was in the latter category and it stood as a warning to all those who came before and would come in the future that ghosts haunted this particular location. To some, it was an omen for them to stay away and others looked past it and entered.

Those who entered were among those who did not get on the Black Scorpions' bad side. There were eight groups who managed to keep off of the Black Scorpions' bad list and that was only because they were smart enough to stay away from the Black Scorpions and their territory. As such, they were given the privilege of using this very bar. The other groups would have been shot on sight for merely walking through the door frame. If they managed to get further into the bar than that, the Black Scorpions were having a slow day or they were merely toying with the intruders. They had done a lot of that but they had leveled many shotgun blasts into the chests of many intruders. They would often just resume drinking while bar slaves, usually prostitutes who had defied their clients' wishes and had complaints against them, would clean up the corpses and scrub the blood left behind. As a warning, the bodies were often left in the street for a few days before their putridity became too much, even for the Black Scorpions and their villainous, vile, and unbounded leader, Daniel Vosloo.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ || ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

June 21, 2011 - 18:30 hrs [UTC+3]
Asosa, Ethiopia
'Unnamed Bar,' Northeastern Asosa
(10° 4'20.81" N, 34°33'3.38" E)

The bar where everyone feared to tread had few regulars and all but one of them was from the area directly around the bar. They mostly worked at the heliport and guarded the cache in the heart of former Black Scorpion territory. The one regular who wasn't from the area was an old, Roman Catholic priest serving as a missionary in Ethiopia. To just about everyone who gave it a second thought, the presence of a Roman Catholic missionary seemed to have only marginal place in Ethiopia. Two-thirds of the country was Christian and most of that was Ethiopian Orthodox. The Orthodox and Catholic churches had once fought and waged wars of conversion against the other but those days were long over now. He could have been there for the other third of the populace, which was predominantly Muslim but they were located in the southeastern, eastern, and northeastern portions of the country, where Ethiopia bordered Kenya, Somalia, and the countries of the Red Sea. Anywhere west of center in Ethiopia was held by the Christians and Asosa, though it bordered the predominantly Muslim country of Sudan, remained a Christian stronghold.

This particular missionary was old and his skin had been weathered by exposure. He always wore a scraggily beard that he seemed to never shave and which also never seemed to grow. His hair was often disheveled and caked with sweat and dirt. He spoke few words and often sat by himself in a far corner of the bar, ignoring the prostitutes who walked by him showing off their bodies in hopes of a paying customer. All truth be told, since the Black Scorpions departed Asosa, the prostitutes found that their cliental had halved itself. They seemed to miss the mistreatment at the hands of the Black Scorpions only because it made them useful and made them money, which pleased their masters. Now, whenever they had a slow day, which was nearly every day, their masters would scold and often beat them, claiming that they weren't hustling hard enough. The truth of the matter was that they hustled just as hard as they could but they couldn't force people to taste their wares. Since the missionary first walked into the bar just after Christmas day in 2010, he had received nearly a hundred and fifty propositions and he categorically denied each one with a simple phrase, "I am a man of God." To them, the phrase meant nothing but a scolding. To the missionary, it was his code, his life, his vow.

On this particular evening, with the sun still shining brightly in the sky, the missionary entered the bar and moved past a crowd of quiet mercenaries. He could tell they had just returned from an operation and their quietness and somber looks signified that they had lost one of their own. They would drink to his or her honor tonight, perhaps abuse the women in order to get their frustrations out that Ethiopia had been the source of their pain. For all the missionary knew, they could have lost someone in a pitched battle or by friendly fire. That person could have died heroically saving the life of one of them or he or she could have died stepping out of a helicopter. In the battles that made up the Ethiopian Civil War, it was arguably impossible to recount many of the deaths the mercenaries endured, not for lack of attention but rather for lack of knowing. Variables changed too often and too fast for any human mind to process, let alone recall hours and days later. The fog of war in Ethiopia was arguably much worse than any of the mercenaries had ever experienced before and each and every one of them was a seasoned veteran of at least one other armed conflict. Many had fought their whole lives, living by their rifle's sights. Ethiopia was often regarded as the worst place they'd been.

This particular group watched the missionary sort of limp across the floor to his usual sitting place, the dark, corner booth on the opposite side of the bar, which offered him a perfect view of the whole bar. It was the same booth that Vosloo often took and that was not lost on any of the mercenaries who predated the Black Scorpions' mysterious disappearance. For the missionary, it was before his time and he paid no attention to the rumors and hushed warnings to avoid the booth. Some were silly enough to say that it was cursed while others swore that the ghosts of the dead would haunt him. Others so brazenly declared that Vosloo was watching and that he would kill the missionary. The missionary paid no regard to them and often brushed them off with a silent wave of his hand. If ever he did speak, it was terse and the words were often similar to, "Go away and do not bother me during my meditation." By "meditation," the missionary meant drinking, which he routinely referred to as his "only vice." That vice was whiskey, which was really one of the few drinks anyone could get inside of Asosa's various bars. One or two that catered to the Russian mercenaries served vodka but he loathed the taste of "rubbing alcohol."

The missionary eased himself into the semi-comfortable seat that had seen its fair share of sexual escapades, the bloody remnants of a fight gone wrong, and the abuse of too many buttocks' pressed against it after weeks in the field. The missionary found it to be broken in and worn in all the right places for maximum comfort but not for maximum support. The longest he ever sat there was for eight and a half hours and he was sore all over for two days after he finally mustered the strength to stand up and leave. When he did, he did so in such an inebriated state that he barely made it to his small house on the outskirts of the city. That was a day a while ago and now, as he wearily took off his hat and set it on the table in front of him, he felt for his usual spot on the worn cushioning. It was seemingly molded to the contour of his butt cheeks, a byproduct of sitting in the same spot for a few hours a day, practically every day for nearly six months.

A young teenage girl came over, her clothes half hanging off her frail and skinny body. He could see her ribs beneath what she used to cover her breasts and knew that she needed food. "What do you want to drink Father?" She asked. The food at the bar generally wasn't great but it wasn't always bad either. It was however, consistently edible. "The usual? Whiskey?" Her English was good but her voice trembled, which made her accent a bit hard to understand. She was afraid of the missionary, something that made little sense unless she was being ordered to seduce him successfully. The missionary nodded to her and took note of her voice. He remained seated and observed the bar and its occupants. There were seventeen people in total and all of them were seated within his field of view. There were four mercenaries mourning the loss of their fifth. There were two waitresses serving everyone, one of whom was his waitress. There was the bartender and his cook, another girl who was enslaved to him but useless as a prostitute. That made eight. The other eleven were patrons, seated in two groups of three mercenaries, one group of two mercenaries, and one man seated all alone. He and only he aroused the missionary's suspicions, especially since he did not recognize him nor did he believe he belonged in Asosa. To put it quite simply, he lacked the look that most of the mercenaries in Asosa bore and furthermore, something about him forced the missionary to ponder the very nature of his foreboding presence.

"Who is that?" The missionary asked the waitress when she returned with his drink. Shyly, the girl turned her head and looked at the solitary man. She turned back to the missionary and looked into his face but did not respond. "Well?"

"I do not know, I am sorry. Please don't be mad at me." The missionary was taken aback for a moment and realized that she was acting stranger than usual.

"Why are you so jumpy today?"

"I am okay," she was lying to him and he saw that right away, his eyes piercing right through her skin and into her soul or rather whatever soul she still bore.

"You are not my child, speak to me, I am a man of God," it was ironic that at that moment he took a swift drink of his whiskey, which no longer burned his throat on the way down. He had drunk enough of it that the effects of it on his throat were meager and completely unfelt. "Confess in me, what is wrong?" He lowered his voice to a whisper and tears began to stream down her cheeks.

"I cannot come back empty handed today," she whispered back amidst the sobs that she was trying so desperately to hide. "He swore to me that if I failed to make any money I would be beat and killed because I am of no use, he says." The missionary's eyes burned red but he was powerless to do anything.

"He did?" She did not answer him verbally but rather she nodded that it was true. "Tell me then, what do you need?"

"I need to bring back fifty," she said. In Asosa, that was a lot of money, which seemed rather backwards. The mercenaries were loaded but the residents were poorer than dirt. Fifty dollars to them went as far as fifty thousand to any mercenary. For a prostitute working in Asosa the full ordeal, everything included was about ten dollars. If a mercenary wanted to be generous, he would give fifteen. For the simple acts of the menu, it was five dollars. "He says that if I don't he will kill me."

"He's told you this before?" She nodded, "And he hasn't killed you yet." She nodded again, "So why do you believe he will this time?"

"It was in his eyes. He was cold and truthful. He is going to kill me if I don't. I have already asked them over there but they do not want. They say I am too 'disgusting' for them." She wasn't disgusting, per say, but she had seen her fair share of abuse. The mercenaries weren't picky but they were often assholes and this was just another instance of just that, to say the least. The mercenaries cared not that their selfishness was going to cause the life of a young girl to be exterminated. "Please can you help me?" She pleaded.

"Give me another whiskey and I will think about it," the missionary said as he sent her off, knowing that he had to find a way to help her. He glanced over to the man sitting by himself and saw that he had acutely paid attention to their conversation. He wondered what this man was doing in Asosa and this bar in particular and above all, he especially wanted to know who he was. The missionary knew who everyone was who visited the bar, even if he just knew them by name only. He avoided most of the people but he couldn't help it if they came over to him and wished to confess some of the vilest sins that he had ever heard in his life. He knew that they weren't confessing because they felt guilty or because the Holy Spirit had pressed upon their souls. He knew they did it because even the most vile, hardened, sadistic individuals still had to talk about some of the horrors they witnessed and partook in lest they explode. He just hoped that in his "confessions" with them that they would see the light that he offered to them and that they would curb their fiendish ways.

Fiends was what he considered each and every mercenary in Asosa and, by proxy, in Ethiopia. He was a man of the cloth and though he was far from a saint, he acted upon the good within his heart rather than the thirst upon his tongue. His only vice was whiskey and he accepted that the fault he endured was a sign of his weakness. He wasn't looking to be canonized but he was looking to make at least marginal difference in Ethiopia. When he arrived back in Asosa the morning after Christmas, just six months earlier, he had roamed around aimlessly for about a month before he found his way to a particularly strange and sheltered settlement. It was in dire need of spiritual guidance and he found that the wicked within that settlement were even viler than the mercenaries in Asosa were. Every day for three months, he visited that settlement and often retired back to the bar when his bones were too weary to endure. He had not been back since though and the emptiness within his flesh ached for that settlement again. He had made it his home and even though it was far from Asosa, he made sure to make the trip there to visit this particular bar. The next morning, after he sobered up, he would return to the settlement. It went that way, everyday from late January until early May. Now he occupied a small hut outside of Asosa, living alone.

His eyes returned to the solitary man and he continued to wonder who he was. He was definitely not a mercenary and, most certainly, he wasn't an aide worker or a missionary. He was an enigma sitting quietly inside of a lion's den. Around him, the world was tearing itself apart and here this man sat, solitary, alone, without an army protecting him and he sat as if nothing bothered him. He sat as if the skies around him were blue, clear, and peaceful. He sat as if the bloodshed that unfolded only meters away was a child's birthday party and the animals that were the mercenaries were nothing more than animals from a petting zoo, easily ignored as such. The missionary continued to wonder as he finished his next drink of whiskey. He noticed that the man sitting alone had a drink but had not touched it. The missionary wondered if he had drunk anything at all and wondered if he bought it just for show, so that he could continue to sit there, observing the bar around him. He noticed that the man had a pen in his right hand and a pad in front of him but that he had not written a single word yet. Who the hell are you? The missionary wondered with intense suspicion.

The waitress walked back over to the missionary and looked at him with wondering eyes, "Will you help me?" Her insistence was getting irritating to him and he waved her away with a simple hand gesture before gesturing for her to return. She wasn't more than a step or two away and she turned her ears towards him

"Not now, I am concentrating. Tell your boss that I want to be in peace and to stop sending you over, when I am ready I will come for you."

"Thank you," she said and he gave her another hand gesture, waving her away for a final time. "I will bring you some food," she said, a faint smile on her face. It seemed the improper time to crack a smile.

His mind and his attention returned to the solitary stranger and he studied the man intently for another time. "Why are you here?" He said aloud but barely loud enough for his own ears to hear him. His mind was weary and so was his body for the day and he was having a hard time focusing on anything but the stranger sitting beyond him. The missionary bent his head down to the table and watched as a few beads of sweat dripped onto the stained wood of the table. He stared at them for a solid minute before a voice ushered him back to the present and out of the world of his own thoughts.

"Father Claudio, I presume." The stranger was standing in front of him, above him, looking down at him, studying him in much the same way. "Father?" He called back as the missionary looked at him. The stranger smiled but Father Claudio knew, above all else, that this wasn't a smile but rather a simple indication that he wasn't there to kill him.

"Yes I am," he mustered as the stranger sat down in front of him. "Who are you?"

"Well, we can skip that part for now. If you don't mind," the stranger had an inviting way of talking and he sounded as if he were believable but Father Claudio knew better. He gave the stranger a look and the stranger responded, "As I said, we will be skipping that part for now." He was clearly not a man to bargain with at all. "I am here to talk to you Father, specifically you."

"Why is that so?"

"Ah because you have information I could want. I have questions that you and only you can answer, be it that it may."

"What questions are these?"

"Oh I have many Father and in time I shall ask them all but let's first start with you. Why are you here?" The stranger moved over in the booth and sat comfortably just seconds before the waitress returned with a hot plate of food.

"Wild boar Father?" He nodded and she turned her attention to the stranger, "You?"

"Nothing my dear, please do not intrude upon us again. Bring only the bottle of whiskey for the Father here, will you?" He handed her some money, enough to buy two bottles, hoping that it would keep her away. Of course, that amount of money was less than fifty dollars in total, whiskey being particularly cheap in Asosa, especially since most of it was made crudely in house. She returned abruptly and left again before either of them recommenced their conversation. "So begin, why are you here?"

"I am a missionary for the Church," he said it as if his answer was to be understood plain and simple. "Is that not hard to understand?" Father Claudio responded with a bit of irritation in his voice at being asked such a stupid question or rather a question he perceived to be stupid.

"Well it is obvious you are not here to preach conversion, the country worships your God. Of course, there are the Muslims but you're a little far away from them now aren't you? So why are you here then?"

"I am here to convey the Lord's message that the bloodshed in Ethiopia has gone on too long, that the children of God can no longer be slaughtered by the wanton acts of this human barbarism."

"That must look real nice on television but I don't believe you Father. One, lone missionary could do nothing to stem the violence here. The violence is beyond the control of whole armies let alone a single priest from the Vatican."

"Why is that so hard to believe?"

"That the Vatican would send a single priest?"

"Yes."

"It is absurd. Why then did they not send you to the government or to the rebels? Surely they are in dire need of convincing."

"And why not the mercenaries in Asosa who bring about three-quarters of this bloodshed?"

"Fair point Father but still a lone missionary? I am surprised that you are still alive. The mercenaries have no taste for religion or the spiritual well being of their souls."

"And I have learned this much of them."

"So there is more Father, much more." Father Claudio took a bite of his food for the first time since it had been brought to him. It was still piping hot and he took a sip of whiskey to cool the fire in his mouth as the food went down his throat. It was ironic that whiskey, which normally burned one's throat, seemed to be cooler than the heat of this food. "Clearly you do not believe in this lie yourself for if you did, you would tell it better." Father Claudio looked through the stranger's eyes and into his mind. He wondered where he was going and knew all too well that it was obvious. There was no sense further denying it although he most certainly tried.

"Still, you do not believe the truth, the obvious. You think that I am lying?"

"Yes I most certainly do Father." Silence hung in the air between the two of them as Father Claudio took a second bite. The boar was tender and coated with a glaze that he enjoyed more than the boar itself. The meat was fresh and he suspected that the animal was killed only hours earlier, a day at the very most. "Tell me the truth," he said, adding "please" to the end.

"Very well then, if you are going to insist then I am sure you are insisting because you know and merely want to hear it from my own mouth."

"I like to be certain of the truth even when I know many of the facts."

"You are meticulous then, which is why I know you are not a mercenary."

"No I am not Father," the stranger said matter-of-factly. "Go on please."

"I am here searching for a man who has brought total death, destruction, and harm upon the country of Ethiopia. He is 'persona non grata' amongst the government and amongst the rebels. I hear even the mercenaries do not want him yet they fear him still. As does the government and the rebels. All believe him to be dead but yet they whisper his name as if he stands around a corner waiting to bash their skulls in for the mere utterance of his name."

"Keep going Father, there is no need to stop."

"Well I would like to chew another bite of my supper. It has been a rather trying day."

"I bet it has," he put his pad down on the table. "Granted you did do very little today, shall I read off your activities?"

"Your point is made," Father Claudio looked at the pad and ignored its presence almost immediately thereafter. "I came to find this man, to speak with this man, to learn of all of the horrors he has committed upon this land and its people. I am here on behalf of His Holiness himself and I suspect from God himself, our Lord who has spoken through His Holiness. I am here to find this man, to speak with this man, and to learn from this man. I am here to turn this man to the will of Christ and lead him and only him away from the horrors that he has bestowed. There could very well be a place for him in the Eternal Kingdom for all I know."

"Now that's more like it, I suppose. You expect that you can convert this man?"

"It is my charge."

"And what do you say to the stories that he lies dead in an unmarked grave or that his body has been severed in twain by a machine gun?"

"I believe none of them."

"Ask anyone here what happened to him and they will tell you many things. They will say that he has died, that his evil attacked him and got the better of him. Why do you not believe them?"

"Why would I have been sent here to find a dead man?"

"Perhaps your own God is mistaken?"

"That seems unlikely." Father Claudio took another bite and looked across the bar to the open windows. The sky was turning a familiar shade of purple and orange as the sun roared its way to reveal yet another gruesome night.


"Why is that unlikely Father?" The stranger asked with a follow-up statement at the ready.

"Because God is always watching over His creation."

"But Father neither God nor the Devil created Ethiopia, man did. There is no divine creation here. Ethiopia is a cesspool bred by man's most vile actions. Black hearts and greed created Ethiopia, not your loving and compassionate God."

"I fancy you are not a Christian then?"

"Nor a Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, or pagan."

"An atheist then?"

"Simply put, yes I am. I've never see anything to prove to me that God exists in any form. What I've seen proves only that God is a myth perpetrated by those incapable of accepting that life is finite, that all things from ideology to a paved sidewalk are finite. Even the Devil, as your faith so puts him, is a myth. The true Devil walks within and amongst us. Father we, humanity, are a virus upon this planet hell-bent upon destroying it and ourselves in the process."

"Are you afraid of life after death? Of accountability for your sins to the Almighty?"

"Life after death, I'd abhor it Father. These mutants we call people will be no better behaved in your 'Eternal Kingdom' than they are here."

"I suppose you and I won't agree there, for you lack the faith that sustains me so." Father Claudio took another bite of his gradually cooling food and washed it down with another sip of whiskey.

"So then what tangible proof do you have that this man still lives?"

"But surely that is what I have only just provided to you."

"Physical then, what physical proof do you have?"

"What 'physical' proof do you have to the contrary?"

"Accounts of many that this man is worm food."

"But even you have agreed that many people disagree on the details, details which are vitally important I would say."

"Yet the conclusion amongst many is that he lies dead and many people cannot be wrong so easily. It is virtually universal and unanimous that this man is dead."

"Then Jesus did perform miracles," Father Claudio said, cornering the stranger within his own logical fault. [I["Unless many people can be wrong?"[/I]

The stranger sat quiet for a moment, realizing that he had lost the argument and all on his own. "Very well Father," he spoke, breaking the silence that Father Claudio seized upon to eat more of his food. "Then these people are mistaken and he lives. What evidence then could I show a jury that would be irrefutable?"

Father Claudio sighed and strained as he shifted his body. He put his fork and knife down and reached into his pocket and removed a soiled, weathered envelope that was held together mostly by scotch tape. It was flimsy and he unfolded and opened it to reveal an equally worn and tattered sheet of paper that he carefully removed. It was soft with permanently held moisture and it was also quite fragile looking. Pieces of scotch tape sealed in the dirt and fingerprints of its many handlers. "This is a correspondence from an associate of mine, Father Peter. He was sent to Ethiopia from His Holiness as well but not for the same reason, for other reasons. You may read it but please be gentle. The ink is worn but you can still read it and I'd like to hear you do so aloud." Father Claudio reached across the table and handed the stranger the letter before settling back into his seat and continuing his supper.

The stranger took the letter and began to read aloud, as per Father Claudio's request and for his benefit. "Dear Bishop Clement, I have arrived safely in Ethiopia to do your bidding but safe I am no longer. This country is ravaged by Lucifer himself and he follows in the footsteps of every bullet, every cry, every scream, every rape, and every death in this putrid, sullen, tainted country. Lucifer even walks amongst us in a man without so much as a name. He is a vile and terrible man, a white man not from Ethiopian blood or soil who canvasses the weak, the helpless, and mercilessly pursues their souls to blacken and destroy. Our battle against this man is far from won and the demons that guide him have the upper hand I should say. His hand is the Devil's right hand and he has charged those misguided servants around him with my murder. I will not hide! For the Devil may take my life but my soul is only God's!" The stranger stopped reading and looked back at Father Claudio, "This proves nothing. This could be anyone in this wretched country.

"Look at the back," the stranger flipped the paper around to see a faded and still fading drawing of a black scorpion. "The envelope was postmarked from Addis Ababa on October 19, 2009."

"That was many upon many months ago, who is to say he still lives today?"

"He lives," Father Claudio received the letter back, carefully folding it along its creases before he returned it back to its envelope and then back to his pocket. "He lives because I have seen him. I have met and spoken with him. He lives because I know his name."

"What name might that be Father?" The stranger looked sharply across the table, looking for any sort of hesitation in Father Claudio's appearance.

"Daniel Vosloo." The stranger's eyes widened and he stopped in his tracks, not that he was moving. His mind focused instantly upon the words that came through his ears and he waited now for Father Claudio to add more, which he did not. He simply finished his food, without so much as a hesitation or a gesture of anxiety or fright. For a name that engendered so much fear in the population of Asosa, Father Claudio said it without reprieve and without fear. He said it with conviction and with truth. The words he spoke were sharp and precise just like lightning.

"Father Claudio, this is the man I seek; you do realize that you must tell me where he is."

"Why do you seek him?"

"I have business with this man," the stranger said in a convincing way that Father Claudio didn't buy for one iota of a second.

"That is nonsense and we both know it."

"I am on a fact finding mission Father thus I have business with the man."

"Then from what government do you hail?"

"None, I am with an independent entity."

"You know I don't believe you." Father Claudio finished the last of his supper and pushed the plate aside just before he wiped both his chin and his mouth clean. He dropped the napkin on top of the plate and eased back into the seat. The taste of the food lingered on his palate and he was quite satisfied. "The wild boar is good, when they make it. They make some sort of homemade gravy for it that is top notch. It almost makes the company in here bearable. You, on the other hand, I could do without."

"Cute Father but you do realize I will find this man and I will conduct my business with him."

"I believe you are here to kill him."

"You couldn't be more wrong."

"Am I?" Father Claudio laughed as he reached into his pocket and removed a small, plastic, empty box of Tic Tac's, in which he kept toothpicks. He removed one and began to clean between his teeth, belching in the process. The sensation in his throat and mouth burned with the whiskey that had been sitting in his stomach and he once again tasted the boar. "Excuse me," he said courteously.

"Father I don't have any other option, I have been searching for him for some time."

"Your motives and your intentions do not match your words." Father Claudio watched as the waitress hovered. "Do you know I have been coming in here for months and each time the bar owner tries to peddle these prostitutes upon me?"

"I've already told you the truth Father," the stranger said with a bit of irritation in his voice.

"Why would he think I, a man of God, would want one?"

"I reiterate Father; I have business to conduct with the man, questions to ask him. There are only answers that he can provide. I need those answers."

"Father Peter truly believed him to be Lucifer in human form. I do not share Father Peter's assessment but the man is a child of the wicked. He is no more demon than you are God-fearing."

"Father I have seen things far more frightening elsewhere than what I have seen in Ethiopia."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since September Father, I saw through the autumn, through the winter, the spring, and now as summer dawns, I know that I will someday see something in Ethiopia more frightening than what I have seen elsewhere. Father I have seen the work of the Devil, as you say, up close and in the flesh, so to speak. I have watched girls and boys, younger than that whiskey that you drink being flayed alive in front of their parents. I have watched bullets turn human beings inside out. I have seen fire consume whole villages with their residents left inside to suffer a slow and painful death. Nothing in Ethiopia has compared to these and many other sights I have seen."

"What does that prove?"

"Father you are aware of the crisis we face in Ethiopia correct?"

"Who is 'we'?"

"Humanity Father."

"Go on then," Father Claudio was waiting to hear what his dinner guest would say, hoping it was not too interlaced with bullshit.

"Ethiopia has been on the fence since the Commonwealth soured and fell to pieces. In 2009, everything boiled over and we fully expected that the civil war, which continues to rage today, was going to spread throughout the region and infect the New African Republic to the south. At the time, Somalia was a raging inferno just the same, fueled by the rebels on the border." The stranger paused and then continued, catching his breath. "Things simmered as the civil war remained within the confines of the Ethiopian borders. The rebels and the government traded their lines for two years but now things are heating up again. The Africans are getting antsy and it is plainly obvious that they are definitely going to make their entrance soon and who knows where the Empire will stand on this particular matter. When that happens you can guarantee that this civil war is going to become completely chaotic beyond a point of control and, from there, spill over into Somalia, into Kenya, into Djibouti, into Eritrea, and into Sudan. From there it will spill into Uganda and potentially into the Arabian Peninsula. Therefore, you can see how one country can destabilize four or more countries. Vosloo holds the key to preventing this."

"How does he?"

"He and only he can identify the players involved in this whole debacle. He has made contacts with both the rebels and the government and those contacts are crucial for peace, if there is to be one. My organization wants nothing more than peace in Ethiopia. We want it before both the Africans and the Layartebians enter. Do you know what is going to happen if both of them get involved in Ethiopia?"

"I can imagine," Father Claudio said, skirting the answer he didn't have.

"You can't imagine. The level of violence will quadruple. The souls you came to save will be forever lost."

"How so?"

"The Layartebians have no grace when it comes to situations such as these. They will steamroll through wherever they enter. The Africans are too weak and their forces will be drawn in and slaughtered by the rebels and the government. The bloodshed will quadruple overnight Father, please, help me find this man, for the peace and future of Ethiopia." The stranger said, truthfully. He was set now on convincing Father Claudio to give him the whereabouts of Vosloo, the man he so dutifully sought. "If Vosloo can be paramount to stopping this bloodshed why would you not help me find him?"

"Because I believe you are a liar."

"Harsh and untrue words Father, you should be a better judge of character than you are, I would expect as much hearing confessions over the years."

"Quite honestly, I am an excellent judge of character and I've judged you to be a manipulative liar."

"'Judge not, that you not be judged,' Father."

"An atheist who knows scripture or just a few convenient parts?"

"'For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you,' Father. I never said the Bible wasn't full of moral lessons and potential truths towards one's rectitude of conduct, I simply stated that I do not believe in God. The Bible was written by the hands of man, wise men I think we could all agree, even if it contains myth and lore."

"A man who can quote scripture and who wishes to meet someone who is beyond comprehension sits in front of me. What would you do in my situation?"

"Father I would trust that Daniel Vosloo can handle his own and if I were seeking him only to kill him, I would trust that Vosloo himself would be the one who would determine this. Wouldn't it be prudent to allow me to stand before him, with all that he has done in his wretched land and allow him the opportunity to determine my worthiness or not? Why in fact do you protect such a man Father? Have you not seen the byproduct of his work?"

"I have seen it all too well but it is not my place to do God's work and only He has the power over life and death."

"Then what could I do then?" The stranger eased back and took a swig of whiskey while staring at the nearly empty bottle. "Shall I get another Father?"

"No, that is alright." Father Claudio said, eyeing the bottle himself, wondering if he truly had the courage to say "No" to more whiskey. "How do I not know that your right hand is not also the hand of the Devil?"

"I would give the Devil more credit than that Father, I am but a poor example of what form the Devil would take. Somehow I doubt he has a personal battle with you."

"But he has a personal battle with all of God's creation, does he not?"

"In your eyes but not mine. As I've said before, the Devil is humanity and our actions, not a supernatural being."

"And God?"

"Already explained it Father, we are going in circles. I would very much rather conclude the subject of Vosloo and my seeing him. I offer you two things, you can take me to him and you and I can discuss, at length, all of the theological quandaries that perplex both you and I and we can do so along our journey or," the stranger took a moment to pause and draw in air, "you can give me his whereabouts, I can go alone, and you can remain here in Asosa for the foreseeable future. I have watched you for some time now Father, I know that you have not left this area since I began watching you thus I know there is no point in continuing to watch you in hopes of following your tracks."

"Very well then but if we are to proceed further I shall know your name."

"You may call me Roy, if you so please."

"Is that your real name?"

"Yes but it is not my full name, of which you will receive when I arrive at Vosloo's location and stand face-to-face with him. Will that be enough to satisfy your hunger?"

"No," Father Claudio realized just how much of a bargaining chip he really had and began to run through his brain all of the opportunities he had. He needed so many things for the people of Ethiopia and peace was amongst them but low upon the list. "What is your organization?"

"I am with a multinational humanitarian coalition named 'The Harding Foundation,' you may not have heard of us if you have spent your focus in Africa."

"I have heard of your organization before, you were quite active within the Amazonian Territory of Layarteb?"

"I was not but my coworkers were, my focus has been on the Middle East until now."

"Now it is Africa?"

"Yes Father it is," Roy responded, smiling. "Call it a promotion if you will."

"And your organization's primary focus is peace? How does it expect to obtain this?"

"As I mentioned, Vosloo knows the players here. We want to be the first aide and humanitarian foundation to actually broker a peace agreement between all parties involved."

"With a lucrative outcome?"

"We are a not-for-profit Father, unlike the Church."

"I understand," Father Claudio knew all too well just how wealthy the Church really was. Though it did more charity than any organization on Earth, it still raked in money at a geometric rate. "Then I will assist you but on the condition that you do not bring a weapon," Father Claudio tried to sound firm on this but knew he had failed at the onset of his words.

"Father I must impress upon you the tumultuous nature of Ethiopia. You may be a priest but I wouldn't put it past a rebel or government patrol not to harass you. They are fiends and though you have survived this long without trouble does not mean that such luck, and it really is luck Father, will be perpetual. For our safety, I will be bringing a gun and that is non-negotiable. When do we leave and how long will it take us?"

"Tomorrow at dawn and it will take several days and we will need a vehicle." The two of them stared quietly at each other for a few more minutes, finishing both their whiskey and the bottle. They had come to an arrangement and Roy departed shortly thereafter, shaking Father Claudio's hand just moments before he slid out of the booth and headed back to the inn room he had rented. It wasn't far away but he wanted to make sure that he packed accordingly and got plenty of rest of the journey. Father Claudio said that they would be leaving early and thus he had to make sure that he wasn't groggy or sluggish. Along the way, he forced the whiskey out of his stomach by aide of his finger and made sure to down twice the amount of water he would normally drink, just to flush his kidneys and liver clear of it. If he was leaving at dawn, he didn't have time for a hangover. He popped himself into the bathroom as well and made sure to take a long, hot shower for as long as the water remained warm. Once it began to chill, he ended the shower, dried off, and fell onto his cot, passing out the moment his skin touched the dirty sheet he had been provided.

Father Claudio, on the other hand, didn't immediately depart from the bar. Instead, he called the young, still frightened waitress back to his table. She thought he wanted more whiskey but he had no business for it anymore. "Who is the man who will kill you if you do not seduce me?" Father Claudio asked, looking around. She refused to give him an answer and he asked again, and again, and again. Finally, she answered, her lips quivering and trembling from fright, whispering that it was the bartender himself. He was the owner of the bar as well and Father Claudio had no use for the man. He was vile and contemptuous and Father Claudio saw him as another tool of the Devil. "Make yourself scarce my child," Father Claudio whispered back to her as he left the booth and stood on his own two feet, for the first time in hours. His body creaked and he groaned but he didn't appear at all intoxicated. Doing as he commanded, the young waitress scampered out of sight behind a rusty door that was only steps away from the same booth where Father Claudio had sat.

Father Claudio passed by more booths and up to the bar before seeing that nobody was there. As if he worked there, he simply pushed his way through the bar's half door and looked around, noticing that nobody saw him do this or rather if they had, they simply didn't care. Satisfied with his glance, he proceeded behind the bar and into the cooking area, where he found both the bartender and his slave-girl cook engaged in a hushed and nearly muted conversation. The cook had a worried look on her face and the bartender had a half-burned cigarette hanging from his mouth. Ash fell down whenever he spoke. "Why are you back here?" He yelled back at Father Claudio with authority. The old, beleaguered missionary gave him a nonchalant wave as he drew to within arm's reach of the bartender and before the bartender could speak again, Father Claudio reached out and grabbed the bartender's shirt with a grip as strong as a vice.

"I am sick of you trying to pawn these girls off on me! Now you listen and you listen well. If I come back and if one hair on these girls' heads is harmed, I am going to flay you alive, do you understand me? Do you! I am not to be taken lightly!" The bartender's eyes went blank and he let the cigarette fall to the floor. The same, astonished look fell upon the cook's face and she took a step back but only in her mind, her legs paralyzed from fear. The bartender, on the other hand, simply nodded his agreement with Father Claudio's words, who promptly released the weak-willed bartender. Casually and as if nothing had even occurred, Father Claudio departed both the kitchen and the bar, through the front entrance, never once giving away that this encounter had happened, noticing also that none of the mercenaries even cared.

[Heaven Hieghts]

Port of Bestenstadt, Currouse


It was unseasonably cold in Bestenstadt, which Björn Wächter had found rather troublesome, but had not gone as far as to complain about it. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them and looked up again. Watching the barges pass as they floated along the Schlange River had been rather relaxing, giving him a brief moment to meditate on his current objective, of which he had remained uninformed thus far.

He found it a bit irritating to be honest; his employers were not exactly straight with him right from the beginning, but he supposed they operated this way with good reason. Timing was key in sharing information, depending on the sort of operation of course.

Such short notice gave him the idea that there wouldn’t be any exact plans at play. Perhaps a team was being assembled, consisting of a few hand-picked elite, thus a longer selection process. Or maybe it was just him, being the interest of a private client, most likely corporate.

He yawned and cracked his knuckles. It should be interesting, whatever it is.

“Es ist kalt heute, ja?” someone said from his side and he looked where a man now stood. He spoke with an Austrian accent. Jan Schmidt is what they called him, a dispatcher and go between. He was short, and held little presence, his middle-aged look complete with a receding hairline and glasses seated upon a worn looking face.

Wächter leaned back in the park bench and said in his own Currousian German. “Speak of the devil.”

Schmidt chuckled. “May I sit?”

“If you like.” Wächter said with an upward glance at Schmidt, leaning forward now, with his elbows on his knees.

He sat and put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, he offered one to his fellow but he waved it away. “Thinking of retirement soon? You’re pushing 50 now, you must be pretty tired by this point.”

It was Wächter’s turn to chuckle. “Wine tastes better with age.”

“Well, you are right about that.” Schmidt said and lit his cigarette. With a few puffs he said, “Shall we get down to business then, Herr Wächter?”

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough, haven’t you?”


--------

“This is her?” Wächter asked, staring at a photograph pinned to a whiteboard. A wild-eyed woman stared back at him, clad in monotonous shades of grey. She gave him and ever-so-slight smirk, looking quite smug.

“Yes. Margot Perrot.” Schmidt replied, facing away from Wächter. He was shuffling through some papers on an adjacent desk to the whiteboard.

Wächter turned away and looked at Schmidt’s hunched form. “I’m a bit too old to be playing errand boy, Jan.” Schmidt straightened and looked at his subordinate, unpleased.

“This is a bit more than ‘errand boy’, my friend.” he said dryly. “She-” and he pointed at the picture on the whiteboard. ‘-is not ‘ordinary’ material.”

Wächter, taking his lecture in stride, folded his arms and leaned back. “How so?”

Schmidt looked impatient, paused before saying. “We trained her specifically to be the best weapon on the market. The highest possible caliber, with no real identity, no background and no morals: she’s a ghost.”

Schmidt turned fully, a manila folder in his hands. “Look.” he said, holding the folder out like an unwanted piece of food. Wächter took it, and upon opening it, found himself greeted with quite a few unsavory images. They were mostly of dead men and women, all sustaining what appeared to be knife wounds in anatomically strategic areas. Admittedly, he had not been phased much by these, such sights bearing more familiarity than he’d really care to admit.

“All our own,” Schmidt said when Wächter looked up. “The very best, the elite, and she took all six of them out without breaking a sweat.”

There was a pause, Wächter looking down at the photographs of those whom were apparently his colleagues and then looked up at the woman who had supposedly committed these crimes. He closed the folder and set it down.

“Proof enough?” Schmidt asked. “Not only do we need experience, we need to keep it on the down-low. It wouldn’t do much for our reputation if it got out that one of our paramount assassins snapped and killed six of our best now would it?”

“Point taken.” Wächter said. “And I’m the only one who can do it?”

“There is never an ‘only’. We have a handful that could handle her, but you’re the best fit with your track record.” Schmidt answered and took the folder and began flipping through the photographs and paperwork. “Anyway, she knows the tricks of the trade and won’t be easy be any means. However, when you track her down, you will bring her back to us provided she cooperates with you, if she fails to cooperate, you are to eliminate her on the spot. The last we received any word of her, she was on her way to Ethiopia-”

Wächter scoffed.

“Problem?” Schmidt asked, irascible.

“No. Continue.”

Schmidt paused, eying Wächter. “We’ll start there.” he said and pointed to the manila folder. “You might want to take that with you, it details all of the intel we have on her, including training records, prior operations she was a part of, personal history-lack thereof-any documentation she had before induction, aliases, anything. You’ll leave for Ethiopia two days from now, you have that much time to get prepped so I’d suggest you wrap up any business you have here in Bestenstadt quickly. We’ll have you in contact with a man named Jude Finch, he’ll be your way out. Questions?”

“No.”

“Gut. I’ll see you when you get back for a debriefing.”

“Auf Wiedersehen.” and Wächter left without any further exchanges.
---------------


A few days ago, he had been listening to a report on the current political climate in Ethiopia, and upon hearing about the complete state of chaos the nation, if it could be called that, seemed to be in, he found himself quite glad that he wasn’t amidst such violence. Now, however, he came to resent these idle thoughts.

But it wasn’t like he could back out now; orders were orders, no matter the shit hole they were sending him to.

Wächter laid on the bed of his hotel room, ankles crossed and hands behind his head, pondering the events to come as he stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t frightened, not even apprehensive, in fact, he was excited. Margot Perrot, or so was the name they gave her, had come across to him as quite an interesting character. There weren’t any documents detailing her life before her induction into the syndicate, and they had made it out like there was no life prior to the syndicate. She didn’t even have a real name, not that she remembered anyway. She was a ghost, like Schmidt had said, and Wächter could see why they might have wanted someone like her. A child with no identity and memory of what life she had before, someone who could easily be engrained and crafted into a killer without so much as a fight.

However, that did not go without price a, as was proven with six of their own dead and her missing. Wächter imagined it had been just been years of mental illness coming to a head (there were records in the file detailing psychological evaluations she underwent during and after training, none of which stating that she was of good mental health), however, he didn’t know if this instability had been thanks to the syndicate and the way they carved her, or if it was merely genetic, maybe a combination of the two. He supposed he really wouldn’t know the answer to that question, even if he did get a hold of her. That also made him wonder about her motivation, if any, for leaving the syndicate. It could have been a number of things: fear, hate, the desire for freedom. He might have to find out, not out of necessity, but morbid curiosity.

He stretched and slid off of the sheets onto the floor, sitting upright against his bed. Standing up, he walked to the small table in the corner, and picked up the woman’s picture from the mess of papers. She was really very pretty; a round, doll-like face framed by a curly mess of dark hair pinned back behind her head. She looked small in stature, with narrow shoulders and a thin waist, not to mention the swell of her chest wasn’t really much of a swell at all. He personally preferred his partners to have more of a shape to them and he found her to be a disappointment in that respect, not that that really mattered anyway, as he wasn’t looking to court her, quite the opposite actually. Wächter set down the picture and began to gather all of documents into the folder before closing it and stashing it away in one of his bags. With went his preferred choice of sidearm, a .45 ACP, a 14-inch combat knife, enough currency to buy him a substantial amount of weaponry, depending on the scenario, and whatever clothing he thought suitable for the occasion, flak jacket included.

Sitting on the bed, Wächter rubbed his hands together and looked out of the window. This might be the last time he’ll see snow in a while, perhaps ever. There was always that possibility, and he was never afraid of it. What ever happened, happened, another tool to corruption terminated. He almost laughed, as there was definitely an element of tragicomic that went along with that thought, in a morbid way.

A glance at the time, and he realized he was late, his ride would not be happy. He laid back on the bed and stretched before bouncing back up. He dressed and grabbed his bags before leaving quickly. Checking out, he stepped out onto the street and breathed the chilling air deeply, savoring the last few breaths which would soon be exchanged with stifling desert air. He resented that more than the cold. He hailed a taxi and rode to a private air strip, where he would soon disappear into chaos in search of his target.

-----

Asosa, Ethiopia

She was not giving a warm welcome upon arrival. Not by the locals or the mercenaries who inhabited this little corner of the shit-hole otherwise known as Ethiopia. They had sensed that she was something other than the usual type that strutted around like they owned the ground they stood on, for she treaded lightly, stepping with precise and pre-calculated intent, not claiming the earth as her own, nor offering any sort of desire for it. They gave her looks, all of which ran off her back like water on ducks’ feathers. Perhaps such indifference angered them, perhaps they knew better to make any sort of adverse move toward her.

She, that was, the one who called herself Salome, was an apparition in the midst of fiends.

Being at such a status didn’t seem to matter much to her; she would be fine provided they kept out of her way. Unless they wanted their head to come off their shoulders.

She nested herself quite nicely at a small inn near the edge of town, where the tap water ran a nice brown color and one could hear the roaches crawling around the floor at night. Mostly unfazed by all of this, she was made comfortable with what possessions she had brought with her, most of which being some sort of weapon, if not, then a forged document or three that would allow her to enter and exit the country at will. All of them printed with different aliases.

With these, she did not plan to stay in Asosa long and figured she would head south, a direction she had yet to travel. Hopefully, there would be a conflict she could disappear into; she sensed a tail might be making their way up on her back. That meant either death or capture, the latter was in no way an option, but with the former, the only reservation she had would be that it would be at the hands of some syndicate dog, no matter their caliber.

Death was a nice thought, happiness or at least peace for being released from such an existence as hers. She was a tool after all, a tool for corruption and greed, a puppet, no matter how valuable. Beyond that, she wasn’t anything but a ghost, no past, no name, no family. Nothing to speak for other than a long history of violence. However, with that said, she wasn’t going to go about killing herself; she would let death come at its own pace. She was very patient.

Luckily for her, it was omnipresent here, and any direction she went might well promise some sort of conflict in which she could easily become a part of the unnatural cycles created here. Death was always right around the corner.

Today, after having done her bet to get clean, she left the inn with no other intention than to explore. She was not looking for any trouble just yet, trouble too soon might get her found more quickly than she found tasteful. With idle steps, she found herself in a collection of buildings bearing symbols of a black scorpion. She’d heard the rumors of course, only wisps of twilight talk here and there, and, like most everything else, had brushed them off, despite the apparent fear in which this group was held.

Looking now, a previous observation she had made of mercenaries was strengthened. They were much like wild dogs, very territorial and maintaining a pack mentality and really not worth much. Petty, they were.

She stepped into a bar located in this certain corner that these mercenaries had allegedly claimed, and was greeted with a series of unkindly glares, all of which she ignored after an assessing glance or two. Taking a seat in a booth in the middle, she was approached by a young girl who already looked quite used and worn. She asked in passable English what the woman would have liked. The woman smiled in such a way that it was difficult to tell whether the intent was ill or otherwise. It was made to be intimidating, though, she had no motive to cause harm to this little nymphet, if she could be called that. In fact, it might have been a “pet the dog” moment.

She asked the girl for the strongest thing they had and watched her disappear afterward. There was no doubt that the girl was used, and while thinking of such things peaked her own lust, she wasn’t about to go and buy the girl. Used, broken and most likely diseased was not her brand, nor were virgins fresh out of their villages. She was not one for prostitutes. More, she was for the ones who likely didn’t favor other women, and wouldn’t ever think themselves to be with another woman. But somehow, they would come to her, frightened and uncertain of course, but wanted it no less.

The girl came back with a bottle of whiskey, probably made on location, and the woman did not hesitate to pour a glass and down it there after. It stung quite nicely and that was pleasing to her. Another, and she felt nicely buzzed. Sitting back, she looked at those seated at the bar. Still, a few looks were being passed her way, though, rather than ignoring them this time, she looked right back at them, appearing to be nonchalant.

Sitting at the end was a young woman in her early twenties, a novice no doubt, seated with her older counterparts. Their faces were severe, and they didn’t seem to pay much notice to the woman at the other end of the bar. Might have been grief, or just general exhaustion, either were probable. With that aside, she guessed it would be easy, there was need beneath that girl’s hard front. It had to be invisible to her peers, lest she wanted to be made the weak link. She strived to maintain that front, showing any sort of emotion was not an option. It was a weakness that caused her to falter in the face of her duty. However questionable it might have been.

Another shot, and she felt warmer by the minute. She wondered vaguely if she should go about doing this in a bit of a stupor but that thought was quelled rather quickly with that fact she done this many times before in worse states.

Outright approach wouldn’t be wise with her peers there, they might respond with suspicion and perhaps violence, like she might have an ulterior motive. That was the trouble with being the way that she was, she stuck out more than was desired, without even trying. She would either have to get the young mercenary to come her, or make the approach quick. Mere laziness made her choose the latter, though she would have to act correctly in order for it to work.

She left an ample amount of currency on the table and got out of her seat, walking as if to leave but instead made her way behind the selected woman. Slipping a hand over the woman’s should she pulled her off the bar stool in firm yet gentle grip. The others turned and looked at her as she did this, however, like every time before, she ignored them, keeping her eyes only on the young woman, who looked, in combination, surprised and ready to throw a fist in her face on a moment’s notice.

She would not leave room for that however, and pulled her out of the bar and into the hot night air. Pushed up against the wall of the bar, she kissed the girl, forcing her tongue into her mouth and slid her hand up the inside of her thigh. Pulling back, she looked at her again and found what exactly what she had been looking for; total compliance though uncertainty remained. The need and desire for some sort of comfort to be fulfilled.

A smile spread up her cheeks as she pushed a piece of curly hair from her face, feeling suddenly quite proud of herself. Another to add to the list, she probably wouldn’t even know the girl’s name and didn’t feel the need to find out. But other things still sought satisfaction, like the increasing excitement in her groin and she would most certainly see to it that her needs were met.

[Hi No Moto]

January 5th 2011 – 11:24hrs
Tokyo City, Japan
Yutani Tower, Yutani Corporation Headquarters

“Thanks to the care my granddad received, he can watch me grow up” smiled a young Asian girl as she hugged her grandfather who hugged her back, smiling all the while as they laughed with one another. David Gray found himself smiling as he watched the two, their love for one another had been captured perfectly in these images and most importantly David felt like he was watching believable people. The images quickly changed to that of a bride and groom at the altar standing before all their friends and relatives, all Asian again. The bride turned to the camera and smiled a warming smile “Thanks to the continued support and medical care I was given, I’ve made it to the happiest day of my life” she beamed before passionately kissing her groom. The images quickly faded to a black background, with a faded large yellow Y forming before small white writing which spelled the now well known Yutani Corporation appeared, followed by a voice over and a soothing and calm woman’s voice, Asian once again, “Yutani Corporation. Bettering one another. Bettering mankind.”

“What a powerful message that is” David Gray smiled as the Corporation symbol remained on the screen, a powerful symbol that was commonplace throughout the Far East and had now expanded itself even further around the globe. All around him, members of the board of directors and the major shareholders nodded their heads in total agreement with him. David had noted in his years of working at Yutani Corp. that the majority of the board and shareholders were of Japanese origin, which was only fair seeing as that was the land from which it originated, but in the past years there were a steady influx of other nationalities including a Prussian, Frenchmen and Englishmen. David himself was an American but he was neither on the board nor was he a shareholder, well not a majority one anyway. He’d been summoned to give the small presentation he just had given about the Corporations new look following its expansion into many countries across the globe “And we have done just that. Our work has expanded into the areas of the world that are in most need of our help, Africa and India and the results are already showing. With our new marketing campaign; which will include adverts like the one we have just seen, posters and billboards, all featuring actors and extras of the nationality it will be shown in of course, we will ensure that our message is brought to the entire world and ensure that we can better mankind.” A quick round of applause was given and David Gray nodded his head, slightly blushing as he saw the most powerful people in the company applauding him. David had been quite shocked to say the least when he had been informed he would make a presentation to the board of directors and shareholders about the corporation’s new marketing campaign and also on the results of this year’s quarter which he had presented before the showing of the latest advert. Having had a minor management role in Yutani Corp. headquarters in Europe, David had found it a little odd that he off all people would be summoned to give a presentation when there were much more senior figures that could have done the job. Pleasantries and goodbyes followed as the board of shareholders began to leave and David also made his way from the conference room, walking along the sterile looking corridors, the sunlight blazing in the massive windows that covered the side of Yutani Tower, the single tallest structure in Tokyo City. As David prepared to enter the lift he was stopped by the calling of his name from down the corridor from where he had come and the sound of running footsteps. David turned and was almost startled to see Naoya Masao, Chief Executive Officer of Yutani Corp., bearing down on him with a broad smile on his face.

“You performed very well in there Mr. Gray” he smiled as he took Davids hand, shaking it gently before offering a little bow which David did the same. Despite being an American, David was expected to adhere to the traditions of Hi No Moton greeting and etiquette and he had taken to it very enthusiastically, having been an admirer of Hi No Moton culture since he was a child, despite many in America saying that it was a barbarian culture. Despite Yutani Corp. stressing that Hi No Moton etiquette be obeyed, the Hi No Moton language was not commonly spoken amongst most employees, English having been the decided upon language to be used.

“Thank you very much sir” David quickly replied, being careful not to cut off the CEO but wanting to express his gratitude at being selected to give the presentation “Please I do not wish for this to sound rude or sound as if I am being ungrateful but may I ask why I was chosen to give this presentation? I assisted in the marketing campaign yes but I was not the head of the project.”

“You were surprised to be called up then yes?” Naoya laughed as he walked closer to the window, staring out at the huge city that was Tokyo below him, taking in the vast scale of the area that made up the world’s largest megacity “I must say Mr. Gray that members of the board have been taking a keen interest in you for some time and this presentation was a test of your ability. And you did not disappoint” he smiled. A test thought David? A test for what exactly? “You see we’re heading up a new operation in Africa. Along with our commitments in Sudan, Mali, Chad, Ghana and a few others we are expanding our horizons into Ethiopia.”

David almost felt himself involuntarily shudder at the mention of Ethiopia; a name that had been synonymous with the failures of mankind for a long time now after the country had fallen into such disrepair, such utter and all consuming chaos. “Sir if you don’t mind me saying but Ethiopia is a ravaged country. With no form of leadership, wouldn’t we find it difficult to secure contracts and revenue in a place like that?!”

“Ethiopia fits our mandate perfectly. The call it the country that god has forgotten and it seems that the world has just done that. What will it look like to the world when we, Yutani Corporation, take a stand and decide to do what is right, what it means to be human?” Naoya answered, seemingly getting excited as he said it, taking joy in the fact that he and the Corporation would be labelled as saints if they could sort out Ethiopia when many before had failed “Nations of the world complain daily about the suffering in Ethiopia but the truth is none of them want to get their hands dirty in actually dealing with it. By being the first to do so on a large scale, we can be fairly confident in gaining large and favourable donations from countries around the world. They all have the money to do what is right; it just seems however that they have neither the time nor the will.”

David couldn’t fault the logic of Naoya. Ethiopia had been debated and argued about for years and years now, yet not one concrete plan had been formed and little action had been taken. Apart from the little incursion made by the New African Republic, which had ground to a rather disappointing halt, there had been little action taken by any government around the world “I’m sorry but again I must ask … what does all of this have to do with me?”

“Like I said Mr. Gray you have caught our attention. You may not have been the head of the marketing campaign, but you conducted yourself brilliantly in Europe, literally becoming the face of Yutani Corporation in the continent” David felt himself blush immediately. The face of Yutani Corp. in Europe? My god had he really performed that well? “You also managed our affairs in Europe very well and all I can say is that you have an excellent record so far. And all of this will help our endeavour in Ethiopia. Like I said we need to look like saints when we move into Ethiopia and we need heavy support from the nations of the world. Now I am almost positive that with your natural confidence and oratory skills, you will ensure that we gain the support we need.”

“You want to send me to Ethiopia?” David almost gasped, swallowing heavily and feeling slightly less comfortable than he had a few seconds ago “What about Hans Meresnky? He heads the department in Khartoum and is in charge of all Yutani things in Africa; wouldn’t he be a better choice?”

“We considered it but ultimately it is you we want” David felt his heart sink. He’d always wanted to help people in Ethiopia but to actually go to the place personally? He could be killed he thought! “You’ll most likely be in Sudan for most of your stay in Africa and if you do things well you may even find yourself offered hospitality in the New African Republic for long amounts of time. Oh and did I mention that this job will come with all the perks. A Level 1 Security Clearance on all things Ethiopia.”

“Level 1?!” David gasped, not being able to properly comprehend the fact that he would be gaining access to company files that were usually reserved for only the highest of people. This led him to believe that something important must be happening in Ethiopia, and not just the aid that the corporation was promising.

“Of course. Now would you be willing to discuss taking up this posting?”

“Yes. Yes I would sir.”

“Very good” Naoya smiled a warm smile before his expression changed to that of a more solemn one “Now if you would like to accompany back to the conference room. The board has something’s that need to be discussed urgently with you, pertaining to your new posting.” David smiled and nodded, gladly following Naoya back to the conference to learn some secrets that perhaps he didn’t want to really know.

January 29th 2011 – 10:30hrs
Khartoum, Sudan
Khartoum International Airport

“We’re making our final approach to Khartoum International Airport Mr. Gray” came the breathy voice of the Yutani employed air stewardess, who David had learnt went by the name of Elaina, as she stood above David’s seat, hands placed firmly on her well defined hips as she smiled down at him. David smiled back at her as he sat up from his reclining position, having been half asleep after the nonstop flight he had just endured from Singapore to Khartoum and almost driven mad with boredom if not for the view he’d had of the stewardess and also the many times he and her had flirted with one another. If not for her then this trip would have been entirely mundane, the in flight movies provided by Yutani not peaking his interest at all.

“My hasn’t the time just flown by?” David smiled to which Elaina laughed, giving him a chance to once again not only hear that wonderful laugh of hers but see her beautiful smile, her pearly white teeth only enhanced when combined with the deep red lipstick she wore. But it wasn’t just her smile that had interested Adam, he was a man of course and there were attributes she possessed that he could not ignore. Her blonde hair had been tied up in a simple bun hairstyle, in line with company policy, but from talking to her he had learnt she always wore it long, something that David had liked hearing very much. Another and equally important attribute was that she was not a skinny girl, something David absolutely detested and preferred his women to have curves, something Elaina definitely possessed and was something he was sure she had caught him admiring on occasion. Oh yes and even more important, David had noticed the absence of any ring on her finger and the absence of a man in her life.

“They say good company does make the time go past quicker Mr. Gray” she smiled, David now being able to smell her perfume the longer she stood by him, something he had made sure she did a lot over the course of the flight by asking for a large amount of drinks and foods. Something obviously jogged her memory as she quickly made her way down the aisle to the cabin, David watching her from behind all the way, taking in the view of her slender long legs and what he could only guess was a very firm backside indeed. Smiling as usual she returned, clutching a few paper documents that she placed on the small arm table to the side of David “Just some customs forms that need filling out Mr. Gray. Oh and some information packages that the company provided about the local area.”

“Thanks” David smiled as he looked over the customs forms, pulling out a pen from his breast pocket to sign it with “Though I doubt I’ll be needing the information packages very much. I shouldn’t think I’ll be leaving the company building very much and experiencing the local surroundings.”

“I’d recommend looking through it once you’re off the plane Mr. Gray, you may find something you like in there” Elaina smiled before the seatbelt fastening light began flashing and the pilots voice came over the intercom, informing its passenger that the landing was about to take place. Elaina was quick to make her way to her seat and buckle herself in as the plane touched down on the runway which David noted felt surprisingly smooth for an African country as the plane rolled down it towards its final destination. A wait of just a few minutes for the plane to shut down and the doors to opened was all that stood in the way of David making his way onto Sudanese soil for the first time. As he approached the exit of the plane he gave one last smile to the beautiful Elaina as he did.

“Until the next time” he laughed offering her a business like handshake which she quickly obliged, squeezing his hand as he shook it.

“I look forward to it” she smiled, an image that David would try and remember. Stepping off the plane he cast one last glance up at the plane and Elaina before making his way towards his pickup point at a small helipad where he would be transported to the Yutani Headquarters building in Khartoum. As he walked through the spacious Airport he watched other air stewardesses make their way around the place, preparing to jet off to exotic places in the world but unfortunately for them they did nothing for David at all. As he carried on he noticed a number of unmistakeable uniforms in the distance; the black uniforms, lined with hints of yellow, of the Yutani Security Service. The YSS had cropped up in every corner of the world where Yutani Corp. had been operating, protecting the assets of the corporation and also individuals of high importance. They had been criticised by many as being a private military force and had even drawn an investigation from the Imperial Diet of the Empire of Hi No Moto for the advancement in weapons systems the YSS began to possess. The two officers in front of him were wearing their standard issue body armour and an assortment of pieces of equipment around their waists. The officer nearest to David had just a sidearm, one that David could not make out, which was holstered to his side whilst the officer behind him clutched an M4A1 Assault Rifle. Both officers also wore their standard black PASGT helmets which, complete with their black balaclavas, did make them an imposing sight.

“Mr. Gray?” asked one of the YSS Officers in a heavy British accent from behind a black open face balaclava as David approached. Nodding his head in acknowledgement, David proceeded to pull his identification pass and show it to the security officer who quickly scanned over the card before nodding his head in agreement that David was who his papers said he was “This way then Mr. Gray” the officer stated gruffly, almost like an order, as he and his comrade began escorting David towards the helipad were a Yutani Corp. helicopter was waiting “Your helicopter is waiting to transport you to the headquarters. I’ve been assigned as your head of security for as long as you are head of operations in Ethiopia. If my assignment is not to your satisfaction then you may choose your own head of security sir” the officer said in an almost robotic voice, like he was playing a recorded message most likely having to say this to everyone he was assigned to.

“I shouldn’t think that would be necessary” David replied cheerfully as they walked. If Yutani Corp. had thought him suitable enough to be assigned to protect him whilst in Ethiopia then he was sure that this man would be up to the challenge. The group of three continued on walking until reaching one of three helipads at the Khartoum International Airport where sitting on this particular one was a jet black Bell UH-1 emblazoned, as with most company assets, in the black and yellow symbol of the Yutani Corp. David climbed himself into the helicopter, refusing the help offered by the YSS Officer as he followed suit and buckled himself in as the pilot made his last few checks before lifting off and making for Yutani Headquarters in Khartoum. The sound of the rotors hurtling around was loud enough to make any conversation almost impossible and not being able to bear just sitting there doing nothing, he pulled out some of the information packages he had been given by Elaina on the lengthy flight in. As he pulled the papers from his pocket he immediately heard a loud grunt from the YSS Officer and turned to see him obviously smiling behind his balaclava.

“Nothing good in there Mr. Gray” the officer yelled over the sound of the rotor blades but to David it sounded like he was just talking normally “I chucked mine straight in the bin the moment I got off the plane” he laughed before his eyes fell to a small sheet of paper that feel from the middle of the information package and rest on the floor, where the lovingly scribbled number that had been jotted down on it was visible, along with a few kisses and the name ‘Elaina’. David was quick to pick it back up and smile to himself as he put it in his pocket before looking back over at the grinning officer who was now laughing gently “I guess they sometimes do put some interesting things in those leaflets.”

“Seems like that” David smiled as he thumbed through the leaflet, not really reading but just paying attention to the large pictures that were dotted throughout “So I never asked your name?”

“Light Sir, Charlie Light” he smiled before pulling his balaclava below his chin and then looking down at his watch “We won’t be too long Mr. Gray. Mr. Meresnky apologizes but he won’t be here to meet you today, he’s hoping to talk to you though before you make your little announcement to the world” Charlie smiled, knowing that this was perhaps the biggest announcement David was ever going to have to make.

“Thank you Charlie” David smiled as the helicopter carried on its journey to Khartoum where his journey in Africa and Ethiopia would truly begin.

[Layarteb]

Stave II
"Nomen Novum"
Verse II
"A Serpent Amongst the Wolves"

June 22, 2011 - 05:30 hrs [UTC+3]
Asosa, Ethiopia
'Unnamed Bar,' Northeastern Asosa
(10° 4' 20.81" N, 34° 33' 3.38" E)


Far to the east, the sun had come up slightly higher, nearing the horizon with unstoppable rapidity. This was nautical twilight and the sky was a bevy of beautiful colors where red, orange, yellow, blue, and black blended together to open the morning. A cool but humid air clung around Asosa where the rain had stopped less than an hour earlier. Thunder had awoken Deckard at about four in the morning and he struggled to go back to sleep, finally giving up after a forty-five minute struggle where the anticipation of dawn built and built with each passing second. We are about to meet Vosloo, he continually thought in his brain as he tossed, turned, and reset his head on whatever pillows had been provided to him. A thousand and one thoughts raced through his brain for those forty-five minutes and he hoped listening to the soft sounds of the rain outside of his open window would do him some good but his attempts were futile. Eventually he begrudgingly and irrationally concluded that Mother Nature wanted him awake.

Deckard left his bed in a state of disarray as he made his way to the bathroom and stood in its darkness, hovering over the toilet, holding his manhood, trying to spot the center of the bowl as a steady stream of urine started. He let out a moan of relief. Ever since the moment he awoke, the pressure of his full bladder had been pushing against his stomach and it was far less comfortable than the days that he had spent hooked up to machines in a Layartebian hospital outside of Treblinka. Memories flooded his clouded and preoccupied mind. All truth be told, Deckard slept as poorly as his aim was at this early hour. His body was far from comfortable in the far from comfortable bed and his mind tore open holes that he had stuffed full of bad memories. A man who repressed everything that he could, Deckard wasn't one who slept much anymore and whenever he did, he awoke feeling more tired than he had been before his head hit the pillow.

In actuality, Deckard's state of "normal" was what most people considered tired. Deckard's state of "tired" was the limit of most people's functionality. He was a man who could bore out the center of a target with a half-rusted pistol at one hundred feet on less than two hours of consistent sleep for five days straight. He was also an alcoholic and a poor excuse for a gentleman, just as he had been in his Belorussian days. In fact, in many ways, he was ten times worse now than he had been in Belarus for the simple fact that the one human being that he connected with had left him on his own. That human being was Lola, the beautiful, Belorussian asset who he had recruited, and who subsequently fell in love with him. One who wasn't quick to fall onto that bandwagon, Deckard was surprised to see her face when he opened his eyes for the first time since leaving Belarus and she had been his companion from February when he left the Ministry of Intelligence until the beginning of June. The scent of her hair was still fresh on his nostrils. Together they lived out those four, short months in Poland while Deckard recovered from a near fatal case of double lung pneumonia. His drinking did not subside during those months but he grew slightly less terrible as Lola and he cemented something that he had not felt in a long time, human compassion, empathy, and perhaps even love.

Of course that was short-lived and though he had yet to blurt out those dreadfully terrifying words of "I love you" to Lola he felt it somehow. She had grown on him and he had grown accustomed to all of her compassion. In a world of duality and opposites, the two of them were as cliché as possible. Perhaps that was what vitalized their relationship. Never was it a dull day, afternoon, evening, night, or morning for them. Around the clock, the two of them found new things to learn about one another and Lola was far from the innocent, sweet doll that she had seemed. He learned more about her than she about him but he also learned from her and was closer and closer to giving up the worst vice in his life, his incessant love for the bottle. Then, like all great works of literature, tragedy and conflict erupted. It shook the very core of his being and when it settled, he stood in front of his old handler in the Ministry of Intelligence and uttered the most damaging words of his post-Belorussian life. "I want back in; I won't accept 'No' for an answer; and I want somewhere so rotten that not even the flies land on the piles of shit that collect in the streets and sidewalks."

"How about Ethiopia?" His handler asked coldly. Deckard only nodded and took the case file. Three days later, he landed in Ethiopia and just yesterday, he had made his way into Asosa to speak to a priest who would lead him to Vosloo.

The last thing Deckard did before he shut the door on his packed up and empty apartment was to take a single notebook with him. It was leather-bound, old and distressed with thick paper. The edges were rough cut and the book, as old and distressed as it looked, was as new as this day's sun. It had been a present from Lola, something that she found in the market that was being sold by an elderly couple looking to get rid of some of their wares. It was a Polish version of the famed "spring cleaning" that Layartebians did so routinely every March, April, and May. "This is for you," she said as she put it in his hands and sat down on his lap. Deckard was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, the bottle of vodka empty in his right hand. She put her arms around his neck and ignored the stench of his breath and the four days of stubble that had turned his face into barbed wire. His skin was cold and his eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't slept in three days. Her voice was a shock to his system, a lightning bolt that yanked him out of misery and back to the world of the living. "It's for you to write what keeps you awake at night and what makes you scream in your sleep."

"It's a diary?"

"Yes," she said with a smile as she put her head on his shoulder, ignoring the odor that his body exuded from three days of not showering. "You cannot keep things inside forever my dear."

"Want to see me try?" He let go of the bottle and put his arms around her.

"Can we just hold each other forever? You don't have to drink anymore." A thought ran through his head that was the antithesis of his attitude.

I wish. He put his own head on her shoulder. "Do you think it will work?"

"Maybe, maybe not. You don't have to show me." He couldn't think of anything else to say to her and realized just what level of nonsense she had put up with since they left Treblinka together, arm in arm. "C'mon you smell, let's go take a shower." She stood up and kissed him on the forehead and, what did he do, but follow her as if he were in a trance.

Suddenly Deckard shook his head and left the world of memories that had suddenly taken over his consciousness. He felt wetness on his foot and realized that he had urinated all over the bowl and his left leg. "God dammit! He cursed aloud as he reached over and flicked on the light switch. The instant rush of light into his eyes snapped then shut faster than a speeding bullet and he nearly lost his balance as he struggled to break through the pain. When it subsided, he realized that he had made a mess of the bathroom and this wasn't the first time. He realized that he was sober and that his head hurt and all at once, he wondered just what he had asked for when he had asked for Ethiopia. I am going to Ethiopia, the worst place on Earth. Hell wants nothing to do with this place. I asked for a place 'so rotten that not even the flies land on the piles of shit that collect in the streets and sidewalks' and for my sins I got Ethiopia. Shit, Ethiopia, who asks for Ethiopia? Me. The words rung with an echo in his head as he remembered them. These were the first words he had written in that notebook Lola had bought for him, the first words he said of Ethiopia, and the only words that he could remember about his journey here.

He gathered what few and meager belongings he had, which happened to all be packed already inside of a single rucksack. Next to that rucksack though were a slew of weapons that Father Claudio had urged him not to bring only several hours earlier. Of course, that was one request he ignored as he strapped on his thigh holster for his pistol, an all black, Heckler and Koch HK45 Tactical pistol chambered in .45ACP. He had plenty of magazines to go around and double checked their location on his rucksack, to ensure that they were going to be easily accessible. Then he eyed a machete that he kept in its sheath. It was freshly sharpened and useful for hacking through some of the jungle terrain he expected to be traversing eventually. He also put his tactical knife in its sheath and strapped that to his belt where his right hand could grab it easily. His pistol on his thigh was lower and thus he wouldn't have any issues reaching either in an emergency. Then, he picked up his rifle, a SIG Sauer SG553LB with two, thirty-round magazines loaded onto it. It was equipped with a powerful, tactical sight and a sound suppressor that would hide his muzzle flash from hostile eyes and waiting, hidden snipers.

An expert with each and every weapon he picked up, Deckard threw the rucksack around his back and did a final sweep of the room with his eyes. His sunglasses sat on top of the dresser and he picked those up in his left hand before being ultimately satisfied that the room was empty. Dressed in fatigues and an otherwise military-looking garb, he fit in perfectly in the mercenary community of Asosa except for the fact that each and every one of them was still asleep and he was awake. Goodbye, he thought to himself as he left the room, letting the door shut silently behind him. As he slowly released the door knob, he could hear the mechanism lock back into place and with that, he walked down the wooden balcony towards the stairs at the other end. One glance below was all that he needed to see that the entire bar was empty. The place looking oddly serene in its emptiness but yet he still found it particularly unnerving and disturbing. Only three hours earlier, he had heard the commotion of a fight and then listened to a gurgling as one man choked on his own blood thanks to a horrific knife wound. Whatever the argument had been about it had definitely ended there as the Ethiopian man bled to death in the back alley, where his bloody body had been dragged after the fight had ended.

Activity in the bar had resumed its regular pace, barely skipping a beat and by now, even the blood had been mopped off of the floor. There bore little resemblance now than what the bar had been only hours earlier. He put the thoughts out of his mind as his boots echoed on the wooden steps. Underneath his weight, the wood creaked and dust fell to the ground from its joints. The staircase was in shabby condition but it would hold well despite weight and the weight of anyone traversing its thirteen steps to or from the upstairs rooms. Deckard ignored the slave girl who was wiping down glasses behind the bar and exited the bar just in time to see the colors of the sky begin to change. He wondered when blue hour was and whether or not he had missed it, a time that he had always appreciated when he and Lola were living in Poland, both of them somehow awake to watch the dawn sunrise. Most of the times it was because Lola had awoken him in the early morning and with a malicious smirk, kissed him on his bicep and begged him for sex, not that she had to do much begging.

Their bedroom windows faced the east and if they opened the curtains, they could see the sunrise. Blue hour was a special time when there was neither complete darkness nor full daylight. For photographers it was a dream hour that was early in the morning and it always produced gorgeous photographs. Lola had dreamed of having enough money to buy a high-quality, film camera with which she could capture this magical hour. It was an unrealized dream of hers. Inside of Deckard's rucksack was a film camera that would have made her dream quite possible, if he had ever managed to find that magical time of the day again. He doubted he could and he lit a cigarette as he eyed his vehicle, a rugged, off-road Land Rover Wolf. It wasn't new and it had plenty of body rot on its doors but it was powered by diesel fuel and while it wasn't the fastest vehicle in Ethiopia, he could go virtually anywhere he wanted with it. He noticed that Father Claudio was already waiting by it with his own rucksack. He maintained his priestly garb and gave a minor tug on his collar as he saw Deckard approach the vehicle. "Mister Deckard, I half expected you to be late."

"Punctuality," Deckard began, "truly never was my strong point but you owe me a trip."

"And so I do, I hope you brought enough food and water for a few days on our own."

"I have enough supplies to get us through a week and a half."

"You'll need them, iodine tablets?"

"Plenty."

"Good because we're only using the truck today. After that we're on our own."

"I'm looking forward to it Father," Deckard unlocked the doors and tossed his bags onto the back seat. Father Claudio did the same thing and laughed at the concept that anyone would lock his doors in Asosa. The place was so full of cutthroat fiends and vermin that a simple lock on a door wasn't even going to slow anyone down. All it would do is lead to broken glass. As the two of them climbed into the front seats, Deckard looked at Father Claudio who donned a particularly unfashionable hat atop his head. He threw a pair of sunglasses on his face and leaned backwards just a tad. "So where am I heading?"

"Do you know where Dembi Dolo is?"

"No," Deckard started the engine and watched as the tachometer stabilized. "Where is it?"

"A few hours south so we'd better get on the move. It's rough terrain and we won't be averaging more than fifty kilometers per hour and it's three hundred and twenty-five kilometers away. So get on that road there and just head south until you reach Bambishi, it's about forty-five kilometers away. When you get to Bambishi the road is going to fork, you're going to want to stay to the right."

"And from there?"

"That's when you can wake me up, I'm going to nap." Father Claudio closed his eyes and strapped on his seat belt as Deckard put the transmission into gear and slowly pulled forward. He was driving away from Asosa shortly thereafter and did just as Father Claudio had instructed, traveling all the way to Bambishi, ignoring the emptiness of the Ethiopian landscape and the blood that had been shed on its roads and in its fields. At Bambishi, he took the right, just as Father Claudio had instructed and then roused him from his sleep. He awoke with little more than a snort and he was far from startled, almost as if he had anticipated being woken up, and thus awoken prior to Deckard's rousing him. "All right now where am I going?" Deckard asked quickly thereafter.

"Keep going on this road, we're going to take it past Belho and then we're in nomad's land, sort of. It's a little over thirty-seven kilometers to the next turn. I'll instruct you when we're there." They continued to drive, the two of them silent to one another. They eventually rounded a bend and saw a small village to their right. A signpost ahead pointed to the left to go to Cheme. "Take that left," Father Claudio instructed, breaking the silence. The truck bounced through a water-filled pothole and they turned left. Now stay on this road until we get to Dembi Dolo. Easy enough?"

"Yeah simple enough,"[/I] Deckard said a bit sarcastically. "What's in Dembi Dolo?"

"Where we're going to leave the car." Father Claudio said as if the answer was so obvious that it was pointless for him even to speak it. Father Claudio leaned forward and turned on the radio. There was only static but he fiddled with the knobs a bit until some sort of strange music came out of the truck's speakers. With the windows down and the breeze rolling through the cabin, it was difficult to make it out too clearly and so, in response, Father Claudio raised the volume. Whatever the music was, it was definitely Ethiopian and some sort of strange brand of Ethiopian pop music at that.

Hours later, they pulled into Dembi Dolo and Father Claudio instructed him which way to turn and where to go, leading him through the streets until he came to a small house on the southern part of the city. Father Claudio instructed Deckard to pull into a driveway and he did. The house looked empty and abandoned more than it looked occupied and Father Claudio smiled as he exited the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. He peered through the window at Deckard and offered that smile again, "We're staying here until it gets dark, turn off the engine, and bring your bag inside."

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June 22, 2011 - 21:30 hrs [UTC+3]
Dembi Dolo, Ethiopia
Southern Dembi Dolo
(8° 30' 50.54" N, 34° 48' 0.28" E)


The house was musty and it smelled badly of mold, mildew, and dust. Father Claudio had explained that the house had been purchased by the Church to serve as a home for missionaries. Unfortunately, nobody had used it except for Father Peter, who had been Father Claudio's predecessor in Ethiopia. All of the furniture had been covered with bed sheets and every one of them was covered with dust. Deckard used the bathroom, washed his faced off with a rag, and refilled his canteens before he collapsed onto one of the sofas, weary from the long drive. For hours, he had slept soundly while Father Claudio did much of the same, except on a bed that had neither sheets nor blankets with only one pillow that he found in the closet. In their slumber, the sun went down in Ethiopia and cast the country into darkness with just a sliver of a moon in the sky, which rapidly approached its third quarter phase. In the process, more and more stars became visible as the Earth rotated around its axis, putting more and more of its sky into total darkness.

Deckard, completely asleep on the sofa, was in some sort of trance as he dreamed of more times with Lola but these weren't dreams anymore; they were nightmares. With a sudden startle, Deckard erupted from his sleep and stood firm in the middle of the living room, his face, shirt, skin, and hair soaked with sweat. His heart was racing inside of his chest and his pulse throbbed with it. Father Claudio, having noticed this from the kitchen looked passive and unaffected. He eyed Deckard and gave him a puzzled, questioning look. "Just a bad dream, we ready?"

"Half an hour, get yourself ready. It's a long walk."

"Understood." Deckard said as he went back to the bathroom and saw just how covered in sweat he was. He washed his face off again, then washed down the rest of his body, and also proceeded to wash his shirt in the sink. He waited as his heart slowed down, used the toilet, and drank some water before coming out to find Father Claudio still where he had been, reading his Bible. "I'm ready,"

"We still have ten minutes to wait."

"Why?"

"Because in ten minutes we're not going to run into any patrols." They were in rebel-held territory and that meant regular rebel patrols around Dembi Dolo, which served as a sort of front-line battlefield for the ongoing strife between rebel and government forces. "The rebels who control Dembi Dolo retreat into their huts, houses, and bases at a quarter to ten every night. They go there and chew on their khat before they go out and terrorize the city for the night, where they rape and kill at will."

"And we're going to sneak past them?"

"Would you prefer we didn't?" Father Claudio eyed the assault rifle sitting on the floor. "That won't do you much good against them. There's too many."

"Fine, we'll wait." Deckard was too anxious to wait but he reserved himself to it, sat down on the sofa, and leaned his head back. The visions of what he had dreamt came back to him and he repressed an urge to scream in a fit of rage. "You know Father, when we get there, what assurances can you give me that I will speak to him?"

"What assurances? Father Claudio laughed and looked up from his Bible, "I can't give you a single assurance whatsoever except that you might enter the camp alive. Whether or not you leave it alive is up to you, well up to him."

"Thanks Father, you're really instilling my confidence in yourself."

"You asked for this, not me." He looked at his watch; "Get your stuff and meet me on the back porch. I have to lock up here. I don't want those rebels getting into here."

"About time," Deckard gathered his gear and left via the back door. As he did, Father Claudio put a barring mechanism into place on the front door, turned off the power and the water, and left the house through the back door, which he had barred similarly. All of the shades were drawn and the small missionary house had been returned to its skeletal, silent, unoccupied state. "Which way?" Deckard asked as the two of them stood on the porch.

"That way, I hope you brought a compass."

"I did."

"All right keep us heading southeast."

"How precisely?"

"Two degrees south from southeast. You understand?"

"Yes I do."

"Good let's keep walking we don't have much time before the sun rises again and we've got over sixteen kilometers to go." With that, they set off into the darkness of the night. Deckard guided himself with night vision goggles but Father Claudio, having none, used his own eyes. He had a strange sense of night vision that he had developed from his months in the jungle at Vosloo's camp. That sense of night vision wasn't as keen as that of an animal or as keen as Deckard's goggles provided but it was sufficient enough for him to avoid most obstacles and to keep himself heading in the right direction. As they wound their way out of Dembi Dolo, they found that the rebel-held city had grown particularly peaceful in these moments when the rebels weren't on the streets with their rifles and rocket launchers. Unfortunately, when they returned, that solace would be broken by the shrill screams of young girls being raped and grown men being executed and tortured, all out of some godless, sadistic pleasure in celebration of inhumanity.

They crossed the main road and continued southeast, walking away from homes and other structures, keeping themselves away from any sources of habitation so as to stay hidden. The rebels certainly wouldn't find their behavior too normal and they would either capture and question them or mistake them for hostiles and shoot them outright. They walked at a moderate pace and after an hour and a half of walking; they left the final outskirts of the city and entered uninhabited jungle. They continued to walk in silence and stopped after two hours. They were far enough past the outskirts of the city that they could rest but they were still far away from where they would be stopping for the day. Father Claudio had already conceded that they were going to be traveling at night and not during the day. It was safer that way because of all of the rebel activity in the region.

After they resumed walking again, Deckard corrected their course a few degrees and continued pushing the two of them on at a regular, walking pace. Neither had talked to one another until now except when Father Claudio called for them to rest. It was then that they had a sip of their canteen water to keep their palates moist. Several minutes later though, Deckard had found the silence too uncomfortable and he began a series of questions that Father Claudio derided at first but who found himself soon accommodating his traveling companion. "So the rebels let Vosloo operate here? I thought they hated him."

"Everyone hates him but everyone still fears his ghost."

"But do they know that he's still alive?"

"The rebels around here know that someone controls this region and that he is powerful. They assume that it is Vosloo even if they don't have physical proof of it."

"What do they do?"

"They avoid this whole area. Dembi Dolo is their outpost. There are a few, small villages between Dembi Dolo and the camp but none of them are too heavily occupied by rebel forces, if at all. They mostly exist peacefully and quietly. The occupants don't stray too far from the village and if they go anywhere, it's directly to Dembi Dolo."

"What about the government what do they know?"

"The government is happy in its ignorance of this area. If the time comes that they actually attack Dembi Dolo then they might learn of the 'presence,' as they call it that haunts this region."

"The presence?"

"Yeah that's basically what they call Vosloo's ghost. They feel it when they are walking and the patrols that have come through here spoke of unseen warriors who slit the throats of their companions with lightning speed and sheer silence. They would simply turn around and find the bodies of their companions dead. They became frightened of the jungles here and since then they haven't come back, it has been quiet peaceful. Vosloo knows exactly how to treat the rebels here."

"How is that?"

"With all of the evil that Satan can afford."

"Then why are we coming back?"

"You asked to come here and I too have unfinished work here. The Devil is a madman you see but in human form, he is but a defeatable foe."

"Defeatable?"

"I'll explain later, let's just keep walking we have a long way to go and we'll have plenty of time for chit-chat as we continue." Deckard shrugged his shoulders and they continued into the jungle. Every two hours they stopped and every two hours they covered six kilometers. However, after the second stop, with less than five kilometers to go, the skies overhead became suddenly blacker. The light of the stars faded away and the sound of thunder rolled in from the distance. Lightning erupted and Deckard had to shed his night vision goggles. The terrain they were entering became rough and their pace slowed significantly. The rains started with three kilometers to go and it came down heavy at first. Then it slowed and then it came down heavy again. The trees did something to shield them from the big clumps of cold water that fell from the sky but overall, the two men were still soaked from head to toe by the time they stopped again.

They walked, they rested, they walked, they rested, and they covered ground at an arduous pace. The terrain grew rougher and rougher as they trekked on, towards some distant destination known only to Father Claudio prompting Deckard to ask a simple yet morbid question, "And if something were to happen to you on this journey? Say you were bitten by a snake? You fall into a bear trap, step on a land mine, something. What then will come of me? How will I know where to go?"

Father Claudio laughed as they sat there, resting again. Both of them were weary now and Father Claudio could tell that they wouldn't be going very much further. "Then you'll just have to find Vosloo on your own."

"That doesn't give me much help now does it?"

"I guess you ought to protect me from snakes and bear traps then."

"Guess so, where are we heading for now?"

"It's not much further, maybe a kilometer and a half to go."

"Then let's get on it, I can almost feel the rain inside of my body."

"Agreed," they continued onward for another kilometer and a half, just as Father Claudio had said until they came to a group of trees that looked vastly different from others. There was a secret within them. Deckard looked confused but before he could ask any questions, Father Claudio pointed upwards, and Deckard, obeying, following the direction and looked. What he found was an elevated hide site, something that had been constructed by human beings, skilled ones too. "We climb and stay there until it's night again. The next hide site is too far away for us to reach before the sun rises and I'm too tired to keep going. We can stay dry in there."

"Good," Deckard immediately began to climb first, using the branches to get him up to the hide site, which was about fifteen meters off of the ground. He found that it was well made and easily capable of withstanding the strongest thunderstorms that Ethiopia could offer against it. Sheltered from above and from the sides, the hide site was a perfect sniper's perch, it was also the perfect place to launch an attack from, and Deckard wondered if he would find anyone inside of it. He gave a few glances down, just to make sure that Father Claudio was following and the fact that he was made Deckard feel slightly easier about this whole ordeal. He would have been lying if he had been asked whether or not he felt confident or frightened and he replied that he was confident and not frightened. A strange feeling of anxiety rushed up from his stomach and he caught a lump in his throat just as he neared the top. Because he needed both hands to climb, he was at a major disadvantage and if the site was occupied and he had to reach for his pistol, he would have definite problem and likely a deadly delay.

As luck would have it, as he reached the top of the site, he found it to be empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, climbed into it and turned his body around quickly. Below him, Father Claudio was struggling with the last branches on the way up and Deckard offered him his hand. "Here, let me help you."

"Thank you, my body is not what it used to be. This is dreadful enough." Father Claudio said as he was pulled into the hide site, panting, out of breath, his heart beating out of his chest. He sat still in the corner, enjoying the dryness of the site. He was soaked to the bone and so was Deckard too for that matter. Both of them would have to dry out on their own in the site but that wasn't going to be a hard task. With dawn coming and a break in the storm matching it, they could hang their clothes outside and wait for the heat of the day to come and dry them out at least enough to wear when they started out again in the evening.

Deckard popped himself down in a far corner and scanned the site, still wearing his night vision goggles. "How do you know about this place?"

"I helped build it," Father Claudio said as he caught his breath. "I cut the wood. Penance for my sins."

"How is this Penance? You were helping the Devil?"

"Was I? Or am I utilizing this place just as well?"

"I don't see a Bible camp here."

"You should argue religion with someone else Deckard. I'm too tired right now to continue to justify my beliefs for no purpose. It isn't as if you're going to change your opinion are you?"

"No, no I'm not Father."

"Then let us sleep for now. When the sun rises, after the storm breaks, we'll dry out our clothes."

"And you know the storm will break how? Divine inspiration?"

"No. The rain is lightening. It has a little and the wind shifted. It will stop shortly after dawn."

"I hope you're right."

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June 23, 2011 - 14:05 hrs [UTC+3]
Karo, Ethiopia
Nearby Hide Site
(8° 24' 43.41" N, 34° 53' 39.85" E)


Deckard didn't even realize that he had fallen asleep. Sitting in the hide site only inches away from Father Claudio, soaking and dripping wet, Deckard had put his back against the wooden wall of what amounted to an adult tree house, and dropped away mid-sentence. His arms went limp and his voice trailed off into unintelligible mutterings before his eyes closed and the dark world in front of him became an even darker world inside of him. His mind drifted to the past but made its way there through the present. He watched himself from above, walking through the jungle, arguing with Father Claudio, resting, drinking, peeing, defecating, sneezing, coughing, eating, everything. Time ran backwards at a pace that grew geometrically faster as his brain rewound the day until he was at last sitting in the living room of his house in Poland. The scene was so vivid, so clear, so tangible that he believed he was there more than he believed he was in Ethiopia.

He could smell the morning dew, feel the chilly but foggy air on his exposed skin, see the coming rays of dawn and daylight, hear the sounds of birds chirping, and even taste the humidity from the fog. An unseen voice called to him from a room behind and he strained to hear it. The voice was decidedly feminine and familiar but whose he did not know. "Would you like some breakfast?" The voice called to him and he grunted that he would but evidently, it wasn't heard. The question was asked a second, a third, a fourth time before the radiance of an angel blinded his eyesight and repelled all of the other sensory perceptions his mind was registering. "Yes," he replied and in the present, in the hide site, in the tree above the Ethiopian ground, he mouthed the words. Father Claudio knew that he was dreaming and that he was in a foreign place but where, Father Claudio knew not. It could have been Shangri-La for all Father Claudio knew. The angel's radiance evaporated as she ducked into the room again and with a rush as if it were a crashing swell during a hurricane, the flood of sensory perceptions returned to his brain. They came back stronger than ever and included pain, a gut-wrenching pain that felt as if his stomach had been swatted by a two-by-four.

He lurched out of the chair and in the present, his whole body jumped but awoke he did not. He remained seated in the corner, his back to the wall, his head resting on his right shoulder. In his own mind, he ran into what was a bathroom or so what a bathroom might look like in this Polish world. The toilet stared at him like a monster and he dove headfirst into it, his mouth open, his skin covered in a cold, clammy sweat. His body was shaking from the chills, he was vomiting into this toilet, and the sensation of it burned his throat both in the past and in the present. The taste of it made him cough in the present and he resumed his torment and beatings as a poisonous liquid was expelled forcibly out of his stomach, up his throat, and into the toilet bowl, which hungered for more.

He struggled for air as he gasped and heaved. His face turned red and a blood vessel underneath his right eye popped inside of his skin. He sat back and he was immediately blinded by the radiance of the angel. He was sitting against the ceramic tub and it was more than uncomfortable. His heart raced and his stomach hurt worse than it had before. The two-by-four that had been used to beat him had been repeatedly swung again and again. The angel sat down next to him, put her arm around his shoulder, and pulled him towards her. He could smell her skin, her hair, even her radiance. It was fresh and it was unlike anything else he had smelled before. He was pulled closer to her and his head came to rest right above her breasts, where a tank top covered them but only barely. Her skin was warm but yet it cooled his face as she held him, her lips on his forehead, extinguishing the fire that burned underneath his skin. "It's all right my prince, it's all right." The angel said in a voice so beautiful that Heaven itself was Earthly in comparison. "It's okay, you'll be all right." She held him and he sunk lower, falling over her breasts, down her chest, and to her lap, where he felt the coolness of her thighs. She wasn't wearing shorts or pants and he was thankful for it as her skin doused the flames underneath his skin. Her arms held him.

He opened his eyes and started up at her, at the angel that was holding him, making him feel human again. The angel was keeping him on Earth and not somewhere else, which was ironic in that she was an angel. Her eyes glowed with beauty and her soft skin was as natural as it had been on the day she had been born. Her hair fell on her shoulders and he could smell it still. He looked up, saw her face, and knew that it was Lola, his angel. "Why do I do this to myself?" He asked both there and in Ethiopia. "I don't know, I wish you wouldn't," tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed against his face. "Please stop, I beg you, be with me." The angel said and he nodded. He closed his eyes and buried his face against her skin, finding comfort and solace in its coolness. His face was still aflame and no matter what temperature her body or skin was it was far below his. "I love you," he said and with that, a startling jump, and a violent shudder took him out of Poland and back to Ethiopia. He was thrown so violently from his dream that he was now seated against the opposite side of the hide site.

The sun was up, there was a humid, muggy heat in the air and he was gasping for air. His heart raced faster than a supersonic fighter jet and his chest heaved up and down as he struggled to catch his breath. Sweat soaked his body through his clothes and he made several unintelligible noises as his body eased itself down. Father Claudio looked at him and nodded with excitement, "You gave me quite a startle there."

"Just a bad dream Father."

"Dreams are neither bad nor good. They simply are what they are, manifestations of the subconscious mind. They are nothing more and nothing less. It is our interpretation of them that lends itself to whether they are good or bad, delightful or nightmarish."

"Wise words Father, what time is it?"

"Half passed two." Deckard's eyes widened and he drew closer to Father Claudio. "You've been asleep for almost twelve hours; I didn't feel the need to wake you since we cannot go down yet."

"Twelve hours! But Father, that is preposterous."

"Why is that so? Time is easy to tell, I am no mathematician but I can deduct fourteen from two and round." Father Claudio took a sip of some tea he had only just made.

"Father I haven't slept more than four hours straight for as long as I can remember and being in a coma in the hospital doesn't count."

"Perhaps that is why you've just slept for twelve. The human body needs sleep just as the skin needs sunlight." In the distance, a rifle shot echoed loudly and it broke the eerie silence from outside of the hide site. "And that is why we cannot leave."

"Who's shooting who?"

"Don't know but they are close, four hundred, maybe five hundred meters away. There was a lot of gunfire only two hours ago but you did not stir. You've been mouthing words and moving around a lot. It was a restless sleep was it not?"

"Father I am a little disoriented right now."

"You are dehydrated. You've been sweating as if you have a fever higher than Hell itself could bestow. Drink." He handed him a canteen that was heavy, full, and cool. "You must replenish your electrolytes so I added a booster pack to the canteen. Drink it." As if Deckard had never received military or intelligence training, Deckard did as he had been instructed. In one guzzle, he had downed a third of the canteen and when he pulled the canteen away, he was again, gasping for air.

"Oh God the last time I tasted anything that good."

"You were an alcoholic were you not?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Things you said in your sleep."

"I still am Father."

"Why do you drink then?"

"Why do you?" Another gunshot echoed, this one a bit more distance and it was immediately followed by six more, in rapid succession. Someone had an automatic rifle. Both of them suddenly realized that they hadn't drank in some time and a craving began to build within their bellies.

"I drink because it is my only vice and every man needs a vice." It was no answer but Father Claudio had no desire to make peace with this particular demon within him just yet.

"Is that even an answer?"

"It is the one you shall receive if you persist upon asking that question."

"Fine, I drink because when I am numb all of the horrible things I've done in life, had done to me, or will do suddenly seem trivial and I can go about breathing without thinking of the past, the present, or the future."

"But Deckard, you stated you work for an international peace organization." Father Claudio had a sense of doubt in his voice, the same sense he had in the bar when they first spoke.

"I do now but not always. Perhaps you saw the building of this as a way to atone for your sins well this quest is mine, if you can appreciate the reference."

"I can Deckard." For two more hours they conversed and on a seemingly more personal level than they had before. Gunfire and explosions continued to backdrop the afternoon sky until finally, they just stopped, without any warning, without any indication that they were truly done, but they were done. One minute passed, then five, then ten, then twenty, then thirty, then an hour, then two, and then the sun was gone. They set out again at half passed nine in the evening and walked straight through until dawn on the twenty-fourth, covering twelve almost twenty kilometers. It took them seven hours of walking to cover the distance and that was a slow pace but they found themselves another hide site, this one just as sparse, just as elevated, just as bleak. They ascended it with precaution but found it empty, just as the last one. Relief once again washed over their brains as they rested.

.:|:. due to NS Forums character limit please see continuation in the next post .:|:.