Rumors of revolt in diamond-rich Zanjizuba (Open)

[Zanjizuba]

The sun beat down on the backs of the thousands of men and women, bent double over the muddy bed through which a river had flowed until the rains stopped a month ago. The air was silent except for the buzzing of mosquitoes and the occasional shout of one of the boys toting rifles who kept watch on them from the top of the bank. Now and again one would bend down, scrape around in the mud, and come up with a bright object that he or she would scrutinize for a second, before waving a hand. One of the boys would signal to an older man, equally well-armed, who would approach, examine the object, and either pocket it or toss it back. In either case, the discoverer would generally receive his thanks or rebuke in the form of a kick or a slap.

Down the line a group of men were humming a tune that the rest of the pickers knew. The armed men and boys didn’t, and saw it as a sign of subversion. A burst of rifle fire put a stop to the noise, even as it echoed up out of the bed and into the trees that surrounded them.

“You stoppa that singina, ye baster. You gonna pick de diamond for de emperor Bhalk, not here for de singina, bastera!”

The shout of the big colonel, sitting on a wicker chair, rifle held in one hand pointed up, echoed out over the crews. He glared at them through a pair of Ray Bans, which were small on his fat round face.

“Ye gon work har for Bhalk man, or he gon come an giyu his mine, ye baster.”

The man pulled the trigger and the rifle jumped erratically in his fat, powerful arm. He cradled the rifle in his lap and sat back, contentedly. A boy brought him a bottle of beer, and he took it, slapping at him before the child jumped away. The boy was wearing rags, not unlike the uniforms of his betters who stood perched up and down the riverbank in every direction for two miles. But he was different, cowed by the colonel’s presence.

The colonel drained the bottle and called out for another. He sat back and shifted his great bulk in the chair. His eye caught the form of a plump young woman, bent double picking along the creek that had carried the alluvial diamonds down from the big pipe in the hills, over the border. He grinned and licked his lips.

“Ye! Git oer here, now, my girl,” he shouted. When she continued working her unfortunate route, he signaled to one of the bigger armed boys, who rushed over to the girl and grabbed her by the arms. She screamed, but again a burst of rifle fire drowned it out, giving way to the colonel’s laughter.

“Gon now, bring dem here,” he said, chuckling. The boy dragged the young woman over, and her resistance diminished as she was overpowered.

Down the line, the commotion had begun to attract attention. Picks and shovels stopped, people stood up and watched quietly. The colonel admired his newly plucked prize, and a group of armed boys began to drift over, grinning. They were so distracted, they didn’t notice some of their charges begin to leave their posts.

“Daughter waka the colonel, over there,” said one big serf under his breath. His companions on the line looked over at him. He shook his head, and stood up. He began to walk towards the crowd, who were closing in on the girl.

He made good progress, cradling the handle of a pickaxe easily in a single big hand, the other hanging by his side. He cast a wide shadow, and in it a few others had cautiously stepped to follow him.

The colonel was laughing as he removed his Ray Bans, revealing a pair of yellow eyes. He shuffled in his chair, trying to get up. The boy that was his valet rushed to his side, struggling in vain to lift him to his feet. He gained the upper hand against the chair, and lumbered forward. The girl was limp in the arms of the warrior boy in front of him as he advanced, distracted.

A burst of rifle fire, not his, shook the colonel’s attention. He looked up just in time to see the big man bearing down on him, chest a bloody mess, but the ax still raised with singular purpose. It was the last thing he saw as the blade buried itself deep into his skull, his yellow eyes turning red.

The bed erupted with shouts and gunfire, and the diamonds were forgotten.

*

“What do you mean the shipment is delayed?”

Emperor Kurtz, DDS, spit the question out at his adjutant slowly. He sat entirely still, not so much as a hair on his great brown beard trembled as he did so. The adjutant could not meet his eyes. He stammered out a response in his best received pronunciation, although every racing thought going through his head was in his native tongue at this particular moment.

“Your Majesty, there has been unrest in the Ggobo fields. It is nothing serious, and I am told that the army has things under control. However, your Majesty, it has unfortunately delayed the collection in that province. I am certain that the taxation we have recently imposed on the farmers in the region will more than make up for it.”

Kurtz didn’t blink.

“The taxation. On the farmers. Unrest. In Ggobo.”

The Emperor’s Minister of Finance, who sat cross-legged across the room, behind the adjutant, watched him with keen interest. The adjutant had only recently been appointed to his post, and there were bets going around as to how long he would last.

“Yes, your Majesty. You understand, the Digoba workers there, they resent being placed under your overseers, who are, as you understand, of the Tsogibo-”

“Major, are you implying that I do not understand the tribal animosities of my people?”

The adjutant stopped in mid-sentence, and turned pale white.

“Your Excellency, under no circumstances would I-”

The Emperor raised a hand, and stood up behind the vast desk that separated him from the adjutant.

“I believe I remember that you were an educated man, Major. However, perhaps the details of international trade were not explained to you in great detail during your schooling abroad. You see, the nation of Zanjizuba is poor in arable land. We thus must rely on what we can obtain from abroad. But we have no gold. We have no salt. We have no credit! Thus, Major, to obtain what we require to feed ourselves, what do we have to trade?”

The Emperor reached into a pocket of the vast leopard-skin robe that covered his bulk, and withdrew a fist. He opened it, and revealed a massive diamond. It was uncut, but even the untrained eyes of the adjutant could see it was close to 30 carats. The finance minister grinned.

“Mr. Abuka,” said the Emperor, addressing him. “Who is our largest trading partner?”

“The Borman Empire,” he replied, icily.

“And who rules the Borman Empire?”

“Why, Emperor Bhalk of course.”

“And what does the Emperor Bhalk ask of us, to keep our trade routes open?”

“Why. Diamonds, your Majesty.”

The Emperor wheeled on the adjutant, and seized his pencil neck with one of his massive hands. He leaned his bearded face in close to the man, and spoke slowly, so that the spittle that missed the bristles of his beard covered the adjutant’s face in a fine white sheen.

“And we have an agreement with Emperor Bhalk, you understand. And you understand as well that if we do not deliver the volume of diamonds that we have agreed, our trade will collapse. And if our trade collapses, our finances collapse. And if our finances collapse, the entire apparatus that allows me to keep your terrible little tribe from being devoured by your enemies collapses. And they eat you.”

The adjutant was shaking.

The Emperor released him, and stepped back, turning to walk back to his desk. He paused for a minute to stare at a large life-size portrait of his grandfather, who had first discovered this country and its alluvial deposits nearly a century ago.

“You will rectify this. Presently.”

The adjutant backed out of the room.

*

Rumors of revolt in diamond-rich Zanjizuba

By Bernard Stephens, staff reporter

News broke this morning of a revolt among the Digoba people of Ggobo province in the hermit nation of Zanjizuba. This is only the latest in a series of rumored uprisings in the country, which has long been considered an international pariah for the human rights abuses of its government, including rumors that its reclusive leader, a former dentist, has enslaved vast numbers of the country’s citizens to fuel a lucrative export trade in alluvial diamonds.

While the country has reportedly faced unrest in the past, these uprisings have so far been unsuccessful, faced with well-coordinated militias comprising members of the dominant Tsogibo ethnic group backed by a legion of foreign mercenaries. However, experts on the tiny nation have told us that, to date, none have ever heard so many concurrent reports of unrest, especially in the tightly-controlled diamond producing provinces in the country’s interior. Should these prove more successful than those in the past, the international community would be curious to see how Zanjizuba’s sole ally, the bloodthirsty Borman Empire, will react…

[Borman Empire]

Emperor Bhalk took a long drag from his cohiba, eyes resting lazily ahead of him. The crystal waters of the Imperial pool undulated, disturbed by the cohort of beautiful, naked women splashing around. He tapped the ash off the end of his cigar while he took a long pull from his Mojito. Much had changed over the last 6 years, but his hedonistic tendencies had not.

He spied a beautiful young blonde, one whom he didn’t seem to recognize. Why sure, he may have had her during an alcohol-fueled orgy…but she didn’t seem the faintest bit familiar. He carefully laid his cigar across his ashtray and signaled for more drinks to be brought over. Just as he untied the strings on his swim shorts, Chancellor Licinius walked briskly into the room.

“Sir!”

“What is it now, Licinius?”

“Zanjizuba.”

“For Christ’s sake, can this wait?”

“Yes, absolutely. I’ll find you tomorrow.”

Licinius turned and began to exit, almost as quickly as he had entered. Bhalk disappointingly stared down at his swim shorts, the bulge having entirely disappeared. He haphazardly chucked his crystal glass against the wall, the unexpected shattering stopping the din of pool festivities immediately.

“Fuck you Licinius. Can’t fuck with you jumping around in my head,” he exclaimed, grabbing his cohiba and replacing it to his lips. “Ladies, I’ll be back.”

---------------------------

Bhalk sat at the head of the ornate conference table. A thick sheet of glass gave view to intricate woodcarvings the entire length of the table; wars and campaigns were immortalized here, and for some sad nations – this was their only legacy. As he leaned back in his chair, a Shooban ran over and handed him a crystal glass of Lagavulin.

As he sipped the glass and thought, Licinius briefed him of the developing situation in Zanjizuba. Sprawled in front of him was a newspaper from last week, propped open to the recent article by Bernard Stephens.

After Licinius finished speaking, Bhalk remained silent for several minutes. A younger, more brash Chancellor might have broken the silence – but Licinius knew better. He waited for what seemed to be 20 minutes, but was certainly closer to 5, before Bhalk finally broke the silence.

“I don’t need to tell you that this is unacceptable. Our banners have fluttered quietly for far too long; our people grow weary and bored. We need those diamonds. A new Imperial palace, inlaid entirely with alluvial diamonds – it would be a great wonder. Our people would go mad with pride and celebration. The unrest caused by our so called Pax Bormana would be broken.

“And I need those diamonds. You’ve done well in supplying me with a fresh crop of beautiful women for my bourgeoning harem…but many of them have never known a gift from their Emperor. Maybe of them have never known what it’s like to use their mouth and pick their new gift off my erect cock. Can we rightfully deny them such pleasures? Such experiences?”

“No, of course not.”

“We can’t rightfully turn back now – the palace is already well underway. We most certainly can’t accept delays. Which leaves one thing: deployment.”

“…Deployment, sir?”

“Yes, deployment. Advisors, trade agents, one thousand – actually, make it two thousand - more rifles, and 500 Raptors.”

Licinius looked perplexed. Once upon a time, the Raptors were the most elite unit of Borman Empire’s elite military. They were a conventional force with special operations training that were equally at home lurking in the shadows or leading full scale invasions of nations and continents. In fact, they favored prominently into the carvings of the conference room table. But years ago the unit was disbanded, or more specifically, replaced by the Frogman program. The Empire’s Frogmen were drawn at a younger age and went through more extensive mental testing before an even more exhaustive physical selection program – only to be greeted with more frequent and extensive training. They were clearly a better military force.

“Licinius, are you losing your edge? You used to be merely a few seconds behind my mind – now I’m not sure. The Frogmen are more elite and better trained, they’ve also got a prestigious name to maintain. I don’t want any Raptors who became Frogmen, only those who couldn’t make the transition or decided to stay with the unit. We have some, what, five thousand or so still active?”

“Somewhere around there, yes.”

“They’re bloodthirsty savages who used to be the most elite, and they lost out. They’re bitter, hungry, erratic killing machines who are already backed into a corner. Zanjizuba doesn’t require the training of the Frogmen, but it does require the Raptors’ anger and…sadism.”

“I’ll send it all via a Vercetti Frigate, should arrive within seven days.”

“Excellent. Now bring me that blonde.”

[Zanjizuba]

Preacher John stood sweating under his white vestments, contemplating the flock that had gathered before him. The congregation had been dwindling steadily since he took up his post here nearly a year ago, as the young men were taken off to the dry riverbeds and the creeks, and their wives stayed home to hide from the boy soldiers who prowled in their absence.

The men and women were back here now, and the boy soldiers were gone, except for the few that had been left out on the split rail fence as a warning to their companions.

John had sung hymns and led the congregation in prayer the week before, but now as he contemplated the sermon he had scribbled out in advance, he knew it would fall flat. Things had changed dramatically over the past week, and not just in terms of the size of his congregation. The message would have to be changed, tailored to something else.

John had seen the civil wars in Djogobo when he was a child. He had known friends dragged off to join the militias, encountered them later only as drugged up zombies, crazed for blood. He knew what these sorts of events could lead to – in all probability would lead to here in his adopted country. But these people were leaderless, and he was the only shepherd in town. Could he, in good conscience, preach peace and tell them to turn the other cheek, now after they had forged their ploughshares (and pickaxes, and shovels) into swords?

“Me bredra,” he said, in a low voice, slipping into his foreign creole that his congregation found so humorous in less serious times. “De empra Bhalk ha made thee go pick de diamond.”

He looked out sternly over the congregation, and his voice rose.

“He be made fat on de, but he have de prou heart, and you know he stir up de strife among de people. De diamon, it is de temptation for de wicked man, and de wicked man rule on you like de king Saul. You, de people, look up at d’example de David, now. You gon to face down de giant, and you know, de Lord he gon watch out for you.”

The faces in the crowd were all on him, and he could see a group even gathering around the entrance of the little whitewashed clapboard structure he had thrown up himself with a few of the local boys who had escaped the draft.

“Dat man, Bhalk, and de man Kurtz, dey got de armies, and dey got de guns. Dey tell us God tell us, let them have de diamond, dey say render to de king, you hear. But now, nonthem know God, and we know what dey say be for demselv.”

He was warming to his subject, and he stepped out from behind the altar, to get closer to the people.

“It is de diamon, dat is root of all evil. God say, money is de root of de evil. Was Jesus Christ turn over de table and trow de money man out de temple, ya? Was Jesus Christ tell us, trow dese men out dat trample us down!”

Suddenly, he noticed a commotion at the back of the church, a few of the young men turning around, some reaching under the pews for hidden weapons. He heard shouting outside, them that sound that he knew all too well from his childhood in Djogobo.

A bullet whistled through the open doorway, and embedded itself in the altar, less than a foot behind him. He heard war cries and whooping boys out in the streets, and the young men who had moments before been listening to him were now lying on the ground returning fire.

*

Preacher pours gas on Ggobo fire

By Bernard Stephens, staff reporter

Details of the ongoing unrest in the Ggobo region of Zanjizuba remain sketchy – the country does after all largely still rely on satellite phones and word of mouth for communication with the outside world. That said, members of the Zanjizu expatriate community have recently informed me that a previously unknown preacher, a foreigner known as John, has taken a leading role in organizing Digoba resistance to security forces loyal to the country’s self-proclaimed Emperor, a former dentist known as Kurtz.

The identity of this man, and the possible religious character of the purported liberation movement, are all too unclear. At the same time, knowledgeable sources here have suggested that a militia that has organized itself around the holy man have recently scored a significant victory over the forces of the regime – a motley collection of militias and foreign mercenaries paid for in uncut diamonds. Some have even suggested a millenarian tint to the movement, and snippets of quotations from the priest have provided a hint of his plan: the permanent closure and destruction of the alluvial diamond fields that provide Zanjizuba with its lifeline to the outside world. What impact this will have on the country’s economy – and its trade relations with the murderous fascists of the Borman Empire – only time will tell.

*

Kurtz carefully set the satellite phone down on the desk, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Mr. Abuka, do you know who that was?”

“I do not, your Majesty.”

“Chancellor Licinius, of the Borman Empire.”

Abuka’s face darkened.

“And?”

“We are to make immediate preparations to receive a contingent of ‘advisors.’”

“Advisors?”

“Military advisors.”

“Oh.”

Kurtz turned around in his chair and looked up at the portrait of his grandfather.

“You will prepare the airfield at Djonguw. You will receive them personally.”

“Your Majesty.”

[Borman Empire]

As the first of three Gladiator class VTOL aircraft touched down at Djonguw, Jorgensen finished his gin and tonic and placed the glass down curtly. He admired the glimmer of the ruby cast in his pinky ring before removing it and dropping it into his pocket. He’d spent the better part of a decade as a member of the elite Raptor unit before he transitioned to the role of a political advisor. At this point in his life, he’d spent more time enjoying the finer things…but it felt good to be back among his brothers. He wanted to identify more with them, especially now that they seemed so hungry since the introduction of the Frogman project.

Jorgensen pushed the sporty black glasses against his face before he strolled out the rear-opening bird. The Frigate from which they had departed was still several days out; but this small element had been dispatched ahead of time to begin work. Two full platoons of Raptors would disembark, along with a handful of advisors and one trade analyst, and Jorgensen – better known as Jorgensen the joy.

Jorgensen strolled slowly forward, flanked by a handful of Raptors. He let his oddly ornate combat boots come to a rest while still in the rotor wash; the group as a whole seemed oddly still, save for the fluttering of their clothes and uniforms. Jorgensen seemed to beckon the delegation from Zanjizuba to approach more rapidly, which they did.

As the group came face to face, Jorgensen nodded in the direction of a larger member of the opposing team. He was pretty sure he was a prominent Tsogibo, but he wasn’t sure, and honestly didn’t care.

Before he was done nodding, a Raptor grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him cleanly off the ground. He tightened his grip. One of the man’s compatriots reached for his gun, but a second Raptor leapt forward. One hand pressed the man’s pistol back in his holster while a second slid a blade quickly across his throat. As the blood spurted out, the first Raptor threw the Tsogibo member on the ground and delivered two quick and heavy stomps to his face.

Jorgensen identified the man he believed to be in charge of the group and took a step towards him. “That’s how you deal with trouble. Now show me your trouble.”

[Atlantian Dominions]

The Presidential Residence reflected the federal government of the Confederacy rather well, in that it was a marvelous edifice for something that was nearly empty. The Dominion governments which all theoretically answered to the federal government had spent all of Atlantian history making sure they never gave ground in any realm of power. The President conducted foreign policy, mediated disputes between Dominions, and commanded the federal armed forces—a grand Navy that mostly fought pirates and escorted shipping, and an Army that would be mistaken by most militaries for a single corps. This left Presidents with quite an open schedule.

That was why Eric Corner could make a call at eleven in the morning and be walking through the front door of the Residence only two hours later, and that was with an hour for lunch. There was plenty of beauty to admire as he crossed the short distance from the limousine to the entrance, and not just in the architecture. Emerging from the Residence on tall wedge heels was one of the president’s personal aides, a buxom woman nearly spilling out of a black leotard accented to imitate a butler. She leaned forward gratuitously to accept Eric’s hat and coat and then gestured that he should follow her inside. The walk into the Residence and up the stairs to the second floor gave him plenty of time to admire the view. More women, a snapshot of beauty from around the world, passed near them. Maids performed domestic tasks engineered to cause raised skirts while secretaries in near parodies of business attire hustled around with papers or tablets in hand.

The aide cracked open a door and then stood to the side, allowing Eric to push the door fully open and walk into the room where President Gilmore was waiting. The old man was sitting at the far end of a long conference table with his jacket off, around one third of the way into a cheroot. He stood up as Eric entered.

“Ah, Corner, how’s life on Gold Street, eh?” Gilmore extended a hand and Eric shook it with a casual politeness. “Anything to drink?” The President of the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions pressed a buzzer which summoned another bunny butler from an adjoining room, then sent her off to fetch the drinks.

“Most things are looking up,” Eric said as he took a seat, draping his own jacket over the back of the chair. “That issue with the Saranidians seems to have evaporated, so the shipping lanes are back to calm.”

“But something’s not moving – the diamonds, am I right?” Gilmore chuckled as the wind left Eric’s sails for a moment. “I might not have much to do around here when we’re not in a shooting war, but I read the papers.” The President gestured to the Cumberland Sentinel lying atop a small stack of paperwork.

“You’ve got it,” Eric affirmed. “Coming out of Zanjee…Zanijuba…Zanjizuba,” he struggled to get the name right. “Some local nut over there has been good at getting the goods flowing, but it’s slowed recently. Some of my friends are getting antsy.”

At this point the aide—a dark-skinned woman whose hair was dyed a pleasingly contrasting red—returned with the drinks. Both men watched appreciatively as she made her way to them, a tumbler in each hand. Another low bend to place the glasses on the table, and then a firm slap on the ass from Gilmore sent her away. Eric took a drink, feeling the prime quality liquor slink down his throat.

“That’s the good stuff,” the President reminded him. “The real good stuff. Not the shit you get in the corporate sector that you think is good.”

Eric nodded. “Sometimes I do miss it,” he said wistfully. “But you won’t find me coming back to politics any time soon. Not even with all the extra goodies you’ve added to the place since I used to come here from Vandalia.”

Gilmore laughed, then sighed. “Anyway, I’ll talk to the boys at the Navy Department and see if we can send something big over to Zanzibar or whatever it’s called. Maybe a few Marines too. Call it ‘maintaining stability’ or something nice to keep the bleeding heart press happy.”

Eric nodded. “Thanks Jim. I knew we’d come to a good decision.”

“Now,” Gilmore said after downing his glass, “My man in Fairbank just put a new girl under contract here, a dancer with the best ass you’ve ever seen. How about we watch her put on a show?”

World Press Agency: Atlantian Dominions reacts to Zanjizuba crisis
Cumberland – President of the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions Jim Gilmore announced today that he had ordered military forces to stand by to deploy to the troubled nation of Zanjizuba. Increasing ethnic and tribal tensions in that country have threatened Atlantian commercial interests by slowing the mining and processing of diamonds and other rare minerals, which Atlantian companies purchase with shipments of grain and other foodstuffs. President Gilmore announced that a small task force of Atlantian warships and an accompanying force of Marines would be sent to Zanjizuba to help quell the disturbances and provide anti-insurgency support, should the local government desire their assistance. President Gilmore concluded by suggesting that any Atlantian citizens in Zanjizuba leave the country immediately.

* * *

Halfway across Atlantia, another meeting was taking place. Eight people huddled together in a small house on the outskirts of a major port city. All windows were covered by drapes and then blackout cloaks on top of that, so no light from the outside could enter – nor could anyone looking in see what was going on. The doors were locked and bolted. Five of the people inside had weapons close to hand, ready to respond to any incursion with torrents of automatic fire. They stood ready while the other three sat and talked.

“My sources inside the palace say that there will be warships and Marines sent to Zanjizuba,” a tall man said. “They will try and put down the revolution there to keep the diamonds flowing, and make sure their pet dictator doesn’t look elsewhere for his food shipments.”

“I expected as much,” replied an older woman in a foreign accent. “I have sent word to my contacts back home. They will help our brothers and sisters get what they need.”

“Why do we care?” The third person spat out. “Our fight is here. Our preparations are so very close to completion. Why divert any effort, any thought, to these people?”

“Because oppression anywhere is abominable,” the woman explained. “And because the worse we make it for President Gilmore and his friends in Zanjizuba, the more time he will spend thinking about it.”

“And the less time he’ll spend remembering we’re still here,” the man chimed in.

“So we send a bit of money away,” the woman continued. “My contacts use it to purchase weapons, and those weapons get sent to the rebels in Zanjizuba. The rebels use those weapons to kill Atlantians, or people the Atlantians want to stay alive. So the Atlantians send more men over there…leaving fewer back here to fight against us.”

The money they sent was a good sum, a fraction of a war chest that had been building for more than twenty years. It would buy not just AK-47s and RPGs, but mortars, landmines, and even a few guided missile launchers. The Zanjizubans would know almost nothing about where these weapons came from, except that they had a few friends in faraway places.

[Zanjizuba]

The convoy had been making good speed all night since turning onto the Kurtzville – Ggobo highway (one of the few modern freeways in the country) about five hours ago. After Jorgensen’s bloody display at Djonguw, the National Guard had lost no time calling for and requesting whatever vehicles could be spared from the depot outside of Kurtzville. It had taken close to half a day to mobilize them – a good rate for the Kurtzville supply officers.

Kurtz himself had authorized two helicopters to supplement the VTOLs the Borman vanguard had brought with them, and Jorgensen and his staff were naturally offered the option of air transit – a rare luxury, what with most of the country’s limited air force currently on station in Ggobo, and at the disposal of the mercenary legion that formed the core of the nation’s fighting strength.

The lead vehicles cleared foothills of Mount Kurtz a little before dawn, and the Ggobo plain stretched out before them nearly to the horizon, bounded in their front by the snow-capped peaks of the Djogo range that bounded the province to the east, and on either side by distant green walls that marked the beginning of a thick jungle that stretched out in all directions in this part of the country. The road ran straight on, up into the mountains, and disappeared into a maze of gravel and mud tracks that zigzagged the poorly defined border between Kurtzland – Zanjizuba - and the hinterlands beyond.

It was another two hours after dawn before they made it to Ggobo town – what passed for the province’s urban center – and the airfield that was serving as a forward base of operations for the National Guard. The airfield was situated on a low rise from the rest of the plain, and from the edge of the ridge one could see the dry beds and the shallow rivers in the distance from where the country’s lifeblood was derived. The town itself was a hive of activity, as locals swarmed the vehicles, hocking produce, trinkets, small diamonds, and themselves to the new arrivals.

The trucks parked at a depot that had been established on one of the disused airstrips. Under the shelter of a large, ancient-looking aircraft hangar, two relatively new-looking ground attack aircraft were parked. A swarm of foreign mechanics were busy reloading and refueling, while two bored foreign pilots stood nearby, waiting. In the distance the sound of beating helicopter rotors could be heard over the din, and if one traced the noise, the shadows could be seen flying low over the plain in the horizon. Occasionally the thump of a mortar could be heard, or a burst of rifle fire drifting up from one of the creekbeds far off in the distance.

Major Siegfried Steiner, who the National Guardsmen called Hitler, watched the trucks pull up from behind a cigarette and a pair of Ray Bans. He was leaning over a folding metal table that was spread with maps of the province. Radio chatter emanated from a transmitted that was being used as a paperweight. A Tsogibo boy stood beside him, waving a palm leaf like a fan.

“About time,” he said. He took the butt of the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it casually at the boy.

He recognized Abuka, the finance minister, with his coke-bottle spectacles - even in the comically overlarge fatigues that covered his skinny frame. Of all of Kurtz’s people, he probably had the most respect for Abuka. Seeing him here reinforced his suspicion that Kurtz felt the same way – he had a tendency to place him in charge of anything that required a modicum of competence and intelligence, even (or especially) outside of his official portfolio of finance and trade.

He of course recognized the insignia of the Borman Empire on the uniforms of the men who followed him in stepping out from the second of the trucks, although he didn’t recognize the uniforms themselves. He had fought with men from Borman in the past, but there was an antiquated, ceremonial look about these troops that made him uncomfortable. He himself wore no insignia, and no more uniform than a pair of faded BDU pants and a wifebeater. His white face was enough of a distinguishing mark here, and his own men knew him.

Abuka certainly recognized him, and crossed the tarmac quickly, in that uncertain and awkward way of his. Steiner halted under a tree that provided some limited shade from the already hot sun, and let Abuka come to him.

“Major,” said Abuka. Steiner nodded.

“Reinforcements?”

“Yes.”

“Their commander, Jorgensen, should have arrived.”

“He has.”

“And their accommodation?”

“They’re set up in the hangar at the far end. The rest can pitch their tents or bunk in the hangar, but I don’t expect they’ll be here long. My men are already in the field, and the National Guard will be moving out to join them this morning.”

“Excellent, the Emperor expects this handled promptly. Every day that these disturbances continue is costing us a fortune.”

Steiner bristled at the comment. He understood the situation as well as Abuka did, and was at least as personally invested as he was in the state of the nation’s treasury.

“What is the situation, then? Kurtz will ask me for a report.”

“I plan to brief him myself within the hour,” he said, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette.

“Humor me,” said Abuka, furrowing his brow.

“Ggobo Town is secure. The disturbances here were put down completely two days ago.”

“Casualties?”

“One man wounded.”

“Yes, but the enemy?”

“My men lost count. I counted myself during the burial. 400, counting the women. I believe this is a fair estimate.”

He took a drag on his cigarette. “Outside of the town, General Oluwa’s Anti-Terrorist Unit has been moving through the villages along the highway. They have cleared Dengo, Digobuwa, and Igebo already.”

“Yes, and casualties?”

“They have carried out the appropriate reprisals. I do not have figures. The villages can be considered pacified.”

“And what of the rest of the province?”

“Resistance is concentrated in the foothills. Oluwa’s men believe that the town of Butemba will be the epicenter. They have caught men who have told them the Digoba chiefs have been traveling there since this unrest began. There is talk of a priest who has been riling them up.”

“Then Butemba will be the target. And Kurtz will want this priest. I suspect alive.”

“I won’t make that promise. You don’t pay me to take captives. Talk to your General Oluwa if you want prisoners. We intend to clear the village.”

Abuka narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Whatever you think best. But do it quickly.”

“I told you, we begin operations this morning.”

“Fine. I am needed in the capital, but I will be back in a week. I am expected to offer you congratulations on pacifying the region.”

On the runway, one of the attack aircraft had taxied and its engines began to roar, drowning out further conversation. Abuka said something he couldn’t hear, turned and walked back towards the convoy. Steiner finished his cigarette and walked back to his tent.

[Zanjizuba]

World Press Agency: Atlantian Dominions reacts to Zanjizuba crisis
Cumberland – President of the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions Jim Gilmore announced today that he had ordered military forces to stand by to deploy to the troubled nation of Zanjizuba. Increasing ethnic and tribal tensions in that country have threatened Atlantian commercial interests by slowing the mining and processing of diamonds and other rare minerals, which Atlantian companies purchase with shipments of grain and other foodstuffs. President Gilmore announced that a small task force of Atlantian warships and an accompanying force of Marines would be sent to Zanjizuba to help quell the disturbances and provide anti-insurgency support, should the local government desire their assistance. President Gilmore concluded by suggesting that any Atlantian citizens in Zanjizuba leave the country immediately.

* * *

Emperor Kurtz, DDS, dropped the rotten tooth into a ceramic bowl. He carefully placed his instruments on the metal stand beside it, and gently placed a cotton ball between the incisor and the maxillary first premolar. He stepped back and nodded to his assistant, a thin-faced Tsogibo man. He removed his gloves, and dropped them on the table.

“I trust you can manage the rest.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Kurtz washed his hands, and removed his coat, hanging it on the rack. He opened the door and stepped into the antechamber that led to the rest of the ‘palace’ – such as it were. It was a fine house, certainly: painted brilliant white, three stories tall, with broad verandas and balconies ringing it on three sides. He stepped into the foyer, and allowed a young Tsogibo valet to assist him into his suit jacket. He fastened the three buttons himself as he climbed the stairs to his other office.

He frowned as he entered, realizing that Abuka had not yet returned from his rendezvous in Ggobo, and the important work of the day would have to wait until the afternoon.

On his desk, waiting for him, were a selection of newspapers. All of them were international outlets. The sole paper in Kurtzville was managed carefully by him, and so he naturally never requested a copy.

He paged through the Financial Times towards the back, where coverage that immediately concerned him was usually printed. “Stephens,” he growled as he saw the byline. He spent the better part of five minutes carefully scrutinizing the piece, underlining certain sections in a red pencil and annotating in the margins. “When will that man stop referring to me as a former dentist,” he muttered, setting the newspaper aside. He picked up the next one.

Below the fold, something caught his eye, and he laid it on the desk. “Atlantia,” he murmured. He picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. He barked something into the received, and waited. A few minutes later, a portly man in spectacles, wearing a leopard-patterned suit, stepped nervously into the office.

“Your Majesty?”

“Jonathan,” he said. “Have you seen this?” He thrust the newspaper across the desk. His foreign minister, Jonathan Taylor, waddled forward. He picked up the paper, and concern spread visibly across his face.

“Why, Your Majesty, yes of course I had. I had just been scheduling a meeting with your aide for later this morning, but I had heard you were in the middle of a procedure. Naturally, your foreign ministry does not need to read the newspapers-”

“Shut up.”

Kurtz raised a hand, and the man shut up. He removed his glasses and scratched his nose.

“We have no diplomatic relations with the Atlantian Dominions.”

“Well, no, Your Majesty. On Your Majesty’s express orders, we maintain few such relations with-”

“I’m well aware of my own orders. I know this name, Jim Gilmore.”

“But, of course you do. Your Majesty knows that we do maintain unofficial communications with certain foreign governments. In this case, you have probably heard him referenced in reports from our colleagues in Antwerp.”

“Union Diamond, yes. I remember.”

“Of course Your Majesty remembers. Several of our connections – third or fourth degree connections of course – are Atlantians of some significance.”

“Why in God’s name are they sending troops here, then?”

“Well, Your Majesty, it says here-”

“I can read the damn papers, Taylor. Are you or are you not the foreign minister of this country, or do I just pay you to sit on your ass and ogle the whores?”

“Well, no of course not-”

“What’s the matter, you don’t like the whores?” roared Kurtz.

“No, the whores are wonderful, Your Majesty! Please, I meant only to explain that President Gilmore and his government likely share the concerns of our benefactors in Borman. Of course the Emperor Bhalk is the largest single recipient of the diamonds we export, but he is not always the end user. And certainly Union Diamond maintains a strong trade on the international wholesale market as well. It is reflected in the figures.”

“So it’s as they say then. Securing the trade.”

He considered it for a moment.

“What will Your Majesty’s response be?” asked the foreign minister.

“Send a note - through the unofficial channels. Advise the Atlantians that we will accept their assistance. I want to meet their representative here, in the capital, upon arrival. And notify our colleagues in Borman that they will be arriving in our territorial waters. And ask them - the Atlantians - politely, not to issue any more press releases about it.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

[Borman Empire]

Official Imperial Communique:

To: President Gilmore
From: Chancellor Licinius

Sir,

I want to personally thank you for dispatching forces to assist in quelling any insurrection in our ally and ensuring that commerce continues to flow. These proper actions will not be forgotten. We shall dispatch the 15th Fleet to the area to bolster the presence of friendly vessels.

Sincerely,

Chancellor Licinius

------------------------------------------

The Raptors found space where they could, many simply unfurled a bedroll while a handful inflated ground mats. Their preoccupation was much less with their accommodations than it was with their gear. Meticulous care was given to each piece of kit. Across their makeshift camp each of them seemed to repeat the same movements, as if automatons. Rifles and pistols greased and prepped, communication arrays tested, pouches and pockets placed and secured according to each man’s preference, and the knives…

It’s unclear whether their penchant for blades gave them their name or vice versa – but Raptors loved knives. Fixed knives, folding knives, stilletos, and even a number of tomahawks were polished and sharpened, each one finding their special home on someone’s hip, kit, ankle, wrist, and more.

Jorgensen himself had much less preparation. He wouldn’t be making the tactical calls here, he was serving as more of an overseer - a political soldier. He flexed the connections on his old SACS full body armor, reacquainted himself with his BEWD SMG, and stuffed frag grenades into pockets. He stopped to stare at the last grenade lying in his bag, the Y2K Grenade.

It was a little advertised fact that each and every Imperial soldier carried a chemical weapon on him. As if only having one grenade made them any less devastating. He’d only used a handful in the field – but he’d never forget seeing their ramifications. Tomorrow would more than likely not be a time to use them, especially given the outfitting of their partner forces – gas masks were likely not standard issue. But still, he placed it in its special pocket and continued to look over his gear. Tomorrow would be a big day.

[A m e n r i a]

"Your mission is to support the proletarian uprising in a country known as Zanzijuba. As you have probably seen in the files sent to your armour, the leader of this nation has comitted atrocious acts condemned by the Hero Kings and the Vatican alike. You will be partnered with Hussein the Blue for this mission. Once he receives the signal, he'll bombard enemy positions. You need to clear a path for him first. You are encouraged to arrest, but permitted to kill. If you do the latter, make it as quick and painless as possible. You may not be Muslim, but Amenria is an Islamic nation and we should be peaceful, even at times of war. When you come home, you will once again bring pride to both people of your race and those of your faith. Fight for what's right, Slayer."

The next morning, bright rays of the sun shone down on a woman in a black bodysuit through the window of the VTOL she was in. Her hair, long, black and thick, was tied in a ponytail and in her hands was her primary weapon - The Black Widow, a customized sniper rifle that has slain many sinners - human and otherwise. On her wrists were her secondary weapons, guns with an equal power of the average handgun made in 2044.

The Asian aircraft flew quietly through the streets, stopping above an empty lot in a less densely-populated area. "Junghwa-san, we're here!" A female voice called the lone passenger from the cockpit. It belonged to the pilot, a cheerful woman in her 40s named Lia, otherwise known by her superhero name, Cinderella. The sniper simply nodded, sliding open the VTOL's door and descended on the concrete using a rope. She dashed for the back door of an abandoned building. With her enhanced speed and agility, she climbed stairs until she was at the rooftop. There, she set the Black Widow and lied quietly, eyeing her targets at the base ahead. She was here to protect Butemba and won't hesitate to pull the trigger should she need to.

[Semparia]

(Tag)

[Atlantian Dominions]

Official Imperial Communique:

To: President Gilmore
From: Chancellor Licinius

Sir,

I want to personally thank you for dispatching forces to assist in quelling any insurrection in our ally and ensuring that commerce continues to flow. These proper actions will not be forgotten. We shall dispatch the 15th Fleet to the area to bolster the presence of friendly vessels.

Sincerely,

Chancellor Licinius

To Chancellor Licinius

I accept your kind words of gratitude and thank you for them. As civilized nations we have a duty to ensure that instability such as now endangers Zanjizuba does not threaten the wider world order. I also give my personal assurance and guarantee that the Atlantian military presence will be no larger and stay no longer than necessary to complete its mission and ensure the continued economic and strategic interests of the Confederacy. Since these goals are aligned with your own, I foresee nothing but fruitful cooperation.

Respectfully,

Jim Gilmore
President of the Confederacy of Atlantian Dominions

”What will Your Majesty’s response be?” asked the foreign minister.

“Send a note - through the unofficial channels. Advise the Atlantians that we will accept their assistance. I want to meet their representative here, in the capital, upon arrival. And notify our colleagues in Borman that they will be arriving in our territorial waters. And ask them - the Atlantians - politely, not to issue any more press releases about it.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

The biggest problem with being assigned to this part of the world was that it was never not too hot for proper coffee.
 
Richard Northrock took the cup, cool to the touch, containing the iced coffee that the embassy kitchen had prepared for him. It wasn’t the sort of drink he would order back home, but he had gotten used to it. And in the sweltering temperatures here drinking anything that didn’t have condensation forming on the outside was madness. Richard turned the cup around in his hand while he mused on how he had gotten to this point: drinking iced coffee in an embassy thousands of miles from home. A ringing phone snapped him back to the now.
 
With a curt gesture he dismissed the servant who had brought the cup to his office. She had been standing dutifully in the same spot for however long he had been zoned out, waiting for instructions. Finally having received them, she quickly made her exit, a round read end swaying in a tight short skirt. The clacking of her heels against the floor in the hall mingled with the ringing of the phone until Richard picked it up.
 
“This is Northrock,” he answered, all business. It was Secretary of State Pierce Olsen on the line. “Mister Secretary, what can I do for you? Yes, I’ve seen the reports...you want me to go where?”
 

* * *

 
Ambassador Plenipotentiary. At least they gave him a fancy new title. That was about the only consolation that Richard Northrock had as he sat on the government plane - a small puddle-jumper that was the only thing close enough to get to his old station and then fly to Zanjizuba with haste - and brooded. Out the window he could see the coastline come into view as the plane banked and headed inland, destined for whatever airstrip it was being directed to. Richard doubted this place had anything that could pass for an airport.
 
In his lap sat the small file that the State Department had built on the country and the man he was about to visit. It wasn’t much - tribal divisions, small white ruling class, an army of mercenaries and tribesmen keeping the boot on the neck and the diamonds flowing. Not much on this Kurtz, either. The final pages were the information on the Atlantian military force currently streaming towards Zanjizuba. It was a surface-level briefing, the kind that would be given to the press, and intended to be sufficient to keep Kurtz in the loop until the Marines arrived and could liaison between themselves and the Zanjizubans.
 
It wasn’t a grand armada by any stretch. Seven ships in total, and one of those was an attack submarine that would only be on station for a brief time, just in case there was some sort of underwater threat to the amphibious transport ships and their escorts. Richard doubted it would see any sort of action besides whatever the men got up to on shore leave. The rest of the task force would be on station for as long as needed. The core was made up of three amphibious warfare ships, with a single missile cruiser and two destroyers to provide escort, protection, and fire support. Altogether it would be about 2,200 Marines and sailors, just over half of them being frontline fighting men.
 
The long list of numbers and technical details made him bored and parched. Richard reached up to press the button that would summon a stewardess. The plane had two onboard for this flight, a pair of blondes he thought might be twins. He was in the mood for a drink, and maybe some in-flight entertainment.
 

* * *

 
The collection of warships and transports had been given the official name Task Force Seton, because that was the name of the amphibious assault ship from which it was commanded. But the sailors and Marines aboard the vessel were soon calling it “Task Force Diamond” or “Task Force Z” – few among the enlisted men cared enough to learn the proper way to say the name of the country they were going to deploy into. The people of Zanjizuba had already won the derisive nickname “Zanies” from the men. Only the high-ranking officers in command needed to care about proper diplomatic protocol, and even they gave it no more than the minimum attention it mandated. This was another easy assignment for the men of the 6th Marine Battalion – go in, rough up some foreigners who thought they were being worked too hard, stick around until the government killed enough complainers or handed out enough bribes to shut them up, then go back home. The Marines were no stranger to acting as muscle for Atlantian corporate interests.

[Democratic Colonies]

"This is completely unacceptable."

"I agree, totally unacceptable."

"Dramatic action has to be taken."

"And immediately! Who knows how long it's been like this already, we should do something now."

"Oh, absolutely, I've already made the call."

Secretary General Morgan Leigh and Secretary of Foreign Affairs Neil Jaeger stood in the Capital District, across the street from the Capital Spire and next to a monument to fallen airmen, in front of a shrub that had been very poorly hedged. Leigh and Jaeger were a man and a woman who many considered to be the most important and most powerful in the nation, but at this moment, all of their attention was on the shrub that was in front of them.

"Look at it, it's not even at all! That's just ghastly," said Jaeger, gesturing at a particularly bad looking spot.

"Well, someone from the Capital Grounds Service should be around later to take care of it," said Leigh, tossing her hair back dismissively and starting to walk away from the unfortunate shrub. "What was this thing you wanted to talk about? Diamonds?"

"Diamonds," said Jaeger boldly as he walked alongside Leigh. A small train of assistants trailed behind them, and security agents were spread out around them as they walked.

"There's a small country, Zanjizuba, that's basically a backwater. Human rights abuses, poor infrastructure, everything's terrible. However, there are diamonds," said Jaeger.

"Mmm-hmm," said Leigh, looking at Jaeger suspiciously. "I don't think you'd be bringing them up unless you saw an opportunity for us there."

"Well, there is an opportunity, but it isn't as simple as I'd like," said Jaeger. "There is something of an uprising going on in Zanjizuba. The long oppressed workers, black workers actually, are rising up against the minority white national leadership who control the country."

"That sounds like an opportunity for us to support some rebels, install some responsible government that's friendly to our interests, and reap the rewards of our good and very humanitarian deed," said Leigh. "Where's the complication?"

"Zanjizuba is essentially a client state of the Borman Empire," said Jaeger.

"Ah," Leigh said in understanding. "That's the catch. This isn't just the great Democratic Colonies steamrolling some under-developed tin-pot regime, there are actual players involved. The Borman Empire is nothing to sneeze at."

"Precisely," said Jaeger.

Leigh slowed her pace, came to a stop, and crossed her arms.

"So, Mr. Foreign Secretary, what is your recommendation?" she asked.

"Well, to start, I think that we should begin satellite and aerial recon to monitor the state of the situation in Zanjizuba, so that if we decide we want to take action, we have a good idea of the kind of barriers we'll face," said Jaeger.

"Aerial recon could be dangerous," said Leigh. "Send Valkyries, and probe carefully. Start from the periphery, looking in from international airspace. Conduct RADAR and electronic intelligence gathering, photo taking if possible. Only if it is absolutely safe, with no signs of interceptors or targeting RADAR for surface-to-air missiles, are they to actually breach the territorial borders of Zanjizuba."

"I was thinking the same thing," said Jaeger. "That's a good first step. As a second step, I'd like the Foreign Intelligence Service to put out some feelers to see if there are any groups in Zanjizuba who are aligned with our interests, if there's anyone who wants to continue exporting diamonds, but under better conditions and for a more humanitarian buyer."

"That would be what we're looking for. Are there any standouts so far?" asked Leigh.

"The only prominent figure so far is a religious leader who wants to halt the diamond trade entirely," said Jaeger disappointingly. "I don't think we want to back him, it isn't really in our interests to do so, and we certainly don't want this country to end up worse off under theocratic religious rule due to our involvement."

"No," said Leigh. "If we're able to find someone we could do business with though - and who, of course, can bring about better lives for the people of Zanjizuba - that'd be nice."

"I've already spoken with Davison and his people at Defence," said Jaeger. "They're ready with small arms, recoilless rifles, mortars, shoulder-launched missiles, digital encrypted radios, night vision technology - the standard 'aid package' for the friendly freedom fighter. I just have to give him the green light once we've decided if there's a good candidate to back, and if it's safe for us to proceed. That's where the recon flights will be key, they should hopefully let us know if Zanjizuba has a modern air defence network, or if we'll be able to move in supplies by air without much worry."

"Mmm," said Leigh, rubbing her chin in thought, before beginning to walk again. "Alright, keep me in the loop on this. And on that thing with the shipload of plague victims. And the space disaster. And what happens to that shrub."

"You really want an update on the shrub?"

"Alright, fine, forget the shrub. I swear though, if I walk by later this week and the airmen memorial statue still has a shrub next to it that looks like it was pruned by dim children, I will make this a real federal matter!"

Jaeger chuckled as the two officials parted ways, their appointed assistants and security agents separating out to follow the man and woman to their next destinations.

[Zanjizuba]

The lights in Butemba had all been doused on the Preacher’s orders. There were a few clouds in the sky and a fairly stiff breeze, which bathed the entire ridgeline in darkness every time one of them passed by the moon. Anyone watching from the valley below would have observed an odd, slow motion flickering effect as the church steeple appeared and vanished into absolute darkness several times an hour.

The Digoba chiefs had largely objected to meeting in the church. Some of them, with a background serving in the National Guard, considered it a conspicuous target for government warplanes that had been carrying out attacks closer and closer to the makeshift provincial capital. But the Preacher, carrying favor with their own soldiers as well as the denizens of the town, had had his way in the end.

Chief Christopher Tshibinda had been one of the men who objected, and he continued to resent it even as he sat cross-legged on the dirt floor of the church. He looked around at the nine others who had managed to make it to Butemba over the past two days. The government’s offensive had so far been sporadic and uncoordinated, largely led by the so-called Anti-Terrorist Unit. Their efforts had predictably focused on reprisals rather than engaging the concentrations of warriors that the various Digobo chiefs had been gathering to themselves since rumors of the first uprising began to reach their villages.

Tshibinda was reluctant to be here at all. His territory included the village of Igebo, a prosperous town with the good fortune to lie on the Kurtzville-Ggobo road. His people worked the fields, to be sure, but he enjoyed a good relationship with the soldiers and administrators who governed the diamond trade in the province, and he received a cut of the proceeds that were slightly larger. In his youth, he had fought in the wars between the tribes that had devastated the province, before the understanding was reached. Since then, the nationalistic fervor had faded from him as he slowly grew into middle age, grew fat, and began to enjoy the company of his young wives more than the thrill of battle.

He had tried to counsel several of his colleagues, who were now there with him, that war was inadvisable – certainly not on a whim like this. He had asked them what towns they intended to hold, where their defensive lines would be; who would arm them and train their soldiers? They were younger men, though, and they saw in their household retainers the bold naked warriors that had resisted Kurtz’s ancestors a hundred years ago. He had reminded them that those men had lost, but they didn’t want to listen.

And now they had burned his village. Two of his sons were here with him now, but the rest of them were God knows where. His wives? He didn’t know that either. He felt tired thinking about it.

He watched the Preacher there, his eyes full of fire, waiting to deliver one of his sermons to the assembly, and hated him even more than the young chiefs who were waiting there, surrounded by boy soldiers, dressed in uniforms they had picked off the dead after the abortive assault a few days ago. Most of them had guns, but he saw a few of them carrying spears – spears! – he thought incredulously, shaking his head.

“Me bredra,” the Preacher said. He had a plaintive tone now, not at all like the fiery speeches his people had told him he had been making over the past several days. He sat there in front of them, his palms turned upwards. “I tank ye for joining me here. I know some of you not believe in de Lord I do, and dona trust him to keep dem planes away from he sanctuary here. But I tell ye, ye brave men for sittin here wi me to listen. We dare de man Kurtz and de man Bhalk to come bomb us here!”

Tshibinda watched the faces of his younger colleagues, a few of them were taken in and smiled. They enjoyed the dare. They were probably enjoying the war. After all, there had been one battle, and they had won it. So who wasn’t to say that they’d win the entire campaign?

“I call you all to come meet me tonight, because we need to get unity. You know de verse maybe: de Lord say my is being de same mind, havin de same love, bein in full accord and one mind.’ We now are ten men, and we fightin one man. How we win de war dat way? We all brave man, yes, but we needs to be one man, one with God.”

The Preacher was up to his tricks, though Tshibinda, watching him. This wasn’t going to be a debate. He’d called them here to elect him king, or some other man who could best him. The spectators that were gathered around the chiefs, watching, were nodding approvingly. This was a coronation.

“Maybe some you think dis not a war, dat we can be at peace again, since we won a battle. But dis ain’t a time for peace - now is a time a war! You see dem bodies up and down de ridge? Dat is God’s sword, who cut dem down. And we getting stronger, now you here. You see de man Kurtz, what he don to you towns, and you families. You canna go home, not til we drive him out at de head of a mighty host!”

Well, at least that was true.

“We got to be of one mine, one body. We got to fight together to drive out de Philistines from de lan de Lor gib you.”

“And so who gon to be de mine, then?”

Tshibinda looked up. A young chief who he did not know well was staring at the Preacher with a cocked head and a smirk on his face. “Dat you, den?”

“Brother Okello,” said the Preacher, “de mine is God.”

“Ya, and you talk for God, ya?”

“God talk through me, brother.”

“Dat’s a big laugh.”

Okello was a big man, over six feet, but young and skinny. He was wearing a white linen suit that hung loose over his frame. He had an intelligent face, Tshibinda decided. He had known the man’s father, years ago, but had never met the son. The father was a decent man, wise. They had fought together in the past, and the father had been there when they worked out the arrangement that kept the diamonds going out of the province and the food coming in.

“Listen bredra,” said the young chief, getting up and looking around at the chiefs. “Dis man here a preacher a peace, who now bring us all into dis war. And what he tellin us is now he gon be de big chief over all us little Digoba, and he gon run dat man Kurtz boys outta Ggobo. But what he gon do then? Dis man, he not saying, but he gon shut down de diamond mine – dat’s his plan. He gon shut down de diamonds, and den what?”

The chiefs listened. The preacher tried to interrupt, but the young chief continued.

“Listen, you men farmers? You gon tell your people a go grow grain? How many cows you got der, Tshibinda? You gon kill them up and send de beef out to de people?”
Tshibinda shrugged.

“Dis man here, he don know de war. He a preacher. He not even Digoba. What he do talking to dese men here like dis? Like he Jesus Christ himself?”

“Okello, dis what I mean, what you saying here. You can see it. Dis why we need unity! Which man here gon say to the rest of his bredra ‘you go be da king’? No man here ever agree to dat. Dis is a war, and you need one mine, I say, one mine.”

The Preacher turned to the rest of the chiefs and continued: “I say it before, I say again, de diamon is de root of all evil. We got to cut dis evil out, else no man eva sleep again in this province long as we live. We got no choice dere.”

“And den what you gon do, Preacher? You gon farm? When you chiefa all us chiefs you gon go back and farm de land like you do in Djogobo? You never hold a shovel in your life, preacher.”

Okello crossed his arms and smiled. The chiefs had begun to murmur among themselves. One of them tapped Okello on the back. A few others frowned and looked over at the Preacher. The room was torn.

Tshibinda stepped out of the church into the night air. It was still hot, but even the warm breeze was refreshing. Debate had continued for the better part of an hour, and the room like the conversation had grown heated. They had broken up for the night, the Preacher retiring with three of the chiefs, while the rest sat around for a moment with Okello. Neither man had won, yet.

He stood there for a moment, considering.

“Kubwa,” someone said behind him. He turned to see Okello standing there. He was alone. He addressed him in the formal register of their language, using an honorific that he hadn’t heard in several years from the younger men.

“Kubwa, you said nothing in there. But I know you heard the sense of what I said. The Preacher, you know, is a foreigner. He does not know war. And he has brought us here, to the brink of disaster. Why should we give him control over the diamonds, only to let him throw them away?”

“I have not made up my mind, but I am skeptical of the priest, this is accurate,” said Tshibinda. “I am skeptical of all priests.”

Okello laughed, and placed a hand on Tshibinda’s arm. “Imagine, Kubwa, what we could do with the diamonds, once we have driven out these demons, these Tsogibo? We could turn this country into an oasis. We wouldn’t need slave labor to do it! We would buy machines, bring in foreign nations to show us how to dig big mines. And the wealth wouldn’t be for us – not all of it!” he said smiling. “We would build schools and hospitals here, and we would build farms – good, modern farms that would feed thousands of people. We wouldn’t have to depend on foreigners with these riches at our fingers.”

Tshibinda nodded, frowning. “What you are saying, I know the words. Your father sang the same song when we were young men and fought our own war. But he learned it was a dream in the end. And we made peace.”

Okello frowned. “That was then. We had no friends in the world. Only enemies.”

“And what has changed?”

“This,” he said, producing a small scrap of paper from inside of his jacket pocket. The letter was in a language Tshibinda did not understand, but he scrutinized it nonetheless. “What is this?”

“Friends from overseas. They sent it to the priest. These are offers to help us! Money, weapons. Anything we need.”
“It was addressed to the priest?”

“It was,” said Okello slyly. “But it did not reach him, fortunately. This note comes from other oppressed peoples in a place called Atlantia. And there are rumors that other countries will help too.”

Tshibinda handed the note back. Okello was correct, this did change things. “These are still only promises,” he said. “And we have to survive the night. What will you do?”

“Believe it or not, I know a man in this country – a distant cousin of my father’s who left years ago. He is a truck driver, if you believe it! I have called him, and told him to speak to these people.”

“But how will we get these supplies, even if they are sincere in offering them?”

“Do not be troubled, Kubwa. As the priest said, remember God is on our side,” he said, smiling slyly.

*

Steiner slammed down the radio receiver and cursed. He was standing on a low rise, overlooking a savannah that terminated in a slightly higher rise about 20 miles ahead. Over that rise - he now knew - the Anti-Terrorist Unit commanded by his illustrious colleague, Tsogibo warlord ‘General’ Stephen Kamau, had launched an assault against the village of Dekeja without his orders.

Dekeja was 60 miles from Butemba, and an important post along the Kurtzville – Ggobo highway. He had received reports from native captives that a large force of renegades had been gathering there, and fortifying the place over the course of the past several days. While he had little respect for his adversaries in this particular conflict, he did know that a few of the locals were veterans of the National Guard. Some of them had even received training under his predecessors.

His men - even unsupported by the two brigades of native infantry that had been covering his flanks on the 200 mile advance from Ggobo town to here – would have made short work of the defenders given preparation. But his men were still coming up, some more than an hour down the road. His air support had just completed a series of strikes on the far side of the province, and were completely out of action for the foreseeable future. He had only a single gunship on call. The Borman unit had been trickling up since dawn, but he doubted they were ready to begin an assault any time soon.

This changed things. His men were largely immune to panic, but the Tsogibo were not. Frankly, he considered them poor soldiers – more butchers than anything – and a rout was always a possibility in these types of conflicts. Left alone in the wake of a mass retreat, his 500 men would be surrounded in what remained very hostile country. And he now had only 6 days to do the job.

He cursed again.

Over the ridge, General Kamau watched approvingly as the fleet of Toyota pickup trucks, filled to the brim with armed boys and young men, surged forward over the plain towards the town. It was filled with squat brick buildings, and he wondered how much gasoline it would take to get them to burn. No matter, he had brought enough, he assumed.

Ahead, the firing from the ridgeline was picking up. One of the trucks hit a hidden obstacle and overturned, spilling its men out. He heard screams from his people and hollered at them to get up and keep moving. His infantry, 200 men wearing worn out BDUs and bandannas were following the trucks through the thick grass. They fired sporadically. Behind him a mortar began to thump.

The battle of Dekeja had begun.

*
Abuka picked up the received, and spoke curtly in Tsogibo to the man on the other end. He hung up the phone and turned to Kurtz, who was busy poring over a ledger of benchmark prices on the Antwerp market.

“Your Majesty, Kurtzville International Airport has just called. The plane carrying the Atlantian Ambassador Plenipotentiary, a man named Northrock, is preparing to land.”

“Fine. Have a car meet the plane. The nice one. The Land Cruiser.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Additionally, our allies have sent word that they are in communication with the Atlanian fleet, which is expected to arrive in our territorial waters presently. You have seen the figures already, but they have dispatched the rough equivalent of a reinforced marine regiment. They will need accommodation.”

“Fine, the port at Zanju can receive them. There is space at the airfield there. Liaise with them directly, as Steiner is unavailable.”

"Of course, Your Majesty."

[Atlantian Dominions]

“Your Majesty, Kurtzville International Airport has just called. The plane carrying the Atlantian Ambassador Plenipotentiary, a man named Northrock, is preparing to land.”

“Fine. Have a car meet the plane. The nice one. The Land Cruiser.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

It was even hotter here than back in his official posting, somehow. Richard Northrock could feel the heat despite the climate control of the plane. Luckily his suit was made of lighter materials: he would sweat through it, but at least he wouldn’t drop dead of heatstroke. Richard hoped this Emperor Kurtz had siphoned off enough diamond money to fit his palace with air conditioning. As the plane finished its taxi and the ground crews swarmed in to prepare for disembarking, he did one last check in a mirror installed for exactly this purpose. Everything was ready.

Behind him, one of the stewardesses emerged from the rear of the plane in her new outfit. Richard had decided that he’d need an aide while he was here, and both women aboard were under contract with the State Department. It was a simple matter to take possession of Annabelle for the duration of his posting in Zanjizuba. Her sister would remain aboard the plane – she had performed well in the ‘tryouts’ he’d put them through during the journey, but taking both would be both too much hassle and a bit too greedy for a diplomat at his level. The skirt and blouse the woman had changed into weren’t much more conservative than the skimpy stewardess outfit, but they suited her new role better.

A faint clunk told him the stairs had been wheeled into position, and it was time to step out into the oven. Drawing in one last deep breath of cool air, Richard gestured to the copilot to open the door. The heat hit him like a sudden wave hitting a calm beach full of tourists, nearly staggering him. The years of experience in this climate kept him upright and moved the wince off his face quickly. Papers in hand and under one arm, Richard began to walk down the stairs towards the waiting Land Cruiser. His new secretary followed behind, tall heels making the stairs a more perilous journey.

“These diamonds better shine visible from space,” Richard grumbled under his breath.

“And what has changed?”

“This,” he said, producing a small scrap of paper from inside of his jacket pocket. The letter was in a language Tshibinda did not understand, but he scrutinized it nonetheless. “What is this?”

“Friends from overseas. They sent it to the priest. These are offers to help us! Money, weapons. Anything we need.”
“It was addressed to the priest?”

“It was,” said Okello slyly. “But it did not reach him, fortunately. This note comes from other oppressed peoples in a place called Atlantia. And there are rumors that other countries will help too.”

Tshibinda handed the note back. Okello was correct, this did change things. “These are still only promises,” he said. “And we have to survive the night. What will you do?”

“Believe it or not, I know a man in this country – a distant cousin of my father’s who left years ago. He is a truck driver, if you believe it! I have called him, and told him to speak to these people.”

“But how will we get these supplies, even if they are sincere in offering them?”

“Do not be troubled, Kubwa. As the priest said, remember God is on our side,” he said, smiling slyly.

It was a somewhat difficult matter, finding one particular truck driver and figuring out a time and place for a meeting that wouldn’t raise any alarm bells. But between the three leaders who had met previously, a network existed sufficient to find and contact the man. Luck was indeed on their side – he was scheduled to be in the same city only a few days after contact was made. That made it a simple matter to make sure a trusted representative would be able to have lunch with him. Two immigrant laborers eating together, especially two men with no previous records of subversive or criminal behavior, wouldn’t attract any attention from the state’s security services.

“I know it has been quite some time,” the representative was saying in between bites of a sandwich, “But if you can help us to understand how to move the cargo, we can pass that information onto our contacts. We have the money, they have the…tools that your people need for this job.” He spoke obliquely, not wanting any passers-by or fellow patrons at the diner to overhear something that would make them interested in the conversation. “We have already begun to send money and make arrangements. The first shipments could be sent on their way within the week.”

”Additionally, our allies have sent word that they are in communication with the Atlanian fleet, which is expected to arrive in our territorial waters presently. You have seen the figures already, but they have dispatched the rough equivalent of a reinforced marine regiment. They will need accommodation.”

“Fine, the port at Zanju can receive them. There is space at the airfield there. Liaise with them directly, as Steiner is unavailable.”

"Of course, Your Majesty."

It had been decided that some of the command staff should make their way ahead of the ships of the Task Force to get a head start on developing a working relationship with the Zanjizubans. Colonel John Prudence, overall commander of the force, had delegated this assignment to the commander of the Marine battalion, who had jumped at a chance to get out from under the colonel’s puritanical thumb for a while. Once they were within range, two medium transport helicopters took off from the Seton and hammered their way over the ocean to the airfield at Zanju. The Atlantians had no direct communications links with the Zanjizubans yet, so word had to be passed to them via the Bormans that the helicopters were on their way and to please not shoot them down.

Inside the choppers were a piece of the command company for the battalion – Lieutenant Colonel Adam Frank and his staff, along with a few of the forward air controllers responsible for liaising between the Marines on the ground and the ones flying overhead. The plan was to get the Task Force’s six Harrier attack planes deployed to the airfield ahead of the arrival of the ground troops. From prior experience, the Marines had found that having warplanes with competent pilots in the skies could often tip the balance, especially when the other side had nothing to challenge them. To make that work effectively the air controllers needed to be brought into the loop on where the Zanjizubans’ ground forces were and where they were going. The last thing anyone wanted was for an errant JDAM to take out a bunch of “good” guys.

Get on the ground, get enough sense of the battlefield to bring in the jets and their ground crews. A good opening move.

[Zanjizuba]

(OOC: An ugly map, for sense of scale, of the area we're discussing. The distance between Ggobo Town to Dekeja is about 300-400 miles. Kurtzville is about 1500 miles from Ggobo town.

I'll draw up something specific to the area of operations, Dekeja, Butemba, etc later.)

[Semparia]

A ship docks to port, as two men sit, one drinking on a fold-able chair, over-viewing the port. "So why did you ask me here?" One of the men asked, taking a long drawn out sip. "The situation in Zanjizuba, sir." "Zanj-what?" "A large diamond exporter, sir." "Oh, what of it?" The aide would hand him a folder. "As the CEO of the largest jewelry company, this should be important sir." The aide said, motioning to the folder. As CEO flicked through the folder, his brow furrowed, "So a large amount of diamond production could be cut off at this rate, we stand to lose millions." "What do you think we should do sir?" The aide inquired. As the CEO read through, he stopped at a certain point, "It says here there is a large human rights issue, what we could do is lobby the government to send observers to ensure human rights aren't being violated. This provides an incentive to play nice with us, maybe open up some direct trade, and we can turn a blind eye in some aspects. Of course if they don't cooperate we will be forced to send observers more, violently, to make sure that the rights of the people are being held, and if they refuse to play nice, we can always just help a nice, cooperative rebel group."


To: Emperor Kurtz
From: Semparian Department of Foreign Affairs

It has come to our attention there are accusations of human rights violations within your country. Of course, there is no way to verify that, so that is why we propose sending observers to random diamond mines within your country to confirm or deny these accusations.

Of course, if you refuse our observers, we will be force to more violently ensure that violations are not happening. We would like to resolve this as quickly as possible, dissolve any rumors, and ensure future peaceful relations with our countries.

[Borman Empire]

“What the fuck?” The pilot queried, tapping the radar screen in front of him.

The weapons officer leaned back in his chair and looked towards him, “What’s going on?”

“Umm…I’ve got a bird in the airspace over Zanjizuba.”

“Is it tagged as one of theirs? Maybe one of the mercs brought in something new?”

“No…definitely not one of theirs. Possibly merc aircraft, but I’ve only got documents stating that they are NOT bringing in new aircraft.”

The aircraft commander had been listening in, at this point his eyes peeked over his magazine and locked on to the pilot.

“You are authorized to engage.”

The bird had already been soaking the target area and was a few minutes away from engaging. How it entered the airspace or got this far inland without detection was beyond anyone, but they’d be damned if they let it got away. The entire aircraft quickly flew into a roar of activity as men eagerly snapped on headsets and hunched into their controls.

The commander folder his magazine up and strode toward the communications array.

“We’ve got another Gladiator in the air, I want them on our heels now. Scramble the third and get them up, I’m not fucking around with this. Call the 15th Fleet and have them send a couple 69s over.”

The comms tech frantically got to work, spluttering out acronyms and call signs in a jumble of words that many would call an entirely different language. The pilot, meanwhile, had been punching forward at full speed.

“Locked on target,” he quipped.

“Eliminate”

Two air to air missiles popped off the wings and streaked forward at blistering speed, closing ground on their target in a matter of seconds. The pilot kept pushing the bird forward, clicking the safety away from the trigger for his automatic cannons – eagerly leaning forward and waiting to open up on the unidentified aircraft.

OOC: Sorry, will reply to the rest tomorrow – wanted to throw something up

[Zanjizuba]

Papers in hand and under one arm, Richard began to walk down the stairs towards the waiting Land Cruiser. His new secretary followed behind, tall heels making the stairs a more perilous journey.

The Land Cruiser pulled through the gates to the small airport and onto a two lane highway that led to downtown Kurtzville. As it did, the vehicle was joined by an escort of two light tactical vehicles. The drive to Kurtzville took about 45 minutes. The road covered largely flat grassland, and the convoy passed a few scattered villages and industrial buildings. There was only light traffic, even as the vehicles approached what was effectively Zanjizuba’s largest city.

The escort cars pulled off as the Land Cruiser approached Kurtz’s palace. It stood behind a high white wall in the middle of an upscale residential neighborhood. A handful of white guards and a group of Tsogibo ATU members stood apart from one another on either side of the gate, which was open. The car was waved through and pulled right up to the front door.

Abuka was waiting on the veranda, looking only slightly the worse for wear after his all-night journey back from Ggobo. He wore a tan suit and a white hat. He stepped down to greet the Plenipotentiary as he and his secretary were ushered out of the car.

“Mr. Northrock, I presume? My name is Thomas Abuka. I am the Minister of Finance in the government of Dr. Diederik Kurtz. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Zanjizuba. I hope the trip was not too tiring?”

“I know it has been quite some time,” the representative was saying in between bites of a sandwich, “But if you can help us to understand how to move the cargo, we can pass that information onto our contacts. We have the money, they have the…tools that your people need for this job.”

Lawrence Kayo, a truck driver, listened to his new friend with interest. He had received his cousin’s note with surprise – the two had barely spoken since they were children. Like most of the Digobo expatriates, he had watched the limited coverage of the events in his country with growing concern. Zanjizuba was hardly ever in the news, and any time it was it generally was not good news. He had been surprised to hear that his cousin had gotten himself mixed up in this – he had always considered him to be a practical person, much more like the older chiefs than the younger men who had taken their fathers’ places after the last war.

He hadn’t been sure whether he would come to this meeting at all until he was sitting there, talking to the foreign stranger in oblique terms about weaponry and secret shipments of cash and supplies. It made him nervous, but he had promised his cousin he would do this, and family still meant a lot, even thousands of miles away.

“Look, I can only tell you what my cousin tells me. I am not a-” he stopped himself before saying ‘smuggler’ out loud. “I don’t know about these things. But he tells me that there are many ships that leave the ports here that go straight to the Port of Zanju in my country. They send grain and other goods, flour and such.

My cousin knows men who work at the port – Digobo like me. They would help, he thinks, to unload some of these donations if they arrived by ship. And others maybe would not be so hard to convince. Do you follow me? If you arrange this, I can speak to these people and make preparations. Then they can move these things through the country easily. Do you agree?”

Inside the choppers were a piece of the command company for the battalion – Lieutenant Colonel Adam Frank and his staff, along with a few of the forward air controllers responsible for liaising between the Marines on the ground and the ones flying overhead. The plan was to get the Task Force’s six F-35s deployed to the airfield ahead of the arrival of the ground troops. From prior experience, the Marines had found that having a few modern generation warplanes in the skies could often tip the balance, especially when the other side had nothing to challenge them. To make that work effectively the air controllers needed to be brought into the loop on where the Zanjizubans’ ground forces were and where they were going. The last thing anyone wanted was for an errant JDAM to take out a bunch of “good” guys.

Captain Collin Smith, Zanjizuban Air Defense Force, had overall control over air operations at Zanju airbase. He was still sweating bullets after a close call, when one of his over-eager air defense crews had painted and nearly engaged one of the Atlantian transport helicopters as it approached the coast. A call from a liaison officer at the Borman Imperial Navy had come in just a few moments before warning them to look out for friendly aircraft, and he had managed to avert disaster. He was eager to get these new guys on the ground and set up a liaison as quickly as possible, before a deadly mistake was made.

Most of the airbase had been cleared out a few days ago, as aerial assets and most of their crews were shifted to Ggobo, closer to the front line. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do with the F-35s, yet. He wasn’t an aircraft mechanic and hadn’t flown anything more modern than an F-16 for years, but he had heard that they were a notoriously finicky platform. They had one large climate controlled hangar at the airbase, but he couldn’t say how well even the HVAC system was working. He’d have to leave it to the Atlantians to sort out.

By the time the choppers came into view, he had called ahead to Ggobo. He assumed that the plan would be to get the marines up as close to the front as possible. He’d heard through other channels that a battle was unfolding up there, and that the ATU were screwing the pooch. They might need help sooner rather than later. He had trucks on standby, and a few choppers, but he’d need to work the details out with his liaison, whoever that was going to be.

[Zanjizuba]

OOC: A map of the area of operations we've been focusing on, for us visual learners.

The gray line represents the Kurtzville - Ggobo highway. Brown lines are other more or less paved roads. The principal 'diamond fields' will be the blue boxes, with major mines labelled and named. Various military outposts have been highlighted as red dots. Settlements are black dots. Two major rivers are also defined, as are smaller roads. You can assume other creeks, small rivers, and dirt roads and tracks are also present. Dark green patches in the north represent thick jungle or woodland. The rest of the geography is mostly hilly savannah or swampland.

[Atlantian Dominions]

“Mr. Northrock, I presume? My name is Thomas Abuka. I am the Minister of Finance in the government of Dr. Diederik Kurtz. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Zanjizuba. I hope the trip was not too tiring?”

Richard had kept his eyes open on the trip from the airport to the palace (which was not nearly as opulent as he’d been expecting – an important omen, but for good or ill was impossible to know yet). Everything he’d seen reinforced the impression he’d gotten from the briefing packet – a country with wealth concentrated in the hands of the government, and deployed only where they so decided. He imagined many of the inhabitants of the villages he’d passed never went far beyond their places of birth.

Richard handed the folder to his secretary Annabelle and he prepared to exit the car, smoothing out the creases in his pants and jacket and running a hand through his short brown hair. The man standing outside looked like he’d also gotten here on short notice too.

“You presume rightly,” Richard said as he stepped forward from the Land Cruiser. Annabelle made her way around from the other side of the car where she’d exited. “Richard Northrock, Ambassador Plenipotentiary. This is my secretary,” he indicated the woman with a short gesture. “The trip was fine. A bit of a rush job but that comes with the service.”

“But he tells me that there are many ships that leave the ports here that go straight to the Port of Zanju in my country. They send grain and other goods, flour and such. My cousin knows men who work at the port – Digobo like me. They would help, he thinks, to unload some of these donations if they arrived by ship. And others maybe would not be so hard to convince. Do you follow me? If you arrange this, I can speak to these people and make preparations. Then they can move these things through the country easily. Do you agree?”

Adam Stearman listened to what Lawrence Kayo had to say. Neither man here was a spy, or an intelligence agent. The movement that Adam represented had been planning and preparing for decades, but plotting rebellion in your own lands did not translate directly to experience in supporting rebellion abroad.

The proposition was a good one, on the surface. Atlantian ports were busy places. Adam didn’t know the details but he suspected the people who had sent him here to meet Lawrence also had contacts among the dockworkers. They could get containers with weapons inserted among the cargos headed to Zanjizuba.

“Yes, I think this would work,” Adam replied. “We can make sure our donations are among the cargoes that go to Zanju. But this port is on the other side of the country, is it not? It could be difficult to get them from the port to where they are needed.”

By the time the choppers came into view, he had called ahead to Ggobo. He assumed that the plan would be to get the marines up as close to the front as possible. He’d heard through other channels that a battle was unfolding up there, and that the ATU were screwing the pooch. They might need help sooner rather than later. He had trucks on standby, and a few choppers, but he’d need to work the details out with his liaison, whoever that was going to be.

The second half of the ride into Zanjizuban airspace was like bouncing off of one rock after another while careening down whitewater rapids. Lieutenant Colonel Adam Frank was essentially trying to do his superior officer’s job while flying in a Sea Knight, with no direct link to the local forces the Marines were supposed to be supporting. So first it was contacting the Bormans to make sure they didn’t get shot down—just in time, as it turned out—and then more or less on the horn constantly with the Task Force.

When the helicopter finally landed at the airfield, throwing loose dirt and dust around in its rotor wash, the lieutenant colonel had to muscle every ounce of discipline to avoid leaping out of the door before the blades had stopped. His staff had to scramble to keep up with him when he did exit, striding purposefully over to where the greeting party was waiting.

“Lieutenant Colonel Frank, Atlantian Marines,” Adam said to whoever looked like they were in charge. “I’m here to get things set up so we can start working together.”

He’d brought along a pair of tactical air controllers, men trained to guide airstrikes onto targets identified by ground forces, along with the usual command staff. The Seton’s six Harrier jets were prepping for takeoff now, loaded with external fuel tanks and a payload of unguided bombs. They didn’t have the range to reach the fighting in one journey, so step one was working out where they could land and refuel. Step two was getting the control team up the front lines to make sure the bombs landed on the enemy and not empty grassland or friendlies.

The amphibious ships and their warship escorts were still more than an hour away from pulling into dock at Zanju, but the Marines were trained in helicopter deployment. More Sea Knights loaded with soldiers would take off right behind the Harriers, along with four of the battalion’s six 155mm howitzers carried in slings by heavy-lift helicopters. They also lacked the range to traverse the entire distance between the coast and the front lines, but that was a relatively simple matter of refueling or transferring to secondary transport. The tanks and the other armored vehicles would be more difficult to bring into play – they would have to be unloaded from landing craft or directly off the transport ships.

[Zanjizuba]

“You presume rightly,” Richard said as he stepped forward from the Land Cruiser. Annabelle made her way around from the other side of the car where she’d exited. “Richard Northrock, Ambassador Plenipotentiary. This is my secretary,” he indicated the woman with a short gesture. “The trip was fine. A bit of a rush job but that comes with the service.”

Abuka smiled broadly. “I understand. I’ve only just returned to the capital from Ggobo. There have been some troubles there. But of course you know that – it’s why you’ve come to our country to begin with.”

He led Northrock and his secretary into the mansion. A pair of servants in clean white shirts waited inside to take their coats or any other spare baggage. Abuka spoke to Northrock as he led them up the broad staircase to the second floor, and Kurtz’s office.

“We’re very pleased that you’ve come. I understand that we have not had the honor of establishing formal relations between our country, but the Atlantian Dominions are thought of very well here.”

He paused at the door to Kurtz’s office.

“The Emperor is waiting inside to meet you. You may, of course, refer to him as Dr. Kurtz. He is an Emperor to the people of Zanjizuba, but he finds the style awkward in the company of foreigners. Although I don’t mean to assume that you would not know this, of course.”

He opened the door. Kurtz’s office was large, but far from opulent. It was largely wood-paneled, in the style of the rest of the house. The windows were open to the courtyard outside. Kurtz, a tall and round man, stood up from behind the large oak desk as they entered. A portrait of a similar-looking man hung on the wall behind his desk, wearing a blue military coat and a single large, foreign decoration.

Kurtz, for his part, wore what he always wore – a plain khaki suit. He had a look of mild irritation on his face, but mustered the politesse required, and stepped from behind the desk. He extended a hand to Northrock. Abuja took a seat in one of the chairs in the corner of the room that had been set aside for receiving guests – infrequent as they were.

“Ambassador Northrock. It is a pleasure to receive you. Welcome to my country. Please, take a seat.”

“Yes, I think this would work,” Adam replied. “We can make sure our donations are among the cargoes that go to Zanju. But this port is on the other side of the country, is it not? It could be difficult to get them from the port to where they are needed.”

Kayo smiled at the question.

“The river!” he said. “The Zanju, one of longest rivers in the world. It goes all the way from Port Zanju, past Ggobo, and out the country. Many boats going back and forth. You bring things into Zanju – Digobo men put it off the ships, put it on Digobo trucks, and then they go on Digobo boats. All the way to Ggobo. The soldiers don’t watch the river so carefully. Any trouble -” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Just a little money, and they leave you alone. You get the things to my country, and we will get them to Ggobo.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Frank, Atlantian Marines,” Adam said to whoever looked like they were in charge. “I’m here to get things set up so we can start working together.”

Captain Smith extended a hand.

“Captain Collin Smith, Zanjizuba Air Force,” he said. “Sorry for the shitshow coming in. Don’t know how much time you’ve spent in the bush, but you’ll learn that comms are a nightmare. We’re glad to see you.”

He walked the men over to an outbuilding that served as his command post. There was no air conditioning, but it was at least out of the blazing sun.

“It’s all a bit haphazard, but I’m your liaison here in Zanju - so you don’t have to go through the Borman channels. We’ve put half this base at your disposal while you disembark, but you’ll no doubt be moving up to Ggobo - where the action is. Captain Siegfriend Steiner has command on the ground there, and you can liaise with him directly as needed. I’ll set up a direct link to his headquarters for you, and we’ll arrange it so that your birds don’t get shot out of the sky.”

He nodded to a staff officer, who saluted, and went off to make the necessary arrangements with Steiner's headquarters.

“Port operations also knows you’re coming, and they’ve cleared out a few of the berths that the freighters use. I’m not a seaman, but the harbor’s deep and your transport vessels should be able to pull right up for unloading. Port’s put most of its resources at your disposal for that. You can talk directly to them, and they’ll do what they can to get you ashore.”

He gestured towards a map of the country that was spread on a table in the center of the room.

“Ggobo’s more than a thousand miles from here. There’s an airbase about halfway between there and here that we’ve set up for refueling. There's next to no rail network to speak of here, so for your heavy equipment and your men, you've got the choice of air, road, or river. I don’t know what your ground transport situation is, but trucks are one thing we aren’t in short supply of, and we have river barges and shallow draft freighters. We can put transport at your disposal as needed. Either way, we’ll get you up to the front.

We’re running supply flights up to Ggobo regularly – there’s an airbase there that can handle larger aircraft. We can set aside some space to move some of your light equipment and ammo as you need. Your FACs or whoever else can grab a ride on the next one if they’re in a hurry. It leaves in about half an hour. Otherwise, we’re at your service to get you up and running.”

[Atlantian Dominions]

“Ambassador Northrock. It is a pleasure to receive you. Welcome to my country. Please, take a seat.”

Richard Northrock strode into the office with the practiced walk of a career diplomat. It was confident, but not imperious. He took Kurtz’s hand in a firm shake and took the offered seat. Annabelle, waiting for commands from the ambassador, stepped a ways to the side to stand near a corner of the room. She held the small folder of papers against her body, arms folded across it.

“Thank you, Doctor Kurtz. I’m honored to be invited,” Richard replied as he sat, timing it so that Kurtz would settle in his seat first but Richard would not appear to be waiting too deliberately. “Our countries have had good interactions in the world marketplace. I’m glad that we can add a new chapter in the diplomatic sphere.”

“I also understand that the unit of Marines has begun to arrive,” he continued. “I’m here via the State Department as a direct representative of President Gilmore. In case any issues arise that might require communication above the military level.”

“The river!” he said. “The Zanju, one of longest rivers in the world. It goes all the way from Port Zanju, past Ggobo, and out the country. Many boats going back and forth. You bring things into Zanju – Digobo men put it off the ships, put it on Digobo trucks, and then they go on Digobo boats. All the way to Ggobo. The soldiers don’t watch the river so carefully. Any trouble -” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Just a little money, and they leave you alone. You get the things to my country, and we will get them to Ggobo.”

It was a good plan, if everything Lawrence Kayo said was true. Adam Stearman pulled a fresh napkin from the holder at the end of the table and scribbled two numbers with a pen from his pocket. One hand an A next to it. “That’s my number,” he explained, pointing to the marked set of digits. “If there’s anything else, if you hear anything from your cousin, you can contact me there. And if it’s urgent and you can’t reach me, this,” he pointed to the other number, “Is a friend of mine. Her name is Yoanna. You can call that and she can find me.”

They ate and talked a while longer, discussing a few more specifics but also bringing the conversation back to the mundane. Their jobs, coworkers, bosses, what they did in their spare time. When they finally parted ways, Adam made his way around the corner to the car he had driven to the meeting. Once he was inside, he pulled out a cell phone.

“This is Adam. I think we have the makings of a good idea here. I’ll talk to you once I’m back in town.”

* * *

It would take a while for the preparations to come to fruition, but the end result was that one day a truck rolled into the docks of Fairbank with a container whose manifest did not match its actual contents. One bribed inspector and one sympathetic foreman got the crate listed as containing items in the category “foodstuffs, assorted” loaded onto the next freight ship bound for Zanju. Inside the container sat more crates stamped with the labels of a major Atlantian agricultural combine, marking them as containing various staple crops. Any food inspector would be in for a surprise if they opened up the crates. Underneath a single layer of actual milled flour sat crates of weapons. Older assault rifles, heavy but tough and reliable, along with a heavy machine guns and rocket-propelled grenade launchers. It wasn’t the sort of arsenal that could really but a dent into any sort of modern enemy, but the resistance commanders weren’t taking chances on this opening run. The false crates were each marked with a symbol, a slightly modified customs stamp that Lawrence Kayo and Adam had worked out as a means of alerting the Digobo which containers to look out for.

Once the route had been run a few times with basic weapons, then the leadership would start upping the ante. The man-portable SAMs they could acquire weren’t the most modern models. Hopefully the complacency or arrogance of the Zanjizuban and the Atlantian governments would cost them a few expensive vehicles. All it would take was one or two planes going down to make them cautious, which might buy the rebels some time and breathing room.

“Ggobo’s more than a thousand miles from here. There’s an airbase about halfway between there and here that we’ve set up for refueling. There's next to no rail network to speak of here, so for your heavy equipment and your men, you've got the choice of air, road, or river. I don’t know what your ground transport situation is, but trucks are one thing we aren’t in short supply of, and we have river barges and shallow draft freighters. We can put transport at your disposal as needed. Either way, we’ll get you up to the front.

We’re running supply flights up to Ggobo regularly – there’s an airbase there that can handle larger aircraft. We can set aside some space to move some of your light equipment and ammo as you need. Your FACs or whoever else can grab a ride on the next one if they’re in a hurry. It leaves in about half an hour. Otherwise, we’re at your service to get you up and running.”

Lieutenant Colonel Adam Frank let out a sigh of relief as the group moved under the shade. He was used to extreme temperatures—he’d been deployed to countries with heat as bad as this before—but anything to make things more bearable was always appreciated. He was equally glad to hear that this Captain Smith was on top of things. He’d been prepared to deal with a much less competent liaison.

“We’ve got six warplanes ready to go,” Adam explained. “We can get them out to Ggobo and then up into the air, that should be a good force multiplier. Our air controllers can get up there now, make sure they and the pilots are all linked into the comms. After that, we have helicopters that could start moving at least a company at once, plus some artillery.”

“We can start shuttling men and supplies forward,” he said, thinking out loud. “Get one company and the artillery up to the front now, along with the attack jets. Maybe a second company behind it once the choppers turn around and return. For everything else, we can unload at the harbor and get people and vehicles onto trucks and boats. I don’t want to stress the air transport too badly now and be without enough airlift ability later on when we need it.”

The Marine officer looked at the map more closely. “What’s the situation like on the front?”

[Borman Empire]

Jorgensen strolled toward Steiner. An eager bodyguard, unfamiliar with Jorgensen, stepped forward to try and block his avenue of approach. Jorgensen’s steely gaze caused the man to shrink back where he’d come from.

“Steiner, there’s some mumbling around the camp – what’s going on? I’ve got 30 men here, ready and willing to help. Transport helicopters should have another 60 here in 12 hours. The full five hundred in two days, do I need to push that timeline forward? We can do that, I just need to know what’s going on.”

------------------------------------------------

Bhalk cursed in anger. He lurched forward and back before sticking his thumb in his mouth and pressing it against the roof of his mouth.

“Can someone remind me why we’re drinking pina coladas? I love them, but Jesus – half the drink is a battle to not double over in pain.”

Licinius stood there, silently, waiting for Bhalk to divert his attention back to him.

“Sorry, continue.”

“Our Frigate has arrived off the coast of Zanjizuba, they’re beginning to ferry the rest of the Raptors to the front line with Jorgensen. The distance is rather great and the logistical support…well, we haven’t really poured much back into their infrastructure. It’ll take some time. The 15th Fleet should be there in thirty six hours, the majority of the Royal Marines typically aboard are battling an insurrection in Cordensa. There are still some, though. Depending on the situation on the ground, we can unload them.”

Bhalk stood and walked toward a Shooban, perched silently outside one of the side doors, silver platter perfectly balanced on his hand. Bhalk placed down the half empty pina colada and strode towards his bar. He began to pour from an ornate decanter, some deep brown liquor sloshing around inside. “Continue…”

“Sorry, Sir. You might want to read this message Kurtz received from the Semparian Foreign Affairs.”

Bhalk returned to his seat, taking the freshly printed parchment in one hand as he lowered himself into the plush green chair.

“This makes me want to wipe their nation off the face of the Earth. How the fuck dare they imply violence against Kurtz or Zanjizuba. But…”

“But you know as well as I do that that’s not the most prudent course of action.”

“Of course I know that. We need positive press in a time like this. Believe me, I love raping, killing, pillaging, burning, and eating babies as much as the next guy.”

“More so.”

“Yes, more so. But we can’t fight the world. Let Kurtz know that he may rebuke these foreigners for even implying they could threaten Zanjizuba with violence, and if he wants to leave it at that, he can do so. If they want to force inspectors, we’ll kill them all. But…suggest we find a specific mine, make sure it’s up to code, looks good to the world, and let the inspectors check out that mine…and that mine alone.”

“I’ll let Abuka know right away.”

[A m e n r i a]

snip

"Whoops." The pilot of the Amenrian VTOL casually said as she fired countermeasures to distract the missiles. "What is it?" Her sniper comrade asked from her position. "I've been spotted, I can't make a jump now. Good thing I'm not actually here. Looks like backup is gonna be kinda late too. You gonna be okay down there?" "As always. Stay safe, Cinderella."

In response to the attack, Cinderella's aircraft turned to face the attacking unit, sending a written message to the unit's computer, the pilot's phone, or anything on them which can display it.

Are you sure?

You have just attempted to attack a unit belonging to the Empire of Amenria. Are you sure you wish to declare war with us?

• YES
• NO

[Saranidia]

snip

"Whoops." The pilot of the Amenrian VTOL casually said as she fired countermeasures to distract the missiles. "What is it?" Her sniper comrade asked from her position. "I've been spotted, I can't make a jump now. Good thing I'm not actually here. Looks like backup is gonna be kinda late too. You gonna be okay down there?" "As always. Stay safe, Cinderella."

In response to the attack, Cinderella's aircraft turned to face the attacking unit, sending a written message to the unit's computer, the pilot's phone, or anything on them which can display it.

Are you sure?

You have just attempted to attack a unit belonging to the Empire of Amenria. Are you sure you wish to declare war with us?

• YES
• NO

Saranidia offers to help Amen ria but It would first like an explanation of what is going on. Also are the Semparians to be trusted in this case? - Saranidian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.