The 99th/ Act 4


ACT FOUR:   Stoj’kost


Set in Hispaniola (Haiti & DR)


1 January, 2019-2020ce, AR 7-8


Seven years from Act 1. One hour from the end of Act 3.


ACT IV: Stojkost

(The Shake Off)

2019-2020, AR 7-8


Set in Hispaniola (Haiti & DR)



Gen Wilatundi Christophe †, Northern Lavalas Army

Approx. 5,000 fighters



82nd Malik Shabazz Battalion (Uhuru)

Cdte Djbriel Okonkwo

Cpt. Netic Kinari

Lt. Sham Roche Edge


Gen Shantay Dargain, Central Lavalas Army

Approx. 20,000 fighters


99th Hadar Battalion (ZOB)

Lt. Scott Sevastra

Lt. Kwame Ansu


Gen Watson Entwissle, Southern Lavalas Army

Approx. 15,000 fighters

112th St. Patrick’s Battalion (FRB)

Lt. Father O’Sulivan

Dashiell Duffy


Basher Al-Talleyrand

Dominich Strauss Kahn






Fuck. Where the fuck am I? Where, the fucking hell am I?

What did they do with her!

Damn my weakness!

I’ve shot myself in the face and the foot, again I know it.


Sebastian Adon wakes up in a small locked room in Coney Island Hospital. He’s wearing aquamarine scrubs; the left leg has the hospital name and logo on it, that’s just about the only way he knows where he is, or what time zone he may be in. Déjà vu, in the worst possible way over takes him. The last thing he remembers, or suspects is a party valid memory; he was riding in the rear of tap-tap truck into the tallest mountains of Haiti. He was dying of thirst, amongst other things. He thinks he remembers the smell of iron. The taste of his own blood, the smell of rotting corpses and their rankness magnified by the impervious heat clearing out into cool mountain air. He is in cuffs. He is blind folded. He is huddled with other prisoners. He is then taken and shot twice in the head and the last thing he remembers is the smell of the grass.


BRAKA. BRAKA.                          




But now he’s back in Breuklyn, or is it Brooklyn; which means quite a lot hasn’t gone to plan; at least also for those that had meant to put him in the ground.

He now rubs his most groggy head.

Stands shakily up in his small locked padded room. Looks in a wall mounted mirror, all his hair is gone. He looks a little fitter, looks a little tanner, but he still doesn’t really recognize his face. His last memory of Haiti is sitting in the back of a flatbed truck, driving into the hills to train guerrilla medical workers. Being captured and shot for it.


Something obviously has gone quite wrong.


He takes water from the sink and splashes his face. The name “Cassidy Vale” is stuck in his head, but he doesn’t remember who that is, completely, if at all. The last thing he was thinking was how fresh the grass smelled lying in it and how the tropical soil smelled as he bled into it.

How the Island might bring him back to life.

The Island and what was buried below it, and the machines that caused the earthquake.

The machines? Yes, the machines that caused the earthquake. The flying saucer men!

Mad thoughts.

His no good, terrible, very bad year when all had completely fallen apart was now coming back in parts. 2010, a shit show. The view from an Israeli prison window was emerging; Jeremy and Maria were dead; Theodore Becker too. He was attempting to piece everything back together. And then the ground shook below him.

Knocking him to the floor.


The year is 2010 Common Era in the Gregorian calendar, I live in the American Empire. He tries to repeat what he knows about himself like crazy people do in movies or bet noire lit. ‘I’m a City EMT. I’m locked up in the funny farm, again. Except, something, everything has been changed.’



What the hell was he doing back in New York City?

He dashes the face he can barely recognize against the mirror.


The next day, they discharged him as if nothing very serious had happened.


They said some “special lady friend” was coming to collect him; told him to take it real slow, that he needed to take his meds and not let his mind wander; that he was “one of them”, “a hero”, part of “the department”. They told him he might have some memory lapses, but not to worry; everything was going to be fine. He had the Seroquel blues and five other various vials, lithium of course; the hand-shakes, the world was a black and white copy; he’d done this all before and it didn’t seem real.

This broad, who he doesn’t recognize with long black hair picks him up in a white Honda Civic that she says is his, but he remembers driving a white Chevy Blazer.

She says her name is “Maria”, but Maria is dead as far as his inclinations tell him. At least that’s what he remembers, not only is Maria dead, but that she was a red head with a little mole on the right dimple; and this girl’s hair was raven noire. He plays along though. She tosses him a pack of Lucky Strikes, but for shit sure he always thought he smoked Newports. Or Noblisse; what’s Noblisse he asks himself.

Never mind.

‘Maria’ says she’s taking him to a good Russian banya. The Mermaid Spa in Seagate to lounge out and get his stress out.

“My head’s all back fucked,” Sebastian says to this broad, who is apparently also his old lady, “what’s today’s date?”

“It’s February baby, February 13th. You better drop on flowers and dinner for me babe.”

“When did I get back from Haiti?”

“Haiti? What are you talking’ about babe?”

“I went down to Haiti on January 16th.  Right after the earthquake. With the Bedstuy volunteers and the Church of Scientology. When did I get back?”

She looks at him a little crazy person look. She quietly takes a pull of his cigarette, she looks a lot more like a “Jessica” than a Maria, he’s not sure who “Jessica” is, but she doesn’t really look at all like his dead ex-girlfriend.

Maria Parsheva, who he left behind on Block Island when he swam out to the Black Freighter. And then the world ended there. And Maria was dead.

“Baby boy, listen, you gotta try and remember that not all you remember is real. You tried to kill yourself on February 2nd, the anniversary of Jeremy’s death. You took a lot of those blue pills. Near OD’ed; you’ve been in Coney Island Hospital since then. About forty days they wanted, but you’ve got friends in the management. Which isn’t that bad. You kept asking the doctors about Haiti, telling um you were down there as a medic, but baby, you ain’t ever been to Haiti. There’s no such thing as a Haiti.”

“What about the earthquake, I mean I vividly remember going down to a place called Haiti after an earthquake.”

“What earthquake? What’s Haiti?” But he can see in her eyes she knows what Haiti is.

“The big fuckin’ earthquake. That just happened in Haiti.”

“What’s Haiti? What are you talking about?”

She gives him a look.

“There wasn’t a big earthquake. There’s no such place called Haiti. The doctors say you concocted this whole fantasy world after your attempted suicide to cope with the problems in your life. But it’s going to be ok. I’m not gonna leave you un-attended.”

“What do I do for a living?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, before I tried to kill myself what did I do for a living.”

“You’re a fire fighter baby.”

That didn’t any logical sense.

“I thought I was an EMT.”

“You used to be an EMT before you took the fire fighter promotional a year ago. You really don’t remember?” She looks at him sympathetically. Puts her finger quietly to her lips.

“Everything is big grey mess,” he says.

“Baby, you gotta be careful, you gotta take your pills, this bipolar disorder is gonna do you in. You make me so worried about you.”

“But I don’t know how to fight fires. I drive an ambulance, I carry fat hysterical Puerto Rican women down stairs. I give people their oxygen.”

“Are you sure about that? Think harder about that.”

Then pins begin to fall and Sebastian gets a shiver up his spine. He doubles over a second, and low and behold, she was right. He hadn’t been on an ambulance in over a year. The Republic of Haiti never existed at all. He now remembers becoming a fire fighter at the age of twenty five; remembers working first on a ghetto Engine in Brownsville before getting sent back to the South Bronx, remembers it all more clearly than any of the vague notions of this “Haiti” he’s clinging to.

Something has clearly been changed. Maria never died. They just broke up. He never stayed as an EMT, why would anyone do that shitty miserable job even if it paid more than enough to survive? He’d never gone to Israel and been viciously programmed and tortured. And the earthquake never happened, because there was no such real place as the Republic of Haiti. There had been a switch, and he was clinging to fragments of memories from a reality that was unraveling quietly.

“Get it Sebastian? What happened on that island was all in your head. You have bipolar baby, shit, you’re a sad mess my brave battered lover dear. But you baby are a hard bodied, sexy hero. New York’s Bravest. And I’m gonna stick by you no matter what, and ride the shit out of you when we get home.”

What’s real?

This broad, this broad who he’s never seen before in his life was certainly not his dead/ ex-girlfriend “Maria”. Maria Parsheva was dead, because Maria had killed herself about a year ago, and Maria was a coy red head; this girl’s hair is raven black, but he now had fewer doubts. The name “Komarova”, was stuck in his head, who that really was he had no idea either.

“How long was I in the bin?”

“Ten days Daddy. They had to use the current on you, get the pins to realign in your crazy man head.”

“It felt so real, I was in Haiti; and I was an EMT!”

“Like a paramedic baby? In Haiti? If I didn’t love you so much I’d never be able to put up with your way too crazy shit. You know I love you so much baby, right? Otherwise I couldn’t put up with this mad shit.”


And yet he thinks, who are you again?

What had happened? The airlift, the medical internationalist column, the revolution, Cassidy, Dominich, Tiputti Capois and the machinations of DeBuitléir and now, back in New York it faded away like a bad dream. His “girlfriend” was alive, he’d never become a medical worker that long, he’d never gone to that evil Jerusalem colony; and he was severely bipolar. But you can forgive a New York City fire fighter just about anything except pension fraud. Sebastian Adon looking out the car window onto Ocean Parkway begins to cry with joy.

It was all just a terrible nightmare.

“Don’t cry baby. Men don’t cry,” the woman he’s never seen before tells him.

She opens the glove compartment of ‘his car’, and hands him a soft embroidered plain grey bandana. He covers his face with it to wipe his less than manly tears.




By the time they’re done with the banya, nine hours later and he’s naked in her arms fucking her like an savage animal, it’s as if the whole “Haitian” episode was a spooky dream, the “girlfriend” feels and fucks familiar, as he packs his cock inside her from behind he thinks her hair color seems to change color as they tantrically thrust. Like maybe she is Maria. Or maybe she is Jessica. Or maybe, she’s all of them or none of them. Her eyes get big as she sucks on him.

He fucks her violently.

He still has a job on Engine 808, because it’s a civil service position and even firemen go crazy once in a while.

Firefighting. A good gig.

After screwing this stranger in every single orifice he goes on to the roof and opens the door to the elevator gear room where he remembers there to be a small metal box. Rubber banded to the top of the box is a dusty laminated placard which states, “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY”. Inside is a pack of Noblisse cigarettes, a signal flair, and a grey leather bound book filled with poems, some naughty drawings, some photos, letters and diary entries.


And that is how he begins to separate the fakeness from the real. With the help of the smoke monster, and maybe also god. All he’d needed to be well has a good hard fucking a hot banya. Good and well as new.





Chapter 1

Isle of Youth, 2019ce





When this begins, they’re gonna try and hit us all at once. They’re gonna try and hurt the people closest to us, they’re gonna go after everyone we ever cared about, everyone we ever loved even people that owe us money. They’re gonna bomb our cities. They’re gonna demolish places we went to school, burn down our churches, synagogues and mosques.


They’re gonna go on the news and find people to say we’re sex offenders, and cult leaders and terrorists. They’re gonna use maps and sound effects and subject matter experts to make us look like we’re thieves and killers; criminal bandits.


The day our boots hit Haitian soil, there is no going back for any of us. No surrender, not even in the event of our deaths. Our three detachments number roughly 1,001 women and men, there are 20,000 lightly armed peasant fighters in position who have, maybe, one pistol, or an aging rifle to every 500 of them. We may rely on limited Cuban and Trinidadian air and naval support for resupply and evacuation of casualties. It’s a potentially small war, a company & a brigade[1] against a division of regular troops, maybe the entire Dominikani Army, which has no discipline in the field. Only good at raping its own people.


We are facing over 10,000 heavily armed Argentine and Brazilian soldiers with full air support, helicopters, bombers and drones from the United Nations. We anticipate incursions from the Domikani Army, and likely if effective the UAS Military Garrison in Puerto Rico, which means terra drones. So, maybe one well trained division and one poorly trained division, and some fucking robots.


We believe we will have full popular support in the uprising, and can conquer the island with minimal loss of life.




Chapter 2

Aquin, 2020ce




Over and out, the speakers affixed to the sides of an armored column of type -two ambulances rolling into the township of Aquin clamor and belligerently blast the hip-hop track “Breuklyn-we-go-hard!”


It’s a rather loud for a surprise attack all things considered.


Sodium Phosphate[2] grenades labeled “MADE IN PALESTINE” explode against the largest stucco colonial villa built years ago in this small pleasure compound in the South West Isthmus of Haiti. The premier wakes up from his slumber next to foreign bought Russian two whores, still very goddamn magic carpet high.

His compound is on fire. That is his first realization.

His second is that apparently ‘Breuklyn goes hard.’ He hears machine gun fire everywhere. He scrambles for a fancy Ruus blaster that he just acquired in a card game with a Han oil technocrat. But he’s never fired it and he’s high as hell off Afghan brown. The door to his bedroom is being hatcheted open. Splintering apart when met with hate and zeal.


He, the Amir, is the regional Section chief of the Maccoute militia. His name is Jean Claude Duvalier, former President for Life of Haiti He is feared and powerful when he walks among the powerless, but he’d have gotten robbed three times just trying to cross Flatbush Junction these days. Tonight he will die violently. Irons of Jam Rock will surely make that happen.


He screams like a frantic dying animal. His facade of dignity is completely lost in the face of impending death. His concubines are awake and shouting, looking to escape and hide. He smells the pummeling plumes of smoke. The door finally splinters apart. He can’t find the clip to his blaster. He’s never fired it before.


Commander Mickhi Dbrisk is the one who finally kicks in the door.


“For your high crimes against the Haitian people: Die you murderous fuck!” Dbrisk yells as he blows off the Amir’s face with blast from his high powered revolver repeater. It takes off the right side of the Amir’s jaw and crimson on the tits of one of his screaming slaves.


DBrisk does the triple tap. One in the heart and another two in the face, they plan to use finger printing to identify and confirm the targets. The young slaves run screaming out of the villa master bedroom. Mickhi Dbrisk and his men pull on respirator masks because of the smoke. Commander Magnus Allamby works quickly to secure the Amir’s satellite phone, lap top and document case as well as the gold plated Ruus shooter, “for prosperity and hilarity” also because it’s made of gold.


Dbrisk points down toward the dead Maccoute Premier Ali Kushayb. He’s warm dead and ugly. Gore all over a fancy bed purchased for private pleasure expropriated from poverty at the barrel of a gun. And the web cam in his helmet transmits everything to the interweb.


“Cut a hand and take a couple pictures. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” mutters Dbrisk.


Bodies litter the streets of Aquin. Like a bunch of opiated Hessians on Christmas Eve these marauding mercenaries hadn’t put up too much fight. The Scarborough Column had bled them while they slept. They had reduced “Gold Boy Pleasure Compound” to ash and taken thirty eight scalps: anyone with a Maccoute-band, or anyone who fired at them. As they withdrew past the shanty towns of subjugated guest workers and villagers who serviced these rapist brutes the Scarborough column dumps bags of cash they’d snatched from the pleasure compound out on the roads.

Blood in the sand, blood in their eyes, green money, green blood money fluttering down and Haitian agro-peasants cheering gathering it up.


Welcome back to the long road back to mother Africa thinks Commander Mickhi Dbrisk, happy birthday black baby Jesus, the ground war has finally begun.


By dawn all over the inter-web they were twittering about this. On Blackberry’s and also White berries. In Moscow coffee houses & salons in Angel City, even under the bamboo-iron cyber curtain of Beijing; certainly on Haiti and New York and far beyond. The videos and the photos were everywhere by 3am Haiti time, soon no one could deny how hard Breuklyn went. Nick Brickman’s team saw to that.

The invasion was being live streamed.


The cover of the New York Times reads:




The Isle of Man based daily’s scramble to find reports with a sensational sexualized spin, but most of the rags just copy and paste internet reports, tons o’ videos of the raiding goes up on YouTube, then comes right down. Roughly three hundred Maccoute and their ilk have been wiped out in midnight raids across northern Haiti by an unknown irregular column of American and Fenian nationals.


No one takes credit immediately, but there sure were pictures to prove it had bloody, bloody happened. A photograph was emailed to all of the media outlets that “tell less lies than others”. Roughly 1,200 men lined up in columns with dark grey fatigues by battalion. And a link to an encrypted website where they can watch live streams of the war, as well as purchase exclusive material form People’s Television News Service.


It was morning on a new kind of news day. The vultures would be selling papers by the blood bundle. The three columns were coming ready or not propelled by their duty to act. Out to bleed the worst kind of men as a means to send a message.

In the opening round of hostilities, the eleven detachments of roughly forty men apiece had blown part, set fire to, took wild pot shots at, hacked limbs off of, scalped and or emptied many a clip into the Maccoutes’ core leadership.  Many of those they had killed had been hunted and cut to ribbons in a wide range of hard to pronounce towns and villages in the North of the country.


The three detachments are working off a sixty-four target hit to kill list of wanted war criminals facing charges in the International Criminal Court in Addis Abba, affiliated with the Neo-Maccoutes & FRAPH. These men had been pin-pointed by the Haitian-Emergency-Group and were being tracked with relative precision by the intelligence arm of allies in the Eastern Front faction of the general résistance. The S.E.G. is composed of eleven factions with the Eastern Front being the best armed and supplied via XXX.


“I mean, we are gonna certainly kill them all before they get to face those charges in a court, but really now, these are the real bad dudes whose guilt is assured and recognized,” explains one Commander Djbriel Okonkwo, “Kill them on site and upload the kill confirmations to the boys at PTV. No trials gonna ever happen anyway.”


Now, I’m sure some people notice a real v/Q mismatch between action and rhetoric. There sure was whole ton of talking and writing and planning about non-violence; so how did the first 4 hours alone get so bloody?


The gun fights had gotten pretty Mongolian firebrand in the towns of X Y Z H especially where a large brigade of the Brazilian regular military showed up to back up the Maccoute militia and shelled the local population for nine hours.





The People’s Television Network via the inter-web declares that as of 1600 on Brumaire 9th:

  • Ali Kushayb: Former senior member of the Maccoute, currently wanted by the International Criminal Court (ICC). Killed by small arms fire at approximately 0005 on Brumaire 8th in Aquin. Execution carried out by the Gold Lion Detachment of the Scarborough Column.
  • Ahmed Mohammed Haroun: Maccoute ‘Coordination and Command Council’ also Haitian State Minister of Interior. Incinerated in a rocket propelled grenade attack at approximately 0036 on Brumaire 8th, 2012 in Jeremie. Execution carried out by Malik Shabazz Detachment of the Scarborough Column led by Commander Djbriel Okonkwo o the Uhuru Faction.
  • El Tahir Hassan Abboud: Maccoute ‘Coordination and Command Council’ also member of insider NCP party. Decapitated and hung upside down from the gates of Cayes at approximately 0032.
  • Charlie Baker II; second son of local white Oligarch Charlie Baker sweat shop lord killed in his bed of a heart attack.


Numerous Maccoute bases have been demolished and an estimated 371 confirmed combatant kills have been reported by the Associated Press attributed to the “irregular foreign invaders”. Due to poor intelligence, bad logistics, or overwhelming defenses the eight other Scarborough raiding parties largely failed to kill ranking Maccoute leaders in the South.


But widespread damage had been caused throughout the country and the spot light was back on the perpetrators of the genocide.



Chapter 2

Breuklyn Soviet, 2019ce

Sandooney Bathhouse



2nd January, 2019 It was time to deliver a message to howling mobs, wanting to know how it had gotten so bloody so quick when what they were being told by their leaders in Breuklyn was that this was liberation; this was an expansion of the effort to defeat the oligarchy into other lands.


A press conference is being held in the main Amphitheatre of the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club under the Sandooney Bathhouse on McDonalds Ave, Z.O.B. command. Just 24 hours after deployment. Information and Intelligence Section Chief Anya Drovtich, the fierce Polish Islamic paramedic takes only three questions.


The BBC, Global Rev, Haitian-Libertad, Al Jazeera, Der Spiegel and the New York Times were the only media syndicates allowed to attend in person.


The rest are local “freelance journalists” vetted by the Breuklyn Otriad and People’s Television, and the Ministry of Agitation Propaganda, Barclays General Assembly.


“What is the objective of the invasion?” asks the New York Times reporter.


Anya Drovtich has pale vanilla skin bellow her red Hijab and curly luscious black hair in well-kept dreads below that. She is wearing a grey dress suit-shirt, with a Pin of Palmares attached to the left lapel. It has been three months since rebel Breuklyn held off a full frontal assault by the UAS Military and brought down two flying fortresses over Bronx and Breuklyn.


“The objective is to capture or eliminate the leadership of the Neo-Maccoute militia and to completely break its operational capacity to carry on its campaign of genocide against the Haitian and Dominican people. They are to be routed, neutralized and pacified.”


Well isn’t that the job of MINUSTAH?” asks the BBC rep, “Isn’t that the responsibility of UN peacekeepers, not leftist militia groups?”


“To clarify, we are not operating unilaterally. The intervention force is just over 1,000 soldiers and support personnel, the majority of which are Haitian. We are also acting on the invitation of the Famni Lavalas Political Party, which while still banned is the largest party in Haiti,” Anya replies.






“Could you define blan for them,” Erza Pula Pound, the Albanian black frizzy haired lawyer and deputy communications chief interjects, also in Hijab.


“Evil white outsider or evil insider of any color propagating anti-Haitian, anti-Dominican subjugation.”


“Who is funding and supporting the invasion?” asks a reporter from the BBC, the Black Broadcast Confederacy.


“It is self-financed foreign policy. The Breuklyn Otriad is merely supporting the actions of the eleven Rebel factions in the Haitian-Emergency-Group lead by Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir.  I repeat. We have no official or unofficial support from either the United American States, the Union of Confederated States, or any other state power. Certainly, as a revolutionary human rights movement we take nothing from the People’s Republic China or the Russian Federation. This is basically a foreign legion of civilian volunteers fighting independently of at state control to end the genocide in Haiti.”



“How much are you going to end up in Cuba’s pocket?” asks Vlad Teichberg of Global Rev, the chief media outlet of the Anarchist League, which to be honest has experienced a lot of discomfort with the Barclay General Assembly being rather dominated by Socialists, Black Nationalists, Russian Mafia Groups and Islamists sectioning off neighborhoods of the Soviet.


Erza responds sweetly, “This was all bank rolled in house via loans from the Bratvas. Which ones, I don’t even need to say why I can’t wont’ say. Three put money in for the weapons and logistics. Not one Shekel of Breuklyn Soviet Citizens Coin went to the intervention, nor is one single Cuban national in the ground forces.”


“Well, not yet,” says Vlad T.


“If I understand this correctly, your Association, your ‘Otriad’ is attempting to replicate its methodology and tactics four years ago on the Eastern Seaboard except this time on a far larger scale on the largest islands of the Caribbean. Is this the official beginning of a human rights revolution? Shall I go so far to say the second phase of the Great Revolt, as you call it in house” asks a reporter from Haiti-Libertad.


Haitians always ask lead along questions.


“I would say that is a remarkably accurate assessment,” responds Anya Drovtich, acting now as the Minister of Defense for the Barclay General Assembly, and remains a card carrying member of the Breuklyn Otriad.


She tosses her black curly hair over her shoulder and smiles.



Chapter 3

Cap Haitian, 2019ce






3rd January, elected Field Lt. Justinian Tomas is a soft spoken Nigerian and a Bronx Science graduate. He has a degree in business and a slight stutter, which since being deployed outside of the city of New York has ceased to trouble him. He is so light skinned he is often confused with being a mullato while on Haitian Island, but he is not a mullato, by the racialist definitions of the blan oppressors he is technically a quadroon.


On the nineteenth day of Brumaire Commander Okonkwo leads a platoon of his men into Cap Haitian, the nation’s only deep water port and exporting point for the entire nation’s illicit blood oil and gold pumped and drilled just to the West from Cap Haitian and the Southland.


Here in Port Haiti his detachment ambushes and executes via the rat-tat-tat of repeater rifles one Mohammed Salih Al Sunusi Baraka, a Maccoute coordinator and member of the National Assembly. They blow him away while he sits at a red awning restaurant overlooking the massive Han renovated harbor along with his wife and two eldest sons.

His wife doesn’t die right away, she screams in tongues, screaming soaked in her children’s blood, and pleading with her god to avenge her husband’s death.

One of Olu’s men then shoots her too. A young Grenadian from Brownsville named Jerome Marcus with long dred locks. He then rolls two hand grenades into the Restaurant Omar where Baraka had just been alive eating lamb and pilaf with his family. Boom!

And it was all pretty ethically downhill from there as far as indiscriminate violence in the streets of a major city goes.

The Fela Kuti Detachment kills seventeen off duty Haitian Soldiers, four Han Oil technocrats, and nine children under the age of whatever in the ensuing fire fight. The Qassam 4 rocket-grenades are hard to aim. The detachment loses four men getting out of Port Haiti, another three on the roads fighting their way back to the safety of the Eastern Front safe house.

The engagement reduces the size of the Detachment under Commander Okonkwo to thirty three men.

“Why’d you shoot the woman,” Justantine asks Jerome later at their camp.

“She married that animal. We’re not playing games,” he coldly responds.

We roll with some cold niggers, thinks Justantine who was entrusted to lead because he is not one.

Two weeks in they’d seen further battle at Gros Morne, and lost four, but killed many more. The Schenectady Detachment was now working hand in hand with Commander Okonkwo’s Fela Kuti Detachment. Backed up by SEG and JEM guerillas they sabotage oil infrastructure across the North.

They’d managed to blow up a Han tanker in Port Haiti with harbor mines just two days before. The Associated Press now maintains a full time field office in Port Haiti.

They attempt to minimize civilian casualties by carefully picking targets and utilizing the PTV telecommunications to verify that their targets were exactly where they were supposed to be. They also are blessed by having a lot of local sympathy, which ultimately is keeping them alive. The Port Au Prince Regime is hated in the provinces. They keep collateral damage low preferring more targeted strikes.

Not killing kids in growing numbers like certain other Detachments, monkeying around with the hearts, minds and media war.

Late Night Brumaire 31st in the City of Marmelade, a unit of Schenectady boys under the command of Magnus Allamby enter the hotel where Omer Baabas, a Maccoute Major sleeps in his bed. They shoot his two body guards through the heart with silenced pistols. They unlock the door to his room. He’s fat and snoring.

Eight men lay knives into him, Specialist Jeffery Derose from Staten Island seals tape and clamps his hand over the major’s mouth as the seven others dagger-man him, slicing him to ribbons.

They slip out of Marmelade without a fire fight.

            A couple days later on Frimaire 3rd, 2012 in the city of Saint Raphael, Mohammed Ibrahim Ginesto, a Maccoute Brigadier gets his brains blown out with a high powered Elephant hunting rifle fired by Netic Kinari of the Nostrand Ave Detachment.






Chapter 4

Gonaives, 2019ce




9 January


Upon deployment they had been dropped closest to the bases of the Haitian Emergency Group (H.E.G.) command so that they might deploy themselves with the guerillas already operating against the Maccoute, establish a permanent base for resupply and logistics, as well as coordinate attacks within the occupied Haitian & Dominican Island States.


Goniaves is the coastal, regional capital city of the Artibonite region. It is a sprawling sweat shop boom town in the northwestern Haiti, 120 meta clicks Northwest from Port Au Prince, which we sometimes call Port Au Rebel. A historical caravan post, an birth place of the Ti Ligliz movement called Lavalas the toppled Baby Doc Jean Claude Duvalier; Goniaves is located on an elevated plateau. The town serves as an agricultural marketing point for the cereals and fruits grown in the surrounding region. It is also home to the largest concentration of Han oil technocrats and military advisors in the country outside of Port Au Prince, the capital and the resort citadel zones of Cayes and Port Salud.  It is a major refining station for oil and natural gas before it is pumped out to Port Haiti next to Cap Haitian.

The 0100 am Nivôse 10th raid on Goniaves had been planned three months before by the local S.E.G. fighters. Its large military garrison was poorly fortified and there was some reason to believe that it served the main arms depot for the Maccoute militia in the area. O’Domhnaill and Rand had come to realize the same genius for putting out fires might be applied to start them.

There are many Han engineers in the town so many they have their own quarter. A good many years of work and money had been invested in Haiti to exploit their expansive oil reserves, work only the Han had the wherewithal to perform in the name of national hegemony. It was unfortunate the club hadn’t launched the campaign ten years earlier when the bloodletting began, back before they killed 700,000 civilians, back before the Han gave the Haitian Defense Force and Macoutes a modern air force and a whole division’s worth of third grade former Soviet tanks.

Specialist Robert Flannigan, an Otriad member since 2002, a childhood friend of Nikholai and Sebastian on command detonates charges planted along the massive oil pipeline. It is the nexus by which oil flows from Haiti out Northeast toward Port Haiti. On the outskirts of the city the three hundred fighters of the St. Patrick’s Battalion strike at the nine major pumping stations by which the crude is sucked out from the bloody desert the Maccoute had been instrumental in clearing of its native population.


They blow base charges along the pipe three years in the building.


A mighty series of booms awakens a sleeping city. Thick black plumes of smoke go up and black crude ignites a flaming sludge running down slopes into town.

At 0101, as Maccoute-fighters, Han engineers, Haitian regular military and the population  of Goniaves lay mostly asleep, the Haitian-Emergency-Group begins pounding the city with morters and Katusha rockets. There are certain ethnic rivalries that are playing out that few of the St. Patrick’s Battalion are fully aware of. The city comes awake to the indiscriminate explosions. It is hard to aim these Cold War era, truck mounted rockets. They fell where ever they fell, and kill where ever they land.

Economics analyst Adam Ahmed states that the “people of Goniaves are beginning to think in a more business-minded way” to make the most of their situation. Their situation being the forced migration and murder of over 200,000 original Haitian inhabitants to make way for Muhammadian settlers from in and around Port Au Prince.

“It’s a Muhammadian city now so we’ll burn it to the ground,” is what one S.E.G. commander has declared. O’Domhnaill knew this wouldn’t end well. If enough Han are killed they might provoke the escalation of an un-needed Han military presence in Haiti.


But these rockets can’t be aimed. The S.E.G. fire dozens into the Han quarter deliberately. The St. Patrick’s Battalion sends their John Riley Detachment of a hundred men to destroy the Maccoute-base, kill everyone inside and capture the arms cache. The S.E.G. fighters blow up the power plant with grad rockets around 0140 and the Detachment strikes at the Maccoute munitions base shortly after.

They hardly put up a real fight. Many are cut down fleeing out windows. Many are murdered in their beds as S.E.G. guerillas and the John Riley Detachment overruns the base.

Once the compound is secured Commander Rand lines up all the Maccoute militia men against a wall. They are flexi-cuffed and blind folded. The smoke is getting thick and the mostly wood buildings catch the blaze one by one. There are about seventy prisoners. Six are identified as quasi-important functionaries with the local leadership. Dozens are regular Haitian military. Some are just boys mostly younger than sixteen. Three are Han military attaches. The John Riley Detachment loads their battle jittnies with as many crates of munitions as they can secure while Rand gets on the sat phone.

The city is burning down, pummeling plumes of black smoke amid the crackling and gusts of ash. They don’t have proper firemen worth a damn out here. The Fenian gunmen are starting more fires. Commander Shamus Rand orders his men to torch the oil ministry.

Commander O’Domhnaill and the Wolf Tone Detachment have occupied the central rail terminal and bus depot at the edge of town. The ringing of the sat phone notifies him that that they are way ahead of schedule.

“John Riley to Wolf Tone,” says Rand over the uplink.

“Wolf Tone copies. What’s your situation?”

“The package is secured. Seventy prisoners being held, some are Han military attaches, others rather young.”

“Blind the Han, free the young and liquidate the rest,” replies O’Domhnaill.

But before Rand can give any signal the S.E.G. fighters gun down everybody.

Osman Yusif Kibir the State Governor Dar Haitian and Maccoute coordinator and a man named Sukeirtalah, the Lieutenant Colonel of the Maccoute are among those executed.

Commander O’Domhnaill orders a pull out of Goniaves at 0230. The S.E.G. fire more rockets into the city. At 0245 everyone is clear and the St. Patrick’s Battalion blows the rail station as they retreat into the desert back toward the command base.


Specialist Philly Hartman keeps muttering, “I killed some little kids. I killed a bunch of little kids.”

Father O’Sullivan holds a wake for the fallen back at command. He does his best to comfort Hartman and a few others.

When questioned, Rand replies, “The little fucking kids all had machine guns.”

They’d lost fourteen men in the assault, among them only three from the St. Patrick’s Battalion. Extensive damage had been done to the city from flame and rocket fire. Oil pumping out of Dar Haitian ground to a halt. For about two months.

Three days later a massive Haitian military deployment drives the S.E.G. and the St. Patrick’s Battalion a hundred clicks into Chad. Newly acquired Han bomber jets make punitive strikes on the refugee camps.

The Maccoute execute several hundred in villages around the city of Mirogane for collaboration. Nine surrounding villages are suspected of harboring the S.E.G. militants their and pale officers. Reprisals continue as long as it takes to rebuild the pumping station. About two months.

As the sun rises on Nivôse 12th, those nine villages are surrounded by a Haitian military cordon. Several hundred Maccoute Militia men brought in from Kusti then enter and proceed with their foul work.


The New York Times runs a front page spread of the ash and rubble that was left of the nine towns. It was an aerial shot like usual. The last reporters that had gone into Haiti were beheaded. The international press denounces the massacre of around 3,000 civilians, but mostly blames the Combined Otriad for escalating the violence.


Oil pumping out of the Haitian 1/3 of the Island has been brought to a complete stand still.











Chapter 4

Block Island, 2002ce

First congress



A little bit more on how so many Fenian nationals, so many leftists, so many Zionists so many everyone which had never even really thought of life and conditions in Haiti ended up fighting, and dying there. Those which served in the a) St. Patrick’s Battalion (Detachments 1 & 2), b) The Hadar Column (Detachment 3) and Garvey Brigades (Detachments 4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11 & 12) got tied up in this very bloody ground war, five minutes from nation time.


Let’s take it back over ten years.


There is a little isle off the coast of Galilee home to some eight hundred indigenous souls by their last New Year’s Eve census.


They are technically still part of the U.A.S., but have been a functional hub of the Autonomous Movement/ Soviet Confederation and thus the Great Revolt for over a decade. Since before 2001.


This little patch of rocky removed Erin green sixteen miles out into the Atlantic is called Block Island. It was once a haven for pirates, for the Sons of Liberty, a rum running prohibition busting flappers paradise, the place the Mohegan Indians met their untimely and final demise. There was black magic here, or some other worldly thing at work amid the taverns and farm houses and low lying rock walls piled by Indians and slaves at the behest of the original white settlers. There was one Catholic Church, one Prod one; the synagogue had burned down a year ago by some witchcraft. There were few indigenous Yids that arrived in the 20’s when the bootlegging sky rocketed. There was a hedge maze that took four to eight hours to navigate. There was a high rate of alcoholism, a vague sense of isolation, a separatist flag even, but only as a joke. There were definitely a coven of witches, but not particularly malicious ones. Old Man Abrams and his daughters owned three of the biggest hotels, both of the whore houses, all of the speakeasy’s, the airport, the ferry and the exotic animal farm.


That’s how Zebras came to New England and Kangaroos too.


When Nikholai, Mickhi Dbrisk and Sebastian Adon got off the boat they were not short stares. There were seldom tall, dread locked Jamaican men on the Island. Sebastian wore a brown skally cap with a yarmulke underneath it, tight faded jeans with tsetse hidden underneath, a pistol as well; a faded blue  job shirt with a Ivoryish star emblazoned within the Maltese cross, a ruck-sac with everything else he needed. Nikholai was wore a black leather jacket and a black suit with a white button shirt, Iytai and a black tie. He wasn’t carrying a sholem anymore. He’d been suspended from the NYPD for eight months after an incident he’d rather like to forget. And Dbrisk, dressed the most casual, jeans, a blue winter pea coat, a Sand-Gypsy scarf and he had rosary beads his fiancé of eight years had given him, but he never used; he also carried a small duffle bag. Filled with paper work mostly, paper work and endotracheal tubes, laryngoscope blades and IV kit, cuff, scope and gauge and the basic tools of a rescue medic. Adon basked in his Hebrew ambulance status, adored the trade, the juxtaposition, the romantic chic of it. Nikholai regretted becoming a cop, never talked about it. Mickhi Dbrisk compartmentalized the job and his life and didn’t let one war bleed into another. The three men were all in their late twenties, civil servants all Dbrisk and Adon in the Fire Department, Nikholai at least for a while more in the NYPD.


On the Island waiting with a car was red headed Hubert O’Domhnaill a fire fighter and rising union leader in the International Federation of Emergency Workers.

They arrived on Block Island a little after Sundown on a Friday on the 6th of Frimaire.


A cop, two paramedics, and a fire man take a ferry to a New England Island begin to lay the ground work for the irregular invasion of the Haiti.


They were booked into the empty Hygea Hotel on a tall hill overlooking the harbor bay. A creaky old wooden guest house painted red and white and orange. There were twenty-two club delegates at the sixteenth Congress established to merge several factions into more cohesive alliance post victory in Breuklyn Soviet.


It was here the latest plan was laid and outlined on the shores of Galilee.


Adon, Dbrisk, O’Domhnaill and Trikhovitch were at the core of the club’s conspiracy. Another silver haired Yid Paramedic named Scott Sevastra. A pair of Bengali princes named Arman and Hassan Askari. A pint sized Trinidadian sex worker named Katchya Patel. An EMT from Ghana named Thomas Ansu. An Persian exchange student named Kaveh Ali Shariati. A Unitarian priest named Kristin Reiersen by way of Norway. A Bajan businessman named Magnus Allamby. And two journalists, an Afghan named Anahita Noori and Ms. Mara Fitzduff who ran and edited the club’s now infamous newspaper, “The Banshee”. Also the human rights lawyer, a Kosovar named Erza Pula Pound. Three film makers named Justantine Tomas, Ryder Haske and Nicholas Mapfre were there filming. Justantine Tomas was a long standing member cross affiliated with Uhuru.


Toba Hadaad was then a newly minted Israeli intelligence case officer, assigned to channel big Ivory money into the partisan band. And also business man named Ysiad Ferraris, who was frankly an unabashed opportunist, but later 1/3 funded the insurrection in Hispaniola.


Also present, importantly was Maya Solomon, the first Chief of Staff, who founded the original Israeli branch of the Club with none other than Avinadav DeBuitléir, from Haiti by way of Demona, and a teenage Sebastian Adon.


Those two flew in the next day. The Ivory connection is surely plain as day, now as if a beaten dead Trojan horse. This was the last American Congress they attended, as she made her way to Russia and he made his way to Africa.







Chapter 5

Dublin Soviet, 2009ce





The connection to Erin actually more subtle.


Within a month of the 4th Congress, held not on Block Island but in Chicago, USA. Hubert O’Domhnaill and Sister Reiersen were back in Erin. They traveled North by mini-bus to Belfast to attend his father’s wake, struck down by Prod gunmen during a speech just a week before. It was a very well-attended funeral. His father was viewed as perhaps the one man who might have brokered a good end to the New-Troubles.


The funeral was attended by a young lad named Dashiell Duffy, a Cajun-Fenian boy of just under seventeen who introduced Hubert O’Domhnaill to an excommunicated priest, one Father O’Sullivan.


There were then fifteen days of Prod rioting in Belfast which caused O’Domhnaill to miss his return flight. He helped put out Fenian fires as best he could as a volunteer in one of Father O’Sullivan’s flying columns.

Father O’Sullivan was excommunicated long go for trying to bring closure and exposure to the abuse of young boys rampant in the Catholic Church for decades. Sister Kristin was a disciple of his, liberation theologians both.

The Prods kept trying to burn the Catholics out of Belfast with renewed zeal. An orange mob burned Father O’Sullivan’s parish to the ground on the ides of XXXX Secure cables coming from the Breuklyn Soviet notified Hubert that he is needed back in the States, and he wants to go home, but he can’t.

Sister Kristin around this time informs Father Sullivan of the Otriad’s designs in Haiti.

Hubert O’Domhnaill soon after returned briefly to Dublin City in time to see his ‘mah’ on her birthday and then see worse troubles resume. The Orange Order ran further amuck. The New Provisional IRA gets back to the active bombing of chip-shops and funerals and pubs. Things really exploded on St. Pats with regular North south raiding along the border.

Hubert went back North to serve as a volunteer fire-fighter. The arson got so bad in Belfast and then Derry and then more places North East. Father O’Sullivan and his men are clinging to a little patch of tenements and barely holding out in what’s left of Catholic Belfast.

The Orange Order burns their homes and shoots their volunteer fire fighters. The Catholics are being fire walled out of the North this time for good.

Hubert by then had become quite close with the hunted, hounded and besieged Father O’Sullivan and also the young Dashiell Duffy his young lieutenant and can man. The Imperial Black and Tans were arresting anyone the fires didn’t suffocate. All three men were on Orange hit list. But they had Catholic enemies too; the good father especially. The church is not a liberal institution.


“The violence in the North this time is a pretext to push the Catholics South and the Dublin government doesn’t really mind,” muttered O’Sullivan.


He’d just outrun sniper bullets twice that week. A car bomb took his nerves the week before. The siege was closing in. Warrants had been issued for O’ Sullivan in the South as well as North.

“We could get out of country awhile,” says Lt. Duffy one night over a pint at Molly’O’Rork’s Pub, the last one un-scorched in the quickly shrinking Catholic quarter.

“Get out to where son? Any day they’ll make a mark of me,” sighed a tired Father O’Sullivan. Blood shot eyes all.

“We stay up here, the B Specials or Orange legions will hang us all. We go South the Church that is the Southern State we’ll burn me at the alter fer speakin’ of their inside crimes. North and South the Provisionals want me dead fer “escalations”. Escalations? We were just defending our homes! ”

“Look, it’s much worse here now day by day. The Catholic quarter is but less than twelve blocks and most of the civilians have evacuated. We can stay and put our burning tenements out day by day, but we all know Dublin and Derry and London are negotiating a full population exchange. All yer boys will fall into the hands of the Dublin Government and be arrested for ‘escalation or agitation or treasonous sympathies’ as soon as we get dumped on the other side of the border,” says O’Domhnaill.

“So what do ya suggest then boy?” the priest asks.

“We leave awhile. All yer boys too Fatha’. We’ve been sold down the river by both sides. Sister Kristin’s told you what we planned. Let’s go make a demonstration of ourselves in that cruel place Africa where you know is in constant deed of men with our talents.”

“Yer speakin’ of Haiti again I see?” the father said.

“I know your far-away cause. But it is just as lost a cause as this without needin’ ta die for it so far away from home,” mutters Lt. Duffy.

Other men in plain green olive fatigues nod in agreement.

“It’s a lost cause in Breuklyn too! Of course ‘cross the lake and the sea are millions doing slaughter daily over invisible gods, and the colors on flags and that all and the like. But we ain’t doin’ any real good puttin’ out blazes that been burnin’ fer over a hundred years,” exclaimed Hubert O’Domhnaill.

“What makes ya to think our volunteers we’ll leave Erin, travel to Africa where were just as sure to burn red and die, on the basis of us declarin’ our cause in Erin lost?” yells Duffy.

The fighters gathered in the basement of Shades of Green Roadhouse all nod aye.

“Because if father orders ‘um to they will. Follow him in-ta hell they would. And the fires of hell are on the edge of this embankment. And if ya tell ‘um the long stakes, it looks quite respectable for a Fenian man to have a part in Adon’s wild scheme. It’s not just a moral group suicide bombing like, it’s another way to show the world they should care about occupied Erin because Erin bleeds far and often ‘fer others too,” retorted O’Domhnaill

“Where the fek is this Haiti anyhow?” asked Dashiell Duffy.

“It’s deep in the Caribbean boyo,” responded Father O’Sullivan. He paused thoughtfully and nursed his whiskey. It seemed the only thing the father didn’t do was take a woman to his bed room. Although once the Vatican strung him up all supposed he might.

“They will surely hang us soon, one side or another. We are after all completely surrounded here in this burned out quarter.  At least in Africa we might die as proud Fenians, sons of Erin fighting an evil and clearly murderous nemesis. Here, we mostly fight each other and it isn’t so black and white, we’re now caught between orange and green,” he said in that basement.


“How soon can you get our men out of this burning ghetto Mr. O’Domhnaill?”


“Just gotta make a quick phone call to the Dominikani Republic,” Hubert responded.


Two days later several hundred fighters and their families evacuated the Catholic quarter of Belfast through the sewers.


The North now Catholic free declared independence. The Dublin government ordered the construction of a separation wall to box in the six enemy counties. And a large black containership, with a naughty black mermaid painted on the side is met sixteen miles off the coast by vessels carrying O’Domhnaill, O’Sullivan, Sister Kristin, Lt. Dashiell Duffy and three-hundred-and-forty Fenian fighters off to the bases on of the Isle of Youth.





Chapter 6

Croix-Des-Bouquet, 2019ce




Deployed on the dawn of 1 January, 2020 was a total expeditionary force of 999 combat troops, many emts and paramedics, 2 doctors (Perechenova and Asbun) and thirty-two armored solar-diesel Type-2 ambulances. Perechenova was a Cuban trained physician, the only female in the column besides Katya Patel and Dr. Dominich Asbun had trained in Grenada, served with Cassidy Vale and Sebastian Adon in 2010 in Haiti.


The South Company was lead by Captain Watson Entwissle, the Central Company was led by Captain Tiputti Capois and the North Department Company by Captain Obenson Christoph. The detachment of mostly Russian and Ivoryish foreign fighters attached to Capois was called HADAR Column, the mostly Fenian foreign fighters under General Christophe was called the St. Patricks’ Battalion, and the Pan-West Indian Brigade was called the Schenectady Detachment. These 999 fighters were supporting roughly 20,000 Lavalas militia men in their assurgency.




 “Sometime last night a song came on the radio of my ambulance and I came to think of you more fondly. To imagine you, although having only spoken with you a few times in person; to be exceedingly elegant, obstinate, determined and quite truly tough. So, quite removed from the idea that I might ever sway ‘yer energies toward the work that our Otriad performs I had a separate notion. I would like us to be friends. And our time being limited and devoted to respective industry, I humored the notion that I might write to you at times about the fleeting ideas I have at my work or the delusions and freedom songs I cling to in deed or rhetoric. And you may find this silly or random, but I like to write and I appreciate a critical audience. The act of putting pen to paper is a lost art. I hope not to suspend ‘yer offensiblities, but tell me if this game has any appeal to you, my dear.”


Yelizaveta reads this old letter Sebastian had written her.


She is seated at the wheel of one of the Herkimer Medical Jitneys her former employer Alexandr Perchevney has borrowed long term from the U.N. to sell to the Pale Officers. Like pilgrims and cowboys of the fabled wild-wild West thirty two of these armored, solar power supplemented, diesel powered ambulances are lined in circle with sentries on their roofs all bivouacked in the valley.


The men have been broken up into detachments of two hundred fighters each commanded by two Captains. Their force was the largest of the three deployed columns composed of sub-detachments, columns of 40 men named Bielski, Golani, Betar, Jabotinsky, and Jacobi, traditional Haitian names?


They had been dropped in Haiti at dusk before New Year’s 2019 and continued to fight by night.


Adon made contact with the XXX Congress Faction less than a week on the ground. Two detachments and four Persian handlers crossed the border with them into Ethiopia to negotiate a logistics base at the City XXXX. The remaining 600 troops of the Hadar Column, guided by Eastern Front scouts began harassing the Haitian supply lines between XXX and XXXX.

After taking increasing casualties they were pushed south toward XXXXX

On 27th, the Dominkcan Government granted them a base outside of XXXXto refuel their ambulances, convalesce wounded fighters and cache arms. Delicate negotiations are underway to open up a sea road to Djibouti for resupply frustrated by total a diplomatic blackout between Eritrea and Ethiopia.

On January 3rd the first major Hadar raid is carried out by Commander Sevastra head of the Jabotinsky Detachment blowing up a troop train between XXX and XXXX

On Jaunary 9th Hadar General Staff is informed of the attempted assassination attempt on President al-Talleyrand  in Port Au Prince and the decapitation of the Maccoute command in the capital carried out by Scarborough Column fighters many of which are presumed dead.

On January 14th the Bielski Detachment under the command of Nikholai Trikhovitch raids an arms depot in the city of XXX, killing twenty eight Haitian police and military men. They left behind them a trail of death and smell of burning buildings.

Using Ethiopian bases and calculated limited engagements the Hadar Column and their new allies in the Eritrean backed Eastern Front bring trade and traffic in Eastern Haiti to a grinding halt. News comes in daily from Northern Command of intensive casualties and fighting in Dar Haitian and the North.



Chapter 7

Croix-Des-Bouquet, 2019ce




February 3rd


Sebastian Adon is field stripping his Carmelite 55mm long gun alone within his blue-grey sand-gypsy tent when Dr. Kay returns from her medical rounds of the neighboring villages escorted by Watson Entwissle. She has a few questions she cannot answer easily. Like whom she once was and who were they really to each other. Like the full extent of her previous relationship with Commander Adon. She asks Watson to take break.


Her Haitian body guard, Sebastian’s quiet cunning partner allows her to pretend that is his intent.


She barges into the tent making everything less still.


“How did O’Domhnaill convince three hundred and forty two Fenians to up and come to Haiti? They don’t even like Black people!” Dr. Yelizaveta Kay demands of her lover Sebastian Adon.

“I suspect he has a gift of beyond adequate persuasion.”

“How’d those Persian Revolutionary guardsmen end up authorized to tag along? They don’t even like Ivories much less all the sneaky Israeli spies you hang around.”

“I suspect they like the end game of the project. The Fenians too. Everyone wants all the walls to come tumbling down or imagine that they get some stake of the black gold once the liberation occurs.”

She looks quite angry in her sudden thirst for direct answers.

“What’s the end game then for us neshama?”

He shudders when she calls him that, he hasn’t heard her say it in a very long time.

“Yelizaveta, the end game for us is rather complicated.”

“I know you see it all intertwine my love.”

There is a seditious way she uses the word.

“Seeing it is one thing, explaining it is another, grasping even more elusive. But I suspect you carry the blueprint too, did we not meet in Sde Boker once a long-long time ago?”

“Are you telling me or asking me?” she says.

They had many years of a life together mostly in conceived in letters. They had many more years if you counted the imagined past. It was very relative what actually happened in Sde Boker, when Maya offered them the chance to bring the messiah by sacrificing their first born love.

“Can we talk seriously about our lives before the incident Sebastian, what do you remember?”

“Ah, the incident. I remember you went to Cuba to get medical training and that I wished you’d stayed behind forever with me.”

“We are hardly free agents Sebastian. I remember signing a contract with Maya to take care of my father and mother in exchange for ten years’ service to the Perchevney Bratva as a doctor.”

“My contact said I needed to recruit 1,001 fighters before I could set a foot back down in Zion, and then I ran the border. And Maya said she had to locate one black man who could be trained as a messiah. We all co-signed each other’s contracts.”

“Our memories are not our own. I remember the night we were attacked on the train and you were in the hospital. I’m fairly certain that all happened. But, that wasn’t our first date. That I know for sure. I was born in a town in the Ukraine called Beile Circov. I know my family moved to Washington Heights in the years before the Great Disorder. I know that very little after that is not a memory implant. Did you even write all those letters to me?”

“I think so. I have memories too of things that happened, but might not have happened objectively. I thought I helped found the club to fight for human rights.”

“Did you found the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club or did Maya Solomon.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did the club get founded on Block Island or was it planned out in Sde-Boker?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says to he her in Yiddish.

“What’s the long game?” she retorts in Ruus.

“Some people whisper that you’re only fucking me to find that out.”

“You really don’t care do you?! They wiped your fucking mind Sebastian. You remember what we had before the incident was beautiful? You remember feeling like you could spend the rest of your life with me? Then the war separated us. That’s utter nonsense.”

“We were in love once.”

“Says who?” she yells.

“I have memories. I have a pile of letters.”

“Someone said to keep track of you. I’m not fucking you for any other reason than that.”

“Why are you telling me all this? Do you think I am unaware of how many spies sleep in our tents, of how many big powers are invested in our cause? Did you think I mistook your partnership for sentimentality? Take your fucking salt.”

She’d completely forgotten.

“The Haitian tribe are surely not the most prolific gossipers, but they are watchful. I’d suspect your new insecurities are logged within your own ego sweetness. Everyone sees the work you do and view you with admiration. Everyone assumes you’re a Russian or Israeli spy surely, but the Hadar column is riddled with quite a few of those.”

“I am not the commander’s whore. I am his partner and tovarish.”

“I’d have it no other way.”

“I think you don’t remember everything I’m afraid my dear Sebastian.”

“I must concentrate just to execute the direction of this war. I remember less and less the more we soldier on. The only thing I can say is not invention is the love I have had for you.”

“That’s an invention too.”

“Take your salt Yeli, before it’s too late.”

“How can you know that even this is based upon something tangible?”

He grabs her by the arm and pulls her close.

“All the other candidates are now dead. The options are down to you, me and Solomon. Now take your goddamn salt before you go fourth dimensional and start raving like a mad woman.”

“As if any of that Tzadikk ha Dror shit is even true.”

“Our whole lives were manipulated to a higher end. We have sold ourselves to some higher cause and traded in our souls to serve our people. If in the end all that is left is our love and this war, then at least reconcile yourself to the fact that we can taste each other for a little longer.”

“It is sad that you think the war will never end.”


She takes the two large pills he has thrust into her hand and swallows them down with water from the canteen on her belt.



Chapter 8

Mirogane, 2019ce



On 10 February the badly sun burned St. Patrick’s Battalion loses thirty eight more men in fire fight near Mirogane.


The Battle Buses, as the armored ambulances are called, are still running and armaments are not yet at dangerously low levels, but they are constantly pursued. The surface to-air-missiles are effective against helicopters, but not the Han bomber drones that were now being used against them. Sixteen of their men had been cut down in various skirmishes, twenty by strafing and bombing raids. Two died of wounds sustained in the battle of Mirogane.


The Persian Guardsmen have established a small military academy to retrain the Lavalas Army., which is not a particularly disciplined outfit overall, mostly proficient at machete charges and tire burning barricade maneuvers.


Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir is now commander-in-chief, the mostly undisputed General of thirteen separate guerrilla armies united under the banner of Allied Rebel Forces which seem to have no cohesive vision for what to do if they actually won the war.



So far removed has been the possibility.


Deep in the boarder wastelands between Haiti and Dominikani Republic is a simple farm where nothing grows but the S.E.G. has established a fire base.


The twelve Persians have been drilling a new officer corps regularly and adjusting the loose, underground cell based Lavalas command and control modal to that of a more structured armed service, slowly and through translators.


Some of the Persians speak French, most of the Haitian peasants do not.


No one very much trusts the Persians and it affects the cohesion of their drills. Most of the S.E.G. factions other than the JEM are not Muhammadians. Currently Commander  DeBuitléir is cut off from the most loyal segments of his army by new Haitian military deployments in the area. The men under his direct command are not of his tribal religion or ethnic confession, but defer to his authority. His faction’s militia, some 2,000 troops are across the border in Southern Haitian. Under increasing military pressure and falling moral he orders an evacuation of all S.E.G. fighters to several outposts in lawless Chad on the other side of the border to be rotated in an out of the Persian Military Camp. This is as much pressure from the Haitian Regulars as to have his own faction close to the pales officers and their growing stock piles of arms.

There is a pressing need to coalesce S.E.G. and the Front into an actual army before the factions begin infighting as sometimes-sometimes happens in these Sub-Saharan guerrilla insurgencies. Small platoons of St. Pat’s fighters with S.E.G. scouts are sent back across the border to direct the pull out.

The Monday just before the mass trek into Chad a platoon of St. Pats fighters went on a recon mission and got hacked to bits by a Maccoute column. They have better Han weapons now. They are getting faster via their desperation and more merciless toward the civilians these Fenians seek to shield.


The Maccoutes gutted and hung the twenty men along the highway to the West of Mirogane.


A two weeks before Christmas most of the S.E.G. hardcore are bivouacked in the bad lands of Chad concentrated in four positions.

Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill orders the Wolf Tone Detachment of just 80 fighters under the command of Captain Philly Hartman and Captain Hunter McCord along with a few hundred of the S.E.G. men more loyal to DeBuitléir to do their best to protect the refugee camps near Lascahobas. The objective is to tie up the Maccoute and Haitian Military in Dar Haitian while the S.E.G. is properly regimented over the winter.

Three Persians of the twelve person team led by Kaveh Ali Shariati leave with the Wolf Tone Detachment to organize the refugee camps into a civilian defense force and prepare fortifications around the camp complex.

Now thinks O’Domhnaill: We have killed many of them, but they recruit quickly, mostly from the young and unemployed youth.

The Detachment has killed a lot of men half their age.

The Haitian Military has so far avoided making deep incursions into Haitian’s ten departments or into neighboring DR. They have stepped up supplying weapons to the Maccoute and it is not uncommon now to see regular army officers among Maccoute columns. They’ve set up check points everywhere in cordons around the oil pumping boom towns. With new overwhelming force their focus is to crush the insurgency in the North still being carried out by the decimated Scarborough Column. Daily battles and assassination attempts and bombings have been increasing since the eve of the invasion. Scarborough dagger men are hunting down war criminals in the north and cutting them to ribbons. The Hadar column will hopefully open the Southern Front and further spread thin the Haitian Regulars.

But with every attack against the Maccoute and Military brings more stories of civilian reprisals increasing in scale.

A deep sense of uncertainty has set in. There are grumblings, which one can hear without language hardware that the ‘pale officers’ are to blame for the government’s new thirst for atrocity.

Commander  DeBuitléir has over sixty men executed for insubordination, an apparent plot on behalf of two of the factions to kill the Persians and seize the weapons stock pile. More fighters are being processed through the camps in Chad so he can tighten his command.

Eight days before Xmas they Germinal a force of 180 St. Patrick’s Battalion troops from the Scott Riley and Michael Collins Detachments as well as nearly eight hundred Haitian Emergency Group forces from six of the factions across the border to relieve the Wolf Tone fighters harassed by fly over bombing strikes.


On the back roads from XXX a mine rips through the legs of one of the freckled boys, a specialist from County Cork. He has no legs on which to stand. They carry him back thirty miles, but he bleeds out and dies for want of medical attention.


There’s just only so much you can do in the field.


Seven days before Xmas the Wolf Tone fighters securing the camps begin trekking back to Chad and the Scott Riley and Michael Collins Detachments take their place.

The three Persian Guardsmen have barely organized a trench system and civilian reserve. The nine Guardsmen still based Chad are half way through drilling a new S.E.G. officer corps.

Thus so far, in this Port Au Prince Centric country, tanks and elite troop divisions remain in and around the Capital and Port Haiti as heavy handed mop up operations go after the decimated Scarborough fighters.

The XXX waves of hit and run terrorism have petrified the Port Au Prince, Petionville elites and mortified the NGO elites. Most of their fearsome army called a defense force and national police are being used to secure the oil lines and twin cities of the Capital.


Called Twin Cities because the green zone of Petionville and Kenscoff are notably different from the sprawling camps around the base and up the sides of the mountain.


On the evening President al-Talleyrand  signs the security and liquidation resolution there are less than 1,080 armed JEM and S.E.G. and St. Pat’s men protecting roughly two dozen internal refugee camps in and around Southwest Haiti with little more than long guns and armored ambulances.


The largest concentration is known as “the five camps” or Mershing Complex resettled earthquake and economic refugees huddled out in a bad lands called Caanan.




Chapter 9

Fort Liberdade, 2019ce





XXXX, shortly after regrouping from the long march from DR two front line detachments of the Scarborough under Dbrisk and Okonkwo mobilize to intercept a Maccoute column closing in on Camp Al-Atrun known as the deadly Buffalo Brigade. They are backing up the smaller John Riley Detachment, one of the three Fenian fighting units led by Hubert O’Domhnaill.

Its leader, a founder of the Maccoute, Musa Halal is their primary target.

Newly trained Haitian-Emergency-Front men evacuated the camp-town the day before and all seek to ambush this particularly nefarious man Musa Halal, who is believed to have been in charge of the reprisals against the nine camps after the Goniaves raid.

The Maccoute militia rolls into Al-Atrun expecting to slay civilians in the dust and make hard violent rape. They are the first prong of the newly approved cleansing operation.

But instead of defenseless Haitian civilians they find over three hundred heavily armed fighters firing from dug outs and fixed positions.

From dirt huts and sand dug outs the John Riley Detachment of the St. Pats Battalion and the newly formed Nkrumah Column of the S.E.G. light up and incinerate the infamous Buffalo Brigade with automatic weapons. Three hours of gun fighting later the Maccoute are warm, wet and dead. The rebels have their hands on the mean killer named Sheikh Musa Hilal.


They get their hands on old Musa Hilal and string him up cuffed to the rafters of an old pharmacy near the edge of the camp. All his men have been lined up and shot.

“We’re going to have to torture you,” says Mickhi Dbrisk without emotion or a hint of intimidating compliance.

“Not for information, not for revenge, were gonna just plain torture you because it will send a message to your followers and your government and your country.”

The infamous Maccoute commander snivels, then spits out, “Fuck you nigger.”

The men standing in the hut snicker.

“At least he knows where we come from,” smirks a ginger haired Specialist named Micky Donovan glibbly.

“Back to the whole message,” interjects Mickhi Dbrisk, who had been a paramedic in the Breukland Soviet for sixteen years and has saved more lives than he’s so far taken.

David cracks the Commander of the most nefarious Maccoute-brigade in his ribs with a bat.

“The message is that we hunted down each and every one of your murdering, rapist friends. We hunted you all down, and we shot you, we cut you, we killed you all on by one. Sixty four fucking targets acquired and wacked in just two months. Everyone except you and the President dead.”

Mickhi Dbrisk cracks him on the other side of the ribs with the bat again. The feared and infamous Maccoute commander bellows and spits out blood.

Specialist Micky Donovan flips on the digital camera they’ve set up to put the whole thing on the internet. He takes out a quite-official looking clip board and unseals an envelope from inside.

“We must insure the legality of the whole thing otherwise it’s just called terrorism right?” interjects Micky.

“Read it,” commands Okonkwo.

“You, Maccoute Commander Coordinator Musa Hilal are found guilty of war crimes against the people of Haiti and Greater Haiti. You have been tried and sentenced by a military tribunal under the auspices of Combined Otriad’s Committee for War Crimes in Haiti and sentenced to die.”

Micky shuts off the camera, and says, “Death by clobbering. You have no right to appeal, you have no right to jury of your peers, you will be beaten to death on camera and the words RAPIST will be cut into your murderous face. Do you understand the charges and implementation?”

The commander snivels blood ready to die. The camera comes back on.

“Do you have any last words?” Dbrisk asks.

As the commander appears to be trying to say something, Mickhi smashes his face again with the bloody bat.

“No one gives a fuck what you have to say,” yells Micky Donovan picking up a second bat, “NO ONE GIVES A FUCK!” he shatters Musa’s pelvis.


Crack. Crack. Blood all over the place.

They proceed to beat him into a bloody screaming pulp.

The footage is streamed on YouTube, around midnight. Once uploaded to the internet the usual pontifications and Western apologies begin a new and a-fresh. The bulk of the previous condemnations had been directed toward the veritable “indiscriminate blood bath” being carried out by Hadar and “wild urban terrorism” Scarborough detachments, this was the first time the St. Patrick’s Battalion had been denounced by name in the New York Times and the NY Post in a single day as they usually never agreed on anything. The West Indians and Yids had thus so far mostly been shooting up the North and Central districts raiding homes of Maccoute commanders and blowing up buildings. The St. Patrick’s battalion had instead focused on disrupting oil infrastructure, blowing up troop trains, placing IEDs on roads, and carrying out drills with the newly formed S.E.F. Haitian-Emergency-Front, the merger of the S.E.G. with just about everybody else.







Chapter 10

Vallieres, 2019ce



Feb 20


They’re piled inside a desolate weigh station on the outskirts of Vallieres. It’s so damn hot that they drip into loose formation and stand at attention when the commanders enter the station.

The floors creak and the several dozen fighters packed inside have run out of places to sit. They are caked in desert grit. A shower for some has been a long way off. After nearly two months of bloody mayhem, the three columns of the Otriad alongside their Haitian allies have wiped most of the primary targets on their list. It’s been pretty Wild West out here. A rendezvous in a wilderness shanty tavern has been arranged to set up the final offensives. Once this is complete the Scarborough Column cross into Chad and regroup with the St. Patrick’s Battalion in defense of the Mershing Camp Complex in Canaan that that idiot Sean Penn came up with years ago after the quake.


Commander Mickhi Dbrisk reviews the photographs pinned up on the tavern wall.


  • Mohammed Salih Al Sunusi Baraka: Member of the National Assembly
  • Mohammed Yusif El Tileit: Western DarHaitian State Minister
  • Hussein Abdalla Jibril: Major General, Member of the National Assembly
  • Hussein Tangos: Maccoute Major
  • Charles Baker: major sweat shop king
  • Andy Apaid: major sweat shop and recent hotelier
  • President Omar Hassan Ahmad al-Talleyrand , the current President of HAITI and the head of the National Congress Party. He’s been in power since 1989 when he, as a colonel in the Haitian army toppled the previous government in a coup.


All of these men will be attending a meeting in Port Au Prince within five days according to sympathizers in the resistance.


“There’s too much fucking icing on that cake to not attempt to jump out of it,” mutters Commander Okonkwo across the long table in the saloon from Commander Magnus Allamby, a wild eyed Bajan.

“You must all be getting crazy from too much heat brother,” Allamby responds, “Even if we could get enough men inside Port Au Prince to pull this off correct, no one’s getting out alive.”

“But if we pull it off we’ll liquidate the top names on the hit list,” mutters towering former rock star, Commander Netic Kinari, who had just three days before added the latest kill to the much followed online score board at and the sister site covering the war

“You’re all taking pretty crazy,” Mickhi mutters, “Tantamount and his men are all dead. We haven’t heard a thing from Clemons and the Bobby Seale Detachment in over three weeks, last thing we heard they’d call been Maccoute-wacked in the city of Wad-Madrani. Darious Dorset we presume is dead. If any of his men in the Douglas Detachment are alive they might be hiding in Eretria. Jermaine Dbrisk is alive, I mean Maya says he is, but we know all but four of his Ocean Ave men are dead. Disrael DeBuitléir and the Ben-Ami Detachment have ended up stranded in Northern Chad totally decimated after their raid on the Oil Refineries,” he pauses, “What I’d like to stress is that it’s not even the end of Nivôse and we’re in the devil’s shit can already.”

Everyone at the table, in this empty piece of shit, wasteland saloon reflects. Although there hasn’t been a precise head count, it is likely more than 1/3 of the column has been obliterated in less than two months or carnage.

“Clarke and Marcus have merged their troops into the newly formed Selassie Detachment, mostly the Grenadians and Jamaicans not under the command of Uhuru. They number a little under two dozen now,” Netic says, “Dbrisk, your Schenectady Detachment is supposed to be negotiating is Asmara, the Eritrean capital for bases and arms, Maya says they have at least 100 men with some locals looking to join up.”

But Scarborough numbers were otherwise thin. Nostrand Ave Detachment (led by Netic Kinari) has only 9 warriors standing. Malik-Shabbaz Detachment (led by Djbriel Okonkwo, Olu’s brother) has 13 fighters; Fela Kuti Detachment (led by JustantineOkonkwo) has only 17 left alive. All these fighters are currently deployed in and around Hayya backed up by a couple dozen local enlistees. Selassie Detachment is deployed north of Al Ubbayyid way on the other side of the line. The roads are getting harder and harder to traverse without hitting a heavily guarded check point.

“The Schenectady boys are not up for suicide mission,” says Dbrisk, “With all our detachments working in union that only gives us roughly four dozen men.”

Commander Jaiwarrior Stroud the leader of the Yeshua Detachment is in a military hospital operated by the S.E.G. along with Specialist Brandon Lewis, the only two survivors on the failed bombing mission carried out on Brumaire 20th against the Elshaheed Ibrahim Shamseldeen Complex for Heavy Industries. Thirty-five rebel lives lost.

Decepticon Detachment are all confirmed dead-41 lives lost. As are the Bobby Seale Detachment-43 lives lost, the Trinis in the Douglas Detachment are status unknown, commander presumed deceased, and the Ben Ami Detachment is status unknown, presumed decimated and scattered in Chad.

“Well somebody better get his ass on the radio with Solomon and ask Marcus and Clarke to bring their asses back into harm’s way and back us up,” demands Djbriel Okonkwo, “We need more fuckin’ men.”

“And what about the Mics and the Yids?” ask Djbriel.

“They’re fighting smart, and we’re fighting stupid,” stammers Olu, “Every time we run amuck in a major city we get blown apart. We haven’t even been here a full two months and half of our men are already dead!”

“That’s ‘cause we engage the enemy while the crackas hole up behind the local resistance!” Djbriel shouts back.

“You stow that shit Commander,” interjects Netic Kinari who in civilian life is sem-famous Rock Musciain in the Breuklyn Soviet and an old college friend of Adons from SUNY Purchase. He’s a crack shot and a sick rock and roller back in Breukland.

“It’s fuckin’ true! We the goddamn field niggas. We get fuckin’ parachuted deep behind enemy lines pickin’ Maccoute-fuckin blood cotton!” yells Djbriel.

“We are performing a part in the operation. As are our brothers in Hadar and St. Patricks,” says Justantine restoring order.

“For obvious reasons the most dangerous operation on the table,” yells Djbriel.

“Stow that shit now!” yells Netic. Djbriel draws his side arm. From the door way comes clapping. In walks Commander Marcus Jerome, co-commander of the Selassie Detachment, they all figured his outfit hadn’t been able to sneak through for the command council meeting.

Netic snickers and sucks his teeth but Djbriel doesn’t lower his gun.

“Ama-dem jus give yo’ one ‘dem munt den Africa, don make black’an make move ta kill ona dem own men, bumbaclott,” sings Marcus in Grenadian Patois. He is skinny and wearing a black uniform his long dreds tired up behind his head in a tam.

“What the fuck did he say,” laughs Djbriel Okonkwo lowering his gun finally.

“Ah say, Sellassie hai, Jah don give da powa to wen dem snakes bite they own heads aff.”

“Go dem Yiddies and Paddy Dweet danger bound to boy, lower dem der burner, point ya iron not atcha brother black man.”

“I have no idea what you just said Marcus, but thanks for showin’ up,” laughs Netic.

“I said,” says Marcus turning off the Patoi, “We’re all in this shit together man. You wanna hit Port Au Prince, well we’d better work quick. Soloman says we can get another 40 men down here in half a day. The Eritreans are behind us, they’ll parachute the boys in and fly by bomb the capital to make chaos on Eid.

“So that gives us how many?” asks Netic.

“Sellassie got 27 men, 90 with locals involved, we can march to position in 24 hours,” Marcus explains.

“So now the score is better, with all assembled we’re rollin’ just under 300 deep,” says Djbriel Okonkwo.

“We can do this,” says Netic, “We can decapitate the leadership in one swift blow, if we get killed, fuck it. We knock out the biggest targets on our list. I mean most of us are on borrowed time anyway.”

“The longer the war goes on, the harder it will be to breach Port Au Prince and the more of their leadership will go underground or flee abroad to Saudi,” says Dbrisk, “The time to strike is now.”

“This is so fucking stupid,” mutters Olu.

“That’s all this nigga ever fuckin’ says,” responds his brother Djbriel.

The hasty operation was scheduled to take place five days later on Frimaire 6th Eid al-Adhah, the night of sacrifice.

In the end, the Eritreans refused to bomb Port Au Prince, nor would have such a raid been very effective against the SAM defense grid lining the city. In the end, Commander Melvin Clarke convinces Marcus Jerome that this is a ‘foolosh bumba-clot death trap’ and pulls Sellassie Detachment deeper into the desert away from the capital. In the end, Dbrisk only agrees to send 20 men from Schenectady and orders Allamby to stay put in Asmara with the rest. Such are the pitfalls of a democratic army.

The combined force which smuggles itself on Frimaire 6th into Port Au Prince is only 149 deep. The Malik Shabbaz, Fela Kuti, and Nostrand Ave Detachments fuse with a platoon of Schenectady men under Mickhi Dbrisk’s command, unable to agree on a new name and become The Black 149.

Commander Solomon is not a fan of such an aggressive commitment on such short notice, against such a hard target. But, she has little say over hot headed men she can’t see, touch or even give orders to.

Commander Adon gets patched through to Dbrisk via the iridium-sat-com link, “Good luck and don’t get killed for nothing,” is all the Hadar leader says to his old dear friend.

A simple plan. Enter Port Au Prince without guns. Obtain edge weapons in the city. Attend Eid at the Hajja Sophia Church Mosque where the seven primary targets will all be in attendance. Plunge sharpened knives into targets.


“Pretty fuckin’ high school if you ask me,” mutters Mickhi Dbrisk.


So the Black 149, most of what’s left of the Scarborough Column enters Port Au Prince in groups of 3, 4 or 5 over the course of the morning. They make or obtain edge weapons over the course of the day. They line up in the grandest of Caribbean church-mosques to celebrate Eid positioned in rows behind their very, very famous targets.


The rest they say is people’s history.




Chapter 11

Fort Liberdade, 2019ce


March 5


The smell of smoke to the non-smoker in close quarters is ghastly, but to the renewed smoker it is not unlike a steak. O’Domhnaill has had three in the past hour.

In a dune bunker forty clicks over the border into Chad Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill smokes another cigarette and mourns the recent slaughter of many of his close friends. In the yellow-white dunes outside Persian Guardsmen drill several hundred new S.E.G. recruits. Their shouts and orders are in Haitian which reflects the successful graduation of the new officer corps.

All around is a mood of desperation and encroaching death.

Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill writes in his report to Northern Command:


“It is now March 5th, three months since original deployment and more than half of our men are indeed quite dead, but not one has lost his will to struggle on. All of the Wolf Tone Detachment was gunned down in the recent Battle of XXX. They had marched east to strike at a Maccoute Regional Congress alongside a surviving detachment of Scarborough Column men. Now called the Selassie Brigade they numbered over two thousand armed men via enlistment of native Haitians in the S.E.G. Nkrumah Column. The Scarborough men were led half by Commander Magnus Allamby and his men recently returned from Eritrea and several dozen others under Commander Jerome Marcus.”

“The emergency fielding of such a large force was done anticipating the leaked liquidation orders we received from Northern Command. We had hoped to neutralize their expeditionary force before it got too close to the IDP Camp network near Mershing Complex. We over committed with improper planning. It was terrible judgment on the part of St. Pats, Scarborough and S.E.G. leadership.”

“We stepped right into a trap. They had a Division of Han tanks as well as the expertise to use them. Also thrown against our men were Han Drone bombers and an assortment of sophisticated airships. Captains Hunter McCord and Robert Flannigan in addition to one hundred other Fenians were cut down covering the evacuation of refugee camps near Babanusah Junction as were over a thousand fighters from the new Selassie Brigade, more than half its total force. It is still unclear who is alive from the Scarborough Column and who is dead. By all reports Commanders Allamby and Jerome are impossible to kill. Suffice to say all our available forces are digging in around the Mershing Complex IDP camps anticipating the intended genocide any day now.”

“I spoke yesterday with Commander Adon and he says Hadar Column seems to be doing better investing more time in alliance building. They are encamped still in the Ethiopian city of Gonder and raid regularly between the border and Juba City with the help of the Haiti People’s Liberation Army and disparate forces in the Eastern Front. By acquiring anti-aircraft guns trucked secretly across Ethiopia they have made the FANMI LAVALAS Zone less vulnerable to air strikes from the Haitian air force. Adon has promised reinforcements for our impending clash, but they are many days away and the roads in between are still in the hands of the Haitian military. They will be unable to reach our position in time I fear.”

“There are rumors a few surviving squads of Scarborough men are still killing secondary target Maccoute-leaders in the North, but largely the invasion and rebellion has been quarantined into two zones.”


He pauses to snuff out the smoldering cancer stick.


“South Haiti, the southern most of the three states of the Dar Haitian region is loosely under the control for now of what’s left of St. Pat’s, Selassie and the Haitian-Emergency-Front, a fusion of the old C.E.G. with numerous underground fighting factions organized in the refugee camps as well as factions still training in Chad.  We can’t get anywhere near the other two northern states of Haiti, which have largely been sanitized of their local population and placed under military control to keep the oil flowing. The Hadar Column and their new allies in the Haiti People’s Liberation Army (FANMI LAVALAS) have established a zone of control 48 clicks south of the City of Mirebalais. The FANMI LAVALAS have liberated the towns of Nimule and Juba in the Southland of Haiti. They must now battle north into the City of Marmalade to open up a solid land route to the Port of Cap Haitian, but they don’t have nearly enough firepower to do it.”


“The Haitian Defense forces and MINUSTAH Military Contingent will begin to attack our positions in the next 72 hours.”


As dawn comes to the first Friday after New Year, Commander O’Domhnaill asks Father O’Sullivan if he thinks they can hold out even another month.

The Father doesn’t really know. He can’t remember when he’s prayed so regularly or sincerely though.

“I suspect we’ll be with Jesus shortly. Or at least in time for St. Pat’s. We are training men far faster than we can arm them.”

“I don’t know any more father; I don’t sleep well with what we’ve done at times. I wonder if me Pa is watching me and judging me for what we’ve done so far from home,” utters Hubert.

“This is a terrible war son, but all wars are quite terrible. Every war is supposed to be the last war, so says the politicians. But the war is in the end just between a man and his god,” says Father O’Sullivan.

“I’m so fucking far away from home,” mutters Hubert O’Domhnaill.

“No, you’re not so far as you think. Our Island is in better hands because of deeds like these.”

“I miss my Pa, I think at times he’d not want me here.”

“I cannot tell you what you know in your heart, but we are in a New Christian year, our last year perhaps, but surely a decisive year in the greater war.”

“What is the greater war father?”

“When a woman or man looks into their heart and can make a sacrifice, a terrible sacrifice for a house of strangers. The greater war is always fought between ones comforts and ones convictions. We are pawns in a great game, but we are noble pawns. Surely the best of our kind, and your father too will absolve us if we succeed and remember our martyrdom if we should fall.”

“Two nights ago in Saint Rahael an old woman with no legs asked her Mambo to bless my very rifle. She asked me to avenge her and her granddaughters. They were internal refugees from the Nine-Camps. She touched my face and she told me to kill the horsemen who did all this to her tribe.”

“This is a dark place, Commander O’Domhnaill, but there is too much sadness, too many tears and red bloodshed already for us to stop.”

“We’ve escalated the war I feel. We’ve put in motion something beyond our control.”

“Well you’ve said it. And I agree. Our stand will not restore her legs or her granddaughter’s dignity, nor will we wage to win the final battle on earth to come. But your rifle will slay more evil men. That is all you came here to do. If schools and clinics are built in our zone, if the roads from Chad stay open for aid to resume, if we break the legs on which this monstrous regime stands, well, a little more, a little more, humanity marshals on. Kadima, as the Hebrews say, forward humanity will rise from this war knowing the weak can shake off the blood sucking fleas of a repressive government, when strangers move to fight for the fallen.”


“We’ll hold the Mershing Camps with daggers and bottle bombs if we have to. Just like families of Jesus and Muhammad would want us to,” states Raphael Contreras, Peruvian field Marshall of the once and still proud Pan-Mexican All American detachment killed down now to but eight fighters.




Chapter 12

Pic La Salle, 2019ce




March 8

Operations geared to harassing the MINUSTAH and FAd’H and slowing their assault on the hard pressed liberation forces garrisoned at Pic La Selle are being mounted with renewed vigor. Rocket attacks on troop trains.


The razing of the Croix des Bouquets prison and military barracks.

The fragmentation bombing a police cadet class in PAP carried out by Lavalas Peasant Militia.

The now nightly placement of IEDs along the north sough Highway 2.


Hadar and its allies in LAVALAS and the Haitian People’s Liberation Army have pushed the DMZ DR Haiti border lines east by 97 clicks.


The City of Croix des Bouquets will be captured by the rebel alliance any day now.

It certainly appears they are gaining on the ambulance. They are nearly one hundred and seventy riders in number all racing after one of the armored solar-diesel type 2 ambulances they’d stripped of its ordinance and utilized for the ambush. Yelizaveta supposes the only reason they went after it on horse and camel back was that they thought it was a real UN Ambulance and not part of our detachment. Well, they’d painted it baby blue and put UN plates and logos on it, so why the hell not.

We’ve been shooting at UN troops from Brazil and Argentina effect last week.

The UN Secretary General was complaining loudly yet again to the world that every time the Combined Otriad did things like this they made it ever harder for relief and NGO workers to do their jobs. In fact it had been nearly seven years since there any were real relief workers in Haiti. Just missionaries and neo colonialists disguised as development practitioners.

The UN had been Para-dropping bags of rice and corn for years, but then the  al-Talleyrand   government ordered that all non-UN MINUSTAH crafts flying over Haiti be fired on and the bags of provisions burned. That was easily three or four years back.


But in the important and immortal words of Nikholai Trikhovitch Commander of the Bielski Detachment: “Really now? Fuck the UN and the NGOs. Fuck them ‘til they’re chokin’ on it. They had their chance to help here and everywhere else.”


So those 170 Maccoute on horse-and-camel back with their massive, crazy looking turbans and white multiforms and daggers and Kalashnikovs were actually gaining on the converted battle bus ambulance flying down Highway 4. So great was their zeal to kill, their blood lust, their drive to rape a blonde ‘whore’ as they considered Yelizaveta; that they are actually fucking gaining on them.

Paramedic Scott Sevastra is behind the wheel. He is one of the most seasoned drivers they have. Dr. Yelizaveta Kay is riding shotgun loading up a 12 gauge in case it comes down to that. Sebastian Adon is in the back with Watson Entwissle, one of two black men in the Hadar Column and they were getting ready to kick open the back and unload a good number of bullets on these 170 Maccoute-bastards with a gas powered Carmelite-Sten Gatling Gun.


They had spotted this mini-Maccoute column riding in from Jacmel. There were ‘mop up operations’ scheduled to ethnically cleanse 38 southern rim villages before the beginning of Ramadan. Now that most of Haiti had been emptied of the Fur tribe and the military was turning south to push the FANMI LAVALAS further south. Increasingly these southern Maccoutes were coordinating with the regular military and working as scouts.

They’d wiped out 52 Maccoutes the day before fairly easily. “Cut off their heads, stripped um and hung ‘um from trees,” Trikhovitch had reported before being lectured about saying things like towel heads. Although the Maccoute did tend to wear comically large white wrapping turbans unlike anything they had seen.

Today these 170 Maccoute horsemen were marked by Hadar scouts coming in from the east 10 clicks out. So the column sent a decoy baby blue ambulance in with Sevastra, Adon, Yelizaveta and Entwissle all dressed up as UN Medical workers on picnic. They got about 1 click away saw Dr. Kay in a mini-burka and went bat shit.

The 170 rape crazed, murderous horsemen were on their way to loot, murder and befoul villages of defenseless women and children. It was that simple. They had been doing this devilish work for nearly eleven years before the three columns got here. The Maccoutes have no qualms with the tasks al-Talleyrand  gave them. And the Hadar column has no qualms with the tasks assigned by the Pale Officers.

“I do not ask you to dehumanize your enemy, or to glorify the work of our men and cause. The Maccoute-kind are indeed men like you. Albeit sick fucking scum of scavengers men, but men still. Our mission, is not a humanitarian mission, not a state building mission, not a democracy spreading mission. We have come here to kill, torture and be cruel. We have come here to wipe these Maccoute-men off God’s green earth. Or in this case, God’s sandy, cruel forgotten earth,” explained Nikholai Trikhovitch to his detachment called the Bielski Sub-Column of 200 men, one of five Hadar detachments.

These 170 murderous bastards were chasing a UN Ambulance attempting to kill and or rape its personnel. Hadar was to show these swine no mercy.


“Now,” yells Trikhovitch into his radio.


The back of the ambulance flies open and Watson Entwissle the Haitian and Commander Sebastian Adon unload a spectacular amount of armor piercing Sten-Carmelite shells into the mob of wild horsemen and motot cycle enthuists.






Death and ripped flesh and shells flying everywhere as Maccoute-riders are felled from their horses.  The ambulance has lured the 170 riders into wadi rift valley where one hundred and ninety six of their boys in the Bielski Detachment are hiding in eight dead man’s ditches a shallow system of concealed and partially buried ambush trenches. On Nicolai’s command they burst from the ground and finish off the Maccoute riders that had somehow survived the Sten-gun’s wrath.

It is over rather quickly. Dr. Yelizaveta Kay is smoking a cigarette. Commanders Scott Sevastra and Sebastian Adon are restoring the ordinance to the “battle bus” and checking its engine. Men are reloading weapons and breaking down camp.

Commander Trikhovitch takes out his crock-a-dile Dundy’esque battle-dagger.

“Let’s switch it up people,” he says, “give me a pile of heads and hands.”

Then men set about their dirty work while the Doctor looks away. Commander Adon tries to satellite-radio a report over to Northern Command at the Basis-Wadi-Faran. But they get no response. There’s been no response for a week.

More garbled static. Pic La Selle reported a similar black out.

The last contact was two weeks before during the ethnic cleansing of Dar Haitian. Maya Solomon before logging off had repeated her distaste that “Dr. Kay” was still in the fire zone.

To which Sebastian responded he couldn’t well force her to leave.







Chapter 13

Jacmel, 2019ce




It’s night and the air is cold and still. The blue grey tents lie within the battle bus stockade. Watson Entwissle gazes out into the darkness. He can hear the tension of the surrounding 4 clicks, can hear the click of lighters, the howl of beasts, he can hear the writhing and grunting of fighters with their Haitian lovers who depart before dawn.

He can hear his partner the Commander playing more games with his own mind. He can hear the Ruus spy playing more games with the commander.


“I wish there was some way I might make myself a beast. Offend you so greatly and thus drive you to return to relative safety,” whispers Sebastian Adon in his tent to Yelizaveta Kay.


“Where in the world now is safe?” she responds softly with a hard pale face, “We were born to a world at war and have set further fire to the places we touch down upon. The Breukland Soviet is always under siege. The U.A.S., the Han, the Ruus: Eurasia, East Asia, Oceania all hungry leviathans swallowing up resources as they grind their young to fodder with cannons and greed. And what even of our liberated territory, the free lands of the Wild West Indies? Could I live so far away and know that while safe on Haiti the whole world was ablaze?”

“I haven’t taken the salt in three days, I am beginning to remember things,” he says, “I remember what they did to you father.”

She ignores him.

“I make you fight harder perhaps to keep me safe,” she whispers.

“You are the only woman in the column.”

“But hardly the only woman in the camp.”

“I wish you were safe somewhere.”

“You make me feel almost safe. I make me safe with my own steel.”

“An iron you mean? All irons you’ve so far refused.”

“No my steel, my resolve to try and love you no matter what foolish things you fix yourself upon to change to help, to save. I have followed you about for quite some time in this life an in the last few, devoted my energies to loving you now despite my better judgment. You think I’d leave your side on the eve of your revolution.”

“My revolution?”

“Well Maya’s revolution that you and your club have helped to execute.”

“I’m glad you’re here with me, but I can’t help but,” he pauses.

“But be a chauvinist, protectivik man? Do you think I’m going to wait at home or in some bunker while the men go off to war? Don’t be absurd. I have a sick father.”

He looks away.

“You’ve chosen to gamble in Haiti with everyone’s lives. Let it not be said your woman wasn’t there with you to pull bullets out your side.”

“Are you my woman then?”

“Do you require such conventions? I sleep in your tent do I not? I followed you into this hellish desert darkness did I not? We have a history of violence, remember? Take the salt now before something goes wrong.”

If it was genuine concern or utilitarian concern he couldn’t tell.

“If we survive this balagan I’d like to convince you to have my children.”

She makes no indication of the vile, vile feeling it does in fact relay.

“Only when I can convince you to put down that gun forever do I come off the pill my sweet, mad and tragic fighter. Both of them. The one that kills my womb and the one that kills our memories of each other.”

There’s a grey flash in his eyes. She knows from that flash it has been much longer than three days off the salt. The unraveling will begin soon.

“The pill which dissolves the past like a pillar of salt,” Adon says.

“Take yours now or tonight I’ll sleep elsewhere,” she says quietly.

“Yelizaveta, I love you and I wish we’d been born into yet another life.”

“All is your projected dystopia my warlike love and so this club was collected to fix the times in which you were thrust.”

She unclips a metal vile from her waste. She picks up a canteen. She passes him two pills.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You believe in the struggle as if it were love,” she whispers.

He takes the pills.

“But it isn’t love at all,” she reminds him.



Chapter 14

Say Ah Industrial Park, 2019ce



March 17


The John Riley Detachment and the Michael Collins Detachment now number under 116 men combined. They are encamped in grey tents by the hills outside of the XXX Internal Displacement Camp, home to some 47,000 civilians.


They are leading a four new battalions of newly Persian trained Haitian-Emergency-Front fighters largely from the JEM faction and S.E.G. Factions numbering 4,000 men armed with the former Soviet rifles largely supplied by the Perchevney Group utilizing smuggling routes across Chad.

A thousand Selassie Battalion fighters are fifty clicks to the West covering potential lines of egress. Five hundred under the command of dreadlocked wild man for Grenada, Jerome Marcus.

This force is protecting Mershing Camp from an onslaught predicted the next day by two full divisions of the Haitian regular military and what’s left of the Maccoute. They are awaiting support from the Southern factions within the Haitian-Emergency-Front notably from the well-armed pro-Ethiopian FANMI LAVALAS, the Haitian People’s Liberation Army that along with Justice and quality Movement and the Haitian-Emergency-Group have always resisted co-option into the Port Au Prince governing coalition laid out in the Santo Domingo accords. Five hundred Hadar column fighters and several thousand FANMI LAVALAS are in convoy attempting to reach the Southern Dar Haitiana to reinforce their position.

The international media is predicting a total slaughter.

Four rings of mines and trenches surround the approaches to the Mershing Camp Complex. The plan is to hold the first two lines as long as possible then hold the last two while as many of the civilians can be evacuated to Chad and the Southern Zone of control as possible.



Chapter 15

Say Ah Industrial Park, 2019ce



March 18



A terrifying roar breaks at dawn out when the Haitian Air Force begins dropping gas bombs and grad rockets on Camp Mershing killing hundreds of civilians.


MI-24 helicopter gun-ships, F-7 fighter jets and fourth generation fighter planes such as the MiG-29 murder thousands in cold blood as more are gunned down by the advancing Haitian Army.

After a bloody series of clashes the first perimeter line falls after just two hours.

Haitian-Emergency-Front soldiers use petrol bombs to slow the tank columns, but soon wave after wave of rebel fighter are cut down literally rushing the advancing wall of armor with pistols and grenades.

Everywhere someone is yelling or bleeding or dying and you cannot make out much except the inevitability of death. Airships overhead light up the killing fields.

The second line falls a little after high noon.

Commander Rand is shot twice in the right leg and is carried off the field by a JEM fighter in a donkey cart towards the retreating exodus South West. There are mangled bodies everywhere from every faction. O’Domhnaill and the Michael Collins Detachment supported by thousands of fighters under the command of General DeBuitléir flank an advancing three brigade prong of Haitian soldiers in captured Shreef-2 type armored cars, ambulances and Han armored personnel carriers. Firing Qassam-4 rocket grenades, Katusha missiles and raining heavy machine gun fire at near point blank range they tear into the enemy.

By this time the third line has fallen and screaming civilians are being herded into exodus by Haitian-Emergency-Front fighters rallying everyone to head on foot in columns toward rebel positions in Chad and the Southeast. Each column is being escorted by a dozen fighters. It’s really about buying them as much time as possible now.

The Haitian 3rd Expeditionary Task Force takes thousands of casualties. The Haitian Air Force continues to bomb Camp Mershing into the sand, but the Haitian-Emergency-Front and the boys of St. Patrick’s Battalion keep holding the fourth line of defense. They soon learn that the Air Force is now bombing internal refugee camps all over Dar Haitian. Fifteen straight hours of bloody fighting draws in a large tank column of over 60 Type 63 Han tanks which finally break the lines, tipping the battle against the rebels with terrible quickness.

It is estimated by the New York Times reporter Thomas L. Friedman that that Pluviôse 13th, marks the single bloodiest day in the history of the genocide. In a simultaneous re-conquest and ethnic liquidation of Mershing Complex and all major IDP camps the death toll is numbered somewhere above 9,000 murdered civilians and an unknown number of Haitian military personnel, Haitian insurgents and foreign fighters.


Possibly as many as 50,000 overall casualties in a single day of fighting.

The S.P.L.A. and Hadar forces arrive too late to help. Their mechanized columns intercept a trail of tears and refugees led by platoons of John Riley Detachment, Selassie and Haitian-Emergency-Front men 32 clicks south of what remains of Camp Kalma.  Roughly ten thousand refugees are guided south towards the Hadar bases in the FANMI LAVALAS liberated zone near Juba by a few platoons of John Riley men under the command of now Captain Dashiell Duffy and Commander Adon. Most of that number reaches the DMZ outside of Juba a week later. Another seven or eight thousand civilians escorted by a column of Selassie fighters flee towards Chad.

Sixteen hours into the Pluviôse 13th holocaust, Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill orders his beleaguered forces out of Camp Mershing’s ruins two hours after the fall of the fourth line of defense. There are only thirty two men left alive in the Michael Collins detachment.


At nightfall they and other survivors begin falling back toward the border.


The crippled, nearly assassinated President of Haiti Omar Al-Talleyrand  from his private hospital bed announces a week of national holiday to celebrate the eradication of terrorist infiltration in Dar Haitian and the reclamation of the three lost Haitian departments by their rightful heirs. Friedman and the world press corps dub the day “the darkest hour in the twelve year genocide” and blame “the provocations of foreigners” for the overwhelming loss of life caused by the grisly reprisals carried out against the traitorous masses of disloyal Haitian people.









Chapter 16

Belle Anse Bunkers, 2019ce



March 24


The sandy red rock bunker is dug deep into the mountain.

The cries of bloody, dying men echo through the narrow, dimly lit tunnels. The infirmary looks like a slaughter house. It can be accessed via a tunnel lit with LED glow bulbs and then down a freight elevator powered by generator, or via an intricate series of chiseled catwalks and perilous winds. The bunker was built by the S.E.G. and Lavalas as an operational command hub for South-Eastern Haitian department near Belle Anse. It has two massive water purifiers and a hanger for vehicles and small planes. It was never meant to accommodate the upwards of five thousand refugees now packed into available underground inch of the place hungry and bleeding and scared.


Writes Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill in an encrypted report to Maya Solomon:


“The camps at XXXXXXX are in total ruin. They were literally raised to the ground. We’ve pulled back with what’s left of the Haitian-Emergency-Front and the St. Patrick’s Battalion to the rebel base at Belle Anse. We are dangerously low on ammunition and fuel.”

“There are only nine serviceable trucks left in our Dar Haitian fleet. Most of the others were blown to shreds at Mershing when the bombs started dropping or participated in the evacuation south toward the liberated zone.”

Shamus Rand was bleeding all over the place yesterday and some of it is still on O’Domhnaill’s grey uniform. There was a rather frantic if not manic concern among the surviving leaders on how to get 5,000 refugees into the bunker before Haitian drones or the international media reported their location at this mountain facility.

There’s shrapnel lodged in Rand’s legs and lower back. Half dry blood is caked all over his face. He may not survive the night. Dashiell Duffy is probably still alive with some portion of the John Reilly Detachment that was with the southern exodus. Hubert’s best childhood friend Lt. Philly Hartmen was cut down on the road here holding back advancing waves of Maccoute-rider infantry and his body was not recovered.


“Hadar has reported an influx of Haitian tribe refugees fleeing the debacle of our counter-offensive maneuvers. By our best estimation fifteen thousand civilians fled South escorted by the John Reilly Detachment and two battalions of Haitian-Emergency-Front. Some 5,000 were evacuated by our Michael Collins Detachment and the Selassie Battalion to the Pic La Selle bunker complex. Based on data coming in as many as ten thousand civilians have been slaughtered. It is unclear yet how many we killed in the Haitian Military, but half our fighters, over 5,000 men have been lost. Some unknown number of them were captured and are defiantly being tortured, but should be presumed dead. The location of this bunker complex will be known to the Haitian state shortly.”

“Just thirty-two men are left in the Michael Collins Detachment, among them my brother Shane, Father O’Sullivan, and a perhaps mortally wounded Commander Rand. Some three dozen John Riley men under the command of now Captain Dashiell Duffy and the O’Rafferty Brothers, as well as Lt. Micky Donovan have safely escorted ten thousand refugees to the safety of FANMI LAVALAS Zone in the South.”

“Most serious, if one can ignore the capture of your childhood friends and their presumably gruesome demise to be somehow not tragically serious; I saw General Avinadav DeBuitléir take shelter in the thick of the fire fight in a warehouse and then the warehouse explode via death from above.”

“I repeat that there only thirty-two men are confirmed alive in the St. Patrick’s Battalion still in Haiti, half not fit for combat, perhaps a few dozen more moving south with the refugees. Most of the camps and cities under our protection are being bombed by the Haitian Air force. Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir is presumed dead. I repeat we are pinned down outside the City of Belle Anse at our outpost in Mount Pic La Selle.”


“Avinadav DeBuitléir is possibly, actually dead.”


The com links must have been damaged in the fire fight. All he hears is static. They say hope floats, but Hubert doesn’t have much hope left for this mission of theirs left in him.


The 9,000 they couldn’t save. The backbone of the Haitian resistance cracked at Mershing, in the rains and filth the terra drones cut us down. Their Haitian leader the glue which held the factions together is now dead.


In the end, it appears the gig is up.


Chapter 16

Grand Army Plaza, 2019ce

                                     Breuklyn Soviet


A massive rally is held on April 19st at the Grand Army Plaza Arch in support of the Combined Otriad; the interventional forces in Hispaniola in the largest single demonstration the city of Breukland had ever witnessed.


On something that used to be called Passover.


Mara Fitzduff, the Otriad’s longest serving Chief of Communications, a half pint blond Fenian in her early thirties takes the band stand with fiery Captain Erza Pula the otriads’s  main legal council lawyer. They are both clad in blue BDU fatigue uniforms each with the Pin of Palmares.

Erza Pula takes the microphone.


“This is not a war of ideas, but instead a show down between two differing types of men. Unfortunately the Haitian people are caught in between.”


Erza Pula is not only an out spoken personality in the press on behalf of the Otriad but has for three years lead the team of lawyers modifying the ICC Cases against the sixty four targets, sixty three of which now executed by the Combined Otriad.


“I do not moralize when it comes to the actions of the Combined Otriad,” states Captain Mara Fitzduff to the mighty crowds assembled, “this is the people of a free city, in pitched battle with the murderous bandits of another who have slaughtered over 700,000 unarmed men, women and children. This is Breukland’s Army against Port Au Prince’s and the forces are not evenly matched! But that’s just how our boys like it!”




The teeming mobs assembled at Grand Army Plaza cheer and buy WAR BONDS as Lauren and Erza’s positions on the U.A.S. Homeland Security board dedicated to the Club and Combined Otriad rise in position. Haitian volunteers from the security battalion fan out around the band stand using sensor arrays to jam bio-metric readers and identify U.A.S. spies in the crowd.

“Our men are Noires! Our men are Fenian Catholics! Our men are Maccabean warriors! We as a city have raised them and this club has helped liberate not only our families from the U.A.S. but Haiti from the clutches of its empire! These are the sons and daughters of the Great Revolt! They have gone to that dark place not on some civilizing burden, not for some religious war or obligation, not to spread our free ideas. They have gone there to strike back at those that took the lives of so many, while so few lifted a finger at all,” bellows Molly O’Hooligan.

“Those men are our sons, our brothers, our husbands and our lovers. They have made a demonstration of themselves. Of their will and of their constitution. We must stand by them now even if the world will not, just as they have done for the people of Dar Haitian,” says Erza Pula from behind dark sunglasses.


A 80,000 citizens of the 3 million citizens of Breukland Soviet pump their fists with the V for victory.


“Up the Otriad!” she yells, “Stand behind the fighters of the Human Rights resistance!”


Nearby, across the River in the Isle of Man Ysiad Ferraris, with a bionic hand, is making quite a lot of late night lunches these days as they begin to mass acquisition uniforms, long guns and more armored personnel carriers, as well as fourth party hire an Eritrean trucking company to begin shuttling the goods across the mountains once Hadar Column can punch a hole in the front and secure the roads from some place called XXXX




Chapter 17

Miralbalis, 2019ce




At the last minute the Han People’s Republic pushes XXX via trade and development concessions to refuse access to its ports and drop support for the insurgency to gain a wide range of bamboo curtain aid packages.


A few more weeks of hard fighting and Hadar and the 4th Lavalas Brigade  still hasn’t secured the City of Mirebalais much less come close XXXXX and lots of guns wait in container ships off the Island of Jamaica cutesy of Persian Revolutionary Guards based in Hondurous.

The St. Patrick’s column was all but shattered attempting to protect South-western camp network. The Hadar column has lost half its 1,001 men trying to crack a sea road and negotiations between Cuba and Trinidad are mostly amicable to getting the insurgency more guns. It is widely believed that Commanders Dbrisk, Kinari, Okonkwo and virtually all of the Scarborough men are dead following the raid on Port-Au-Prince.


A grisly series of reports issued by the oligarchy in Port Au Prince reach St. Pats and Hadar commanders via Northern Command.


They all state that just before New Year the crippled President al-Talleyrand  has signed an order to expel or exterminate the entire African-black population of Dominikani Republic.


In the early morning of xxxxx news arrives from Pic La Selle via Iridium satellite phone that even though Commander  DeBuitléir is presumed dead the remnants of St. Patrick’s Battalion have brokered a firm Alliance with XXXXXXXXXX eight other factions now to be called the Haitian-Emergency-Front. Another truck convoy organized by the Perchevney Group has reached their Command Bunker. They have been supplied with surface to air missile batteries from Trindidad. With these they have and knocked down several airships and drones. Marshaling to the best of their ability the Haitian men and women of military age under their protection they cleared have cleared Maccoute and regular military forces from the valleys around Mount Selle although they remain fully encircled.

The only mobile insurgent combat force in the north-west of the country is the Selassie Brigade led by Jerome Marcus, Magnus Allamby and Melvin Clarke which is preparing to break the siege of Pic La Selle with their all black legion grown now to over 10,000 armed men and most of that number who fight with spears, swords and daggers.


The full extent of the XXXX massacre of the Five Camps is currently being placed around 40,000 dead children, women and men. Much higher than originally predicted. They use even numbers to indicate there is no clear or accurate calculation. Nearly all of the Haitian tribe has been driven into Chad or South into the FANMI LAVALAS Zone exacerbating the already crippling refugee situation.

The camps were emptied once and for all. Just under half a million Haitian fled on foot, on buses, on camels or donkeys or horses and trucks and any and every other means.


A massive armored deployment out of Santo Domingo is expected any day. If the Pic La Selle bunker falls the resistance in Haiti will be crushed and the remaining refugees massacred. The Hadar force has little or no popular support besides from the FANMI LAVALAS which is at least nominally allied with the Haitian-Emergency-Front and loyal to the aims of now pronounced deceased Avinadav DeBuitléir. They are lucky to be allowed in and out of Ethiopia given the international climate. If not for the Eastern Front (1199) and the Domikani Congress (DC37) tacit approval of their ground work as well as the government in Havana and the Cuban consensus they’d be but a foot note in this war still four months in.


Chapter 18

Villa Nicole, 2019ce




It is cool dusk in southern Haiti forty clicks east of Jacmel City and Sebastian is nearly sleeping in his tent besides Yelizaveta. They are both topless and her fingers trace his scars. All evening he has begged to be inside her and place his mouth on her soft white breasts. She has finally resisted his emotions by succumbing to his carnal needs.

He has just returned from the road along time assisting in the evacuation.

She first chastised him for being away so long. Then again for not washing the blood off his uniform before entering their dwelling. She then stripped him, and washed him and gets on her knees for him.

He has seen things again. And she wants to know them, but first she will have him writhing underneath her. She will fuck for him so many times that he is pliable. He will forget the present and focus on the future and the past.

It takes her some hours to be completely finished with him. It is not completely enjoyable work. She remembers something, a good many things that he cannot.

While Commander Adon slumbers she remembers the past. The real past not the construction grafted upon them both with salt and lies and science and repetition.


She traces his scars with her finger and remembers the past as it actually was.


She hasn’t taken the salt in seven days.



He dreams quietly, and she remembers the past, the way back past of 2000ce. The Villa Nicole of Tiberius.



The night before they had to say long goodbyes, Yelizaveta and Maya Solomon lay in each other’s’ arms in the rolling hills of Galilee, above the fortress of the Ghetto Fighters Kibbutz. They speak in Ruus Soviet as is their tendency since that language was invented. It has so many ways to articulate complicated emotions and tenses and oh the idioms.

They love idioms these three. Yeli loves to hear Maya mispronounce everything trying to enunciate in Spanish which is her favorite langue to think in the last few hundred years.

When they get their bodies drunk they all fall back into Aramaic.

The year of this particular conversation was a distant memory. But as the three of them and Old Souls like them have such a propensity for living over and over again, then it was important to have moments, occasionally life times of rest, and not worry at all what trouble these single souled humans were getting themselves into.

“Can we just run away from it I wonder, can we just forget the responsibilities placed upon us?” Maya asked them then.

Yelizaveta slaps her hard, the moment ruined.

“Listen to me you sniveling love struck coward, you Raspizdia!! Don’t fuck this up.”

“You play the part well,” Maya laughs.

Normally Yelizaveta is more the archetypical angel, not the demon.

“I’m gonna miss him more than you will,” Yelizaveta wonders out loud as the statement slips out of her.

“You’re both not gonna remember missing me until the world to come,” says Sebastian returning with another bagbouk of Gerolsteiner.

“Which one of us gets the hero I wonder in this epoch,” mutters Maya Solomon.

“We all know you’re the real hero dvash,” says Sebastian Adon.

“Who are you referring to baby?” Yeli asked.

“Yeah, who?” smirks Emma.

“Both of you. Nasdrovia, Cheers,” he raises the bottle of salt water.

It is a clear beautiful night and from the hills they can look down upon the blue black sea.

“We’re all gonna be humble little heroes right ladies except I’m the one who has to hang from the tree in the coming next act alone.”

“Well we all know that for you nothing is written baby, whatever the fuck that means,” Yeli spits out.

“His name Zachariah, means God Remembers. HaShem will utilize him depending on the needs of the ephoche.        The men are gonna do what men do best, get riled up fight bleed and die. The women are gonna do what women do best, pick up the mess and get things hopefully better organized. If he dies again this time, which I doubt he will, then maybe this one will cry a little on the pages of the book of life. Me, I have total faith in HaShem, so I already know how the story ends,” brags Maya Solomon.

“When I see the blueprint, I’ll just have to tell you if you were correct Dvash,” Sebastian had told her.

“Ah, the Blueprint, the scroll hidden inside the tree of life which tells the fate of human kind. To only be able to read that, just for a year!” says Solomon.

“What a save tonight pandemic. I suspect that this might get harder every life time we do it in,” comments Yelizaveta Kay as Sebastian wrapped her in his arms.

“The humans are always seemingly better armed, more inclined to fascism and atrocity and whereas once I thought they were basically good they are now mostly Raspizdia, the not givers of even one shit about each other or God.”

“Shall we just defect Neshama? Leave these violent monkeys to their own devices and go run away to some lush island and please each other tantrically for the next thousand years!” grins Yelizaveta.

“If he could he’d steal you away from here and kiss the whole blueprint goodbye, remember like he tried to do during the third Judeo-Roman War?” Maya jokes.

“What was your human name then?” Maya asks.

“I don’t remember. Agreed then, Maya tell HaShem I’m defecting!”

“No,” laughs Yeli, “He won’t really do it. I asked him to do so last night and he flatly shot that down and this was while he was drinking demons into himself to give me rougher ride.”

“That all remains to be seen sweetness, we have eight more hours,” laughs Sebastian Adon.

“We have easily 800 more years life lifetime my old souled tovarish,” states Emma.

“Some lifetime you’re gonna to have to choose between what makes you happy and what makes you free. What is your duty to God, what is your commitment to humans. That’s what I want you simmer on when the salt takes hold, in your long kiss goodnight, in your violent road ahead you’re going to also have to decide, her or me,” said Maya Solomon.

Sebastian then gets dead serious. He looks his two historic partners dead in the eyes.

“I’m going to do one last job, then Hashem and freedom be damned I can steal her away and be happy. I’ll have earned the right to.”


“You say that every life time Neshama,” said Yelizaveta Kay.


Mickhi Dbrisk walks into this heady love triangle, as he has for centuries, being an Old Soul too, but only playing on this particular team, otriad, for the last 600 years.


“It is of my honest opinion that Sebastian Adon will not pick either of you. He simply can’t. He talks a big game about love, love, more love. But he always just picks his own freedom. Is he an old soul narcissist? He’s been accused of worse by both of you. Has he fallen in love more times in this episode than I can number the bullets in my blaster, certainly! I love this man. He was total devotion to humanity, but also total devotion to love. I can testify that Emma, whenever you have been his partner he plays a harder zealot. And Yeli, I suspect your ways remind him more of human life, why we do this work to begin with. We could all play for the other team if we wanted to. RAZPIZDIA is the devils middle name. How, now. We have seven hours before they submerge us again in the salt waters and position us for more warfare. Let’s make better use of our time.”


And out breaks a wild Hebrew Jamaican Russian Spanish old soul orgy. Just like old times. But they’ve all become a little Soviet in the past 200 years, unlike when they were Greeks, the men don’t ever touch anymore, don’t blush anyone.


When you have the collective memory of over four thousand years of existence, you don’t typically pick a hetero-normative identity.


Unless your essence were created in Jamaica. Then, you certainly do because no one is openly gay in Jamaica. That’s a sure death sentence.





Chapter 18

Filtration Camp Fort Dimanche, 2019ce




Vultures fly above the filtration camp.

Here there are always dead things to eat.

But even in this place of isolation and continued suffering, rebel spies can see things, repeat things and tell stories to the outside world as a warning. As if the buzzards weren’t warning enough.

The Haitian Alex Tantamount, who no longer has any fingers and Commander Mickhi Dbrisk along with the Afropunk rock star Netic Kinari, Philly Hartman and two dozen other captured rebels are being held at a prison camp outside of XXXX


News that they are alive has come in from sympathizers to the S.E.G., but it is unclear what kind of shape they are in, or if their embattled comrades can even get to them.

The conditions in a Haitian prison are quite bad.


“Men would be hanged naked for hours and whipped until they lost consciousness, then revived with salt or chili powder rubbed into their wounds. A naked prisoner would be forced into a car tire with his legs and backside in the air, then whipped, wounded, and salted. Plastic melted under a flame would be dripped onto prisoners’ skin. According to recruits who were able to escape, prisoners’ genitals would be placed in skillets of boiling-hot oil, and fried while the men were held down. Between interrogations, prisoners would be confined alone in tiny cells, bound hand and foot. If the cells were full, a prisoner might be buried alive, with a steel pipe in his mouth to allow him to breathe. Water would be poured into it occasionally. When word came that the commandant wanted the prisoner executed, a bullet would be fired down the tube instead, then the pipe removed and the hole filled in.”


President al-Talleyrand  is still in the hospital and expected to recover slowly. The government is preparing for another major “clean-up operation” and has sealed the roads around Pic La Selle. Although the greater threat so say the rebel spies is the impending FANMI LAVALAS capture of Jacmel. Entrenched also in Juba City and Nimule, the Southern Command composed of Hadar Column, Dominikani Congress, and FANMI LAVALAS leaders are  still completely unprepared to deal with the full onslaught of the modernized army of Haiti should it be fully deployed against them.

The spies tell the rebels that the al-Talleyrand  government seeks to overwhelm the insurgency based out of Pic La Selle then turn its guns on Mirebalais.

Mickhi Dbrisk has been badly tortured. And not with some pussy water board neither.

Restored to some health and tortured again. They bury him with a pipe in his mouth for nearly two days, but no bullet comes. The XXXX Camp is a special gulag for resistance fighters of international origin. There is some rumor they are being held to barter with the U.A.S., ransom them perhaps. Largely though they seek to locate the commanders of the invasion, although they have no names of primary command. They do have DeBuitléir; but it is the best kept secret in the gulag. That they do not know that they have him is what keeps him alive.  DeBuitléir was badly burned in the Battle of the Five Camps on XXXX; he speaks XXXX so they are unsure he is anyone of note. They beat their captives constantly. The deprive them of food, but they are generous with the whip, truncheon, water board and electricity.


One day while hanging from a whipping post Alex Tantamount bites out the jugular of his assailant, rips it clean out of throat.


The Haitian case officer bleeds all over the ground clutching his neck. Alex rips himself free, can’t fire the captured pistol with no fingers, fumbles for bloody keys. A bloody, man handled Mickhi Dbrisk is hanging next to him in the interrogation room. Much worse shape, lost a lot of blood, left eye beaten shut.

Alex wakes him from the edge of death with a pale of water. Cuts him lose, gives him the throat-less officers gun. In about 20 minutes they’ve freed most of the still ambulatory fighters, murdered most of the camp guards, armed themselves with rifles and loaded up about forty surviving fighters into two flatbed trucks.

Many of the men can’t walk on their own.

Dbrisk and the others have been tortured for almost a month, but zeal is with them, hunter gathering zeal to strike back like animals in a trap. They kill every other enemy soul and put down two of their own number who beg them to do so. They douse the torture camp in diesel, burn it, raze it asunder.

A little too late they alarms are sounded. A little too late they make chase. One of the escaping trucks makes a wrong turn, a tragic last stand and all are gunned down just north of XXX One truck with twenty men careened south at the crossroads and survive because of it.

Finally flying down Highway 3 in the dead of night, killing their way through two check points, crossing into the Eastern Front zone near the Ethiopian boarder on foot carrying their wounded, before capturing a supply truck; that truck makes it to a Dominikani Congress/Eastern Front outpost and the seventeen survivors of St. Pats and Scarborough are secretly ferried to a military hospital in Addis Abba.  DeBuitléir is with them. His identity was the source of punishment they all bore together in XXX.

Which used to be called Fort Dimanche.

Their enemy bled them and refreshed them, tortured without mercy to confirm the death of Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir. It is finally revealed that Avinadav DeBuitléir is now confirmed alive one of the seventeen warriors; alive and nursing grievous injury at the DR under fake names as an outlying General Hospital.






Chapter 19

Mirebalais, 2019ce




In the month of May the Yids and Haitian fighters of Lavalas Brigade 3 capture some brand new turf.


Some blood in the eye and blood in the sand for everyone. The Bielski, Golani, and Betar Detachments supporting newly Persian trained guerrillas from the Dominikani Congress (DC 37) and FANMI LAVALAS after a nine-hour fire fight capture the sprawling City of Mirebalais. They lose over two hundred and thirty men in the whole battle. Lt. Cohen is injured as well as Lt. Isaac Zucker.

They are greeted in Mirebalais as liberators. The Muhammadian overlords of the Haitian Occupational Authority had made very, very few friends among the Dinka people with their “give us you wives and daughters on the first of the month policy”.


An embattled Haitian-Emergency-Front holds the heights of Pic La Selle reinforced by the Selassie Brigade which broke the siege in last few days of April. There is one fire arm for every forty men in the Selassie Brigade. Battles get very medieval, machete charges happen when bullets run out.


The latest stream of tide turning successes seem to stem from the Persian Revolutionary Guardsmen and their relentless efforts to improve the command structures, tactics and effectiveness of the Haitian and Haitian fighters enlisted in the Haitian-Emergency-Front’s army. There are eight Persians and their Haitian drill sergeants operating out of Pic La Selle and four more with the Hadar Column under the command of, yessir; Kaveh Abatable.


With the fall of Mirebalais, the operational center of the Southern Front has been relocated there from XXXX in the mountains of the Dominikani interior.


At what was once the Customs House of Mirebalais, a colonial structure of white stone looking something like a post office and something like a fort, the rebel leaders in the Southern command are holding a staff meeting to establish defenses and restore social services throughout the newly liberated city. As well as sign order to arrest and execute all traitors and spies left behind.

Outside half-trucks filled with supplies, armored ambulances and thousands of Hadar & S.P.L.A. fighters roll into town from San Juan to the East and from the FANMI LAVALAS Liberated Zone in the South. The capture of Mirebalais will surely provoke airstrikes and the diversion of the 3rd Expeditionary Force of the FAd’H.

Mirebalais is the central pumping station for Southern oil north toward Port Au Prince.

Commander Kaveh and his three other Persians have just established the latest rebel training academy in the sports stadium of the city.

It was brutal fight to take the city. It will be even more grueling to hold it. Barricades are being thrown up at all the approaches. The IED Corps of the Dominikani Congress are mining the northern approaches. It is estimated that air strikes will begin later in the night.

The People’s Television Network is operated by Nick Mapfre and his partner Ryder Haske. Haske from the Isle of Man and Mapfre form the Hadar Detachment called the Bielski Column. The fight for and the capture of Mirebalais was live streamed to the web. Mapfre’s company donates media equipment to human rights activists abroad and trained camera teams are embedded in each column. PTV also operates the cached servers from which the broadcasts of the actions and exploits of the three columns are routed to. These servers are costly, well hidden and utilized by the world’s largest database of revolutionary human rights operatives. No one not even Maya Solomon knows where they are cached. This just about guarantees to Mapfre that the Otriad of which he is a reluctant and defacto member for over a decade and a half, is able to craft its own message.

Nicholas Mapfre did not invade Haiti as he was expecting a child and not much for African civil war zones. He did agree to sometimes staff the Northern Command at Basis Wadi Faran and work in conjunction with Israeli agent XXXXX to disseminate propaganda on behalf of the three columns and operate their IT communications.


And Haske did so partly because of his friendship with Nick Mapfre, partly out of an unspoken desire to possess Yelizaveta Kay.


As well as these vital services rendered Haske and Mapfre have provided four million in green cash dollars via their friends in Hollywood. And of course Haske as a majority shareholder of Habash Industrial, a tech firm made rich by rising China, has established the encrypted satellite communications of the three columns.

The camera is still running as the rebels fortify the City of Mirebalais.

Shipments of small arms begin to arrive in Jacmel hidden in steel drums after night fall. The single engine Givati-Tulsa is being used to ferry heavy ordinance over the Ethiopian border from landing strips in XXXX. More weapons and armored ambulances acquired from the Ruus mob arrive from the south.

Still no air raids.

The video archive footage shot by Nick Mapfre on his first night in Mirebalais depicts tough, young and rugged South Haitian and Haitian refugees working side by side to secure the city with Yid fighters and Persian drill sergeants. It is the dead of night. The power in the city is still cut off. Big LED white lights illuminate the feverish securement of the citadel and its outlying districts.

“What a web of overlapping ideals, interests and raw ambition fuel this project,” muses Kaveh to Adon.

At some point around 3am over sweet mint tea Commander Sebastian Adon palavers with him about the prospect of getting further Persian support for the rebellion under the auspices of Shi’a hegemony in the region.

“Not publically anyhow,” was Kaveh usual response.

“The Persian Mullahs won’t be in power forever and we get more hits from Iran than any other single location” Nick Mapfre says to Kaveh.

“Farsi is the fourth most prolific language on the internet I read,” notes Adon.

“I bet I can get a few dozen more drill instructors once the smoke clears tom.”

Sebastian smiles, Sebastian hardly ever smiles. His smile insinuates a half thank you.

“Any word from Northern Command?” Adon asks Mapfre.

“Nothing at all.”

“It’s highly dangerous when Maya Solomon gives a man the silent treatment,” says Sebastian Adon.




Chapter 20

Road to XXX, 2019ce



May 15


Commander & Captain, retired peace officer Nikholai Trikhovitch is driving a truck full of Hadar Column men at the head of a convoy speeding south with a Newport dangling out his lips.

Sebastian Adon is yelling something in Creole into a smartphone linked to a sat-com relay hoping he gets through despite them being likely being jammed.

The convoy is composed of eight grey armored ambulances and three flat-bed trucks. All are moving south as fast as fuel and physics allows, pursued down the wide black XXX Superhighway by a swarm of the New  Haitian Military bearing down behind them and gaining with choppers, mechanized half-trucks, armored personnel carriers supported by over 50,000 infantry men.


The dawn is breaking. It’s been a long night.

The air is hot and the breeze nearly stagnant, but Nikholai is about to break a hundred miles-an-hour. The rocky stretches of barren nothing out here in the deep desert play games with the mind and tricks on the eyes. One hundred men under the command of Scott Sevastra and Thomas Ansu who had both been paramedics back in the more normal life before, lay buried in dug outs along the black Highway Pilor that cuts like an eight lane ribbon against red dunes and white wasteland about twenty minute hard driving ahead of the convoy. Each man lays buried in his own grave, dug the night before along the highway’s edge twenty feet apart. Each had dug three feet down then gone to sleep on benzos. These dead-man-dives were then insulated with refrigerating cooler-bunting, inside each man lay with an oxygen tank, two liters of water, his rifle and his spare bullets. It can get quite hot in your own grave even with science as your friend. Each dug out was then covered with a weighted earth colored tarp. Another 100 men camouflaged the tarps buy covering them lightly in the sand. Each man has an air tube and a tank of oxygen good for 6 hours.

Like well-armed moles, as the sun rose they were buried with roughly less than 6 hours before they’d begin to truly suffocate in their dead man dives.

The ground crew of 100 then blockaded the road with four of the armored ambulances, covered them in sand-tarp cameo, then with pessimistic goodbyes; 96 took recon positions throughout the wadis to set up sniper positions and listening posts while four hiked the ten clicks out of the fire zone to Wadi Gerba where the field camp is situated near an abandoned mine shaft. From their they’ll use the lap tops and satellite uplink to command and control the forward defense of Highway Pilor north of  Bor. And bear the first wave assault from the FAd’H regulars as well as what’s left of the Maccoute Militia.

Highway Pilor is the only paved eight lane highway the Maccoute militia will take to chase what’s left of the Bielski Detachment led by Commanders Sebastian Adon and Nikholai Trikhovitch after they blew the shit out of Maccoute Administrative Facilities in Jacmel with Katusha rockets and Qassam 4 rocket-grenades just two hours ago.

For two hours a fierce fire fight has been raging across the city between 200 men under the command of Adon and Trikhovitch and several thousand irregular Maccoute troops. At some point most of the Bielski fighters had run out of ammunition and begun to retreat on foot out the Southern sewer system and camp complex still under heavy fire.

While the communications with Northern Command were lost four days ago, Nick Mapfre has been using the PTV servers to relay messages back and forth from Pic La Selle.

It had been just an “ok plan” on paper.

But the Captains never counted on Regular Army reinforcements with armored personnel carriers being nearby and a “whole fucking Division” of the Haitian military on hand to press a counter attack.

The Bielski Detachment had gone north to shell Jacmel in the hopes of prolonging the assault on Pic La Selle which has a greater concentration of civilian juxtaposed to armed rebels with guns. A rather bloody rampage later and eighty-seven of their Yids are dead, Jacmel is half aflame. A lot of civilians be clipped getting in the cross fire. Little kids too. The raid was met with a heavy defenses, air support and a determined enemy. The Haitian tank columns run over screaming non-combatants and open fire mercilessly on their own countrymen.

Rebel spies from Dominikani Congress (DC 37) brought word the city’s population was considering joining the general rising. That was very poor information. That was their trap and the Yids sprang it at the cost of half their detachment. But the rebels have a trap too.

Counting on their men making it out alive, they figured they’d get chased down Highway 4 right into the blockade and ambush of their dead-man-dives. 100 buried men rising from the earth to open fire.

Adon, Trikhovitch, Mapfre still shooting grisly B-Roll and roughly 110 at least partially wounded survivors pile hurriedly onto flat-bed trucks and armored solar-diesel ambulances bivouacked at the city’s southern limits. It is now getting near sun rise and they only fight by night. That’s that is the reputation anyway.

So fifty clicks south of Jacmel on Highway XXX the men in the Betar Detachment receive a garbled transmission by satellite phone that “quite a lot of_enemy vehicles_are trailing” their brothers bearing rapid retreat south under fire. They figured it would be the usual pick-up truck armada ambush against a few hundred Maccoute-tops. But they’d made a shit storm out of Jacmel. The 113 surviving fighters with virtually no ammo left are drawing half a Haitian military Division and a few hundred Maccoutes into that checkpoint.

So this was either pay-dirt or death for two whole detachments roughly a third of the Hadar Column’s remaining muscle. 400 men, 87 already dead and the weekend has really just begun.

They have less than half an hour to either reinforce the ambush point quickly from Bor or order then men to get the hell out of harm’s quickly gaining way. Commander Scott Sevastra is relayed the information from Adon and told to make the call. If Adon and Trikhovitch were to perish he is the next up the chain of command.

A portly silver haired fellow in his forties Commander Scott Sevastra comes from a long line of emergency workers, cops, firemen and paramedics. He holds a masters in Emergency Management and is the father of four black children one of which is biologically his own. He is married to the famous Uhuru Movement spokeswoman Jasmine Howard and has helped raise three of her children from earlier less fruitful relationships. Jasmine Howard, the human rights lawyer Erza Pula Pound, and Chief of Communications Mara Fitzduff  are the tough, lovely and articulate three faces most of the world now associates with the club’s Lobby on Haiti back in the U.A.S. and the Breukland Soviet.

He is also a club founder.

“Why are you doing this again,” Jasmine Howard had asked him the night he flew with several hundred of the Ivoryish fighters on an Ysiad Ferrias paid for charter plane to Sharm-al-Sheik from Haiti. Her question was more about his being a father than her zeal and support for the mad plots of Sebastian Adon.

He had told her he believed it was important and she endorsed him still.

Sevastra, now informed that the Battle of Jacmel has drawn an entire half-Division of the FAd’H and some several hundred Maccoute into their under equipped checkpoint cum death trap has only twenty minutes to make a bad call. Either pull out the fighters in the Betar Detachment from the ambush point and leave the Bielski Detachment victim to its diminishing fuel and bullet ratio; or reinforce the checkpoint with another 96 Betar fighters holding sniper-recon positions which would still make them outnumbered some 300 Hadar men to a 50,000 strong force of Haiti regular military with choppers and air support. Scott Sevastra has read Herodotus and isn’t really so happy with the Spartan outcome and they had a narrow pass going for them at Thermopylae.

He keys up and attempts to radio the command base at Mirebalais and is patched through to dispatch. A woman answers the phone. It’s Maya Solomon. Her voice is hoarse. She’s just Para dropped in to see what position their condition is in.

“Sebastian, Trikhovitch and roughly one hundred more survivors just shot their way out of Jacmel and are just under twenty minutes North of your position bearing down fast on Highway Pilor. They are being pursued by an entire division of the Haitian military, easily 50,000 men,” calmly explains Solomon. “You are ordered by Commander Adon himself to pull your men out of the valley, break down the ambush and leave them to God.”

“You can’t be serious,” mutters Sevastra. No one’s ever given any orders in the Breukland Otriad before. He doesn’t know how she got down there to command and as of when they started taking orders.

A rank and file fighter named Abner Washington places his hand on Scott’s shoulder, gives him the shniah hand sign, and takes the comset from him. Scott Sevastra, vaguely mesmerized doesn’t offer resistance.

Abner begins to speak to Solomon in hard guttural Yiddish which Scott cannot understand. He then turns and barks something authoritative to the radio man Karl. Scott notices his radio man Karl salutes Abner and then shuts off the uplink. This is odd because Abner is just a Staff Sargent in the Hadar Column and Karl Katzer is a Radio Technician First Class.

“Pull our men out of the valley Commander Sevastra, so they do not get incinerated in the missile strike,” says Specialist Abner.


Several memes bounce of inner dialogue bounce around Scott Sevastra’s head all at once. What missile strike? What did those guys just say in Yiddish? What the fuck is going on here?

“Oh wait.”

“Let me introduce myself in another capacity commander,” says Staff Sargent Abner Washington. My name is Case Officer Abner-Mikhail-Washington-Ringelbloom of the Mossad here to infiltrate your column on behalf of the Israeli State. We have men in all of your three columns to advise our government on the progress of this wild operation.”

Commander Sevastra was impressed with Israel as always, without still yet admitting he was a benefited Yid.

“Order the pull out quickly. Four squadrons of Ram2 and Sufa4 fighter planes have just been ordered out of Uvda Airbase in the Negev to bomb the living piss out of that approaching Division. It appears you’ve all made quite an impression on the government of my country. And it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve cluster bombed Haiti.”

Sevastra doesn’t say anything. He gets on the internal radio and orders the 196 Betar Detachment fighters out of their dead-man-ditches and to quickly scramble toward forward base. Case Officer Abner on his own satellite phone speaking in more hard Hebrew to a general in the Negev is told he has less than 10 minutes to get all non-hostile vehicles “painted true blue” so the incoming IAF doesn’t wipe out the babies out with the tide of bath water.

Sevastra gets on the garbled medium-coms with Sebastian, who’s firing an assault rifle out the back of a Herkimer Medical Jitney now in the rear of their retreating convoy.


“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” bellows Adon.



Scott Sevastra repeats the message, yells it over and over and over on the secure com line as his Betar men load up into their trucks and get ready to pull out.

Finally, in the eleventh hour Adon gets the message.

Their EMT drivers swerve the trucks into a semi-circle defensive position. The Bielski Detachment fighters open fire at the approaching division with everything they have left. Sten guns, Armalites, pistols, Qaasam 4 rocket propelled grenades. Sebastian and Trikhovitch run bus to bus shouting to hold position, “For just 5 minutes so these buses can get painted.”

“Painted” is in reference to using tactical halogen, neon spray glaze to spray a blue coat of bloody mist all over the roofs of the ambulances and flatbed cabs so they might not be “completely blown to shit’ by the Israeli hellfire air-to-surface missiles.

Machine gun fire erupts all around. One of the ambulances explodes hit by a tank-rocket. The completely asymmetric forces are less than a Breukland city-block apart firing wildly on each other. Trikhovitch is running roof to roof with four cans of tactical gloss spraying the convoy.

A bloody melee ensues as the forces engage at point blank range.

Bielski Detachment loses lose two ambulances and twenty-two more men to the enemy rockets before the convoy gets rolling under the cover of Qassam-4 and Katushas and white phosphorous smoke.

The Betar Detachment cleared the wadi just five minutes before the fleeing, flaming and assaulted convoy buckles in. Ambulances are only a little faster than all the APCs and half-trucks and tanks on Haiti’s Highway Pilor.

And then the Valkyries come swooping in with a sonic boom. What ensues is death. Highly modern death flying technological mechanized death that only takes a few seconds to strike.

Four squadrons of the IAF take only thirteen minutes to sweep down over the Dominikan Boarder from their hosted bases and obliterate a half Division of MINUSTAH troops, tanks, and armored personnel carriers.

Like fiery snap shots.

In the blink of an eye a wall of encroaching death, a full third of the best of the FAd’H has been reduced to smoldering piles of useless nothing.

“It was like the wrath of god struck them,” an old Dar Haitian man named Jimmy Hatush who’d been with the convoy as a driver told a BBC reporter once they’d finally reached the Bor City DMZ.

Sebastian and Nikholai are dancing the hora on top of one of the bullet pocked blue streak painted battle jitneys.

The IAF reports one minute and 16 seconds later they are over Persian airspace refueling then returning to base.

“Total-obliteration. No-crews-lost. No-friendlies-hit. The Haitian Third Expeditionary-is-KAPPUT.”

All over Mirebalais City a street party has erupted. Even the Persians are dancing. Tens of thousands of Dinka and Kharrazi tribe refugees are cheering and singing and chanting in their nineteen languages, hugging the Hadar boys, singing so loudly a popular new song with the chorus:

“It-has-been-a near-life-experience-for-us-all.”


Recounts a Dar Haitian a young refugee named Amelia to some news reporters gathered in the DMZ near the Domincan border, “The Cubans and Isralities have saved us. Saved us all. GOOD YIDS! GOOD YIDS!”


Maya Solomon has been a busy woman. Maya in six days has crossed the Atlantic twice. Timed with a precision you could only assume was planned from above, four prongs of a total IAF strike across Haiti neutralizing the Haitian Military staging positions that by nightfall that Friday would have been moving simultaneously against Mirebalais and Pic La Selle with the latest Chinese hardware. Reduced to ashes and mangled steel a full third of their army and much of its air force has been shattered.


The Israelis blame the Persians, who in turn blame the Israelis, the “Saudi pigs” and U.A.S. imperialists. And President al-Talleyrand  in a faltering televised statement claims some kind of odd victory too. The Dominican government denies Israeli bases in their country and continues to publically call for a Haiti for Haitians and for 200,000 of its own citizens of Haitian descent to be sent there to fight for their own country. Not dominated by blancos or mulattos or Arab overlords. But not living in DR either.


But the fact is that over half of the oil and gold wealth of the nation and nearly three tenths of its territory are no longer under the government or the UN’s control, so actually little has changed except now there is a five front war on the island.


The Rebel Army, under Adon fighting the Brazlians and Argentine armies in the Central departmetns. The Rebel Army under Tipputti Capois encircling the capital from Carfure Fueill enaging the New Haitian Army and the Macoutes, the Third Rebel Army under Lavalas GCC, lead by Obensonne Ettien; the fight in the North between UAS and Army under Netic Kinari  and Gen Christopjh, and the Cuban/ Trini/ Bajan expeditionary force v. the the Doincans.





Chapter 21

Road to XXX, 2019ce



May 20th




Adon writes in his letter to Emma Solomon, assuming the role of grim central narrator:


“It was again a very close call.”

The Ivoryite foreign minister has categorically denied having bombed Haiti but the inter-web says our approval ratings are way up for once. A press conference is being organized in the Isle of Man by Erza Pula our lawyer and Molly Hooligan our Communications Chief back at Home Command. Mapfre says our website gets more hits than Red Tube and that is quite a feat. Violence is more addictive than porn it seems, for an hour or two. What a stupid fucked up world.


Many of the refugees in the camps along the DMZ have sent their young men and women to reinforce the united Hadar Column based in the City of Mirebalais. Our Persian guerrilla instructors Gyve Safavi, Kaveh Abatable, Arman and Hassan Askari have established a third Persian training base in the mines of Mt. XXXX as well as a Free Haiti Football League. From the window in the Customs House I can see our Persian terror masters and our now revealed Israeli spy masters squaring off and placing bets on a team of S.P.L.A. fighters kicking off against guys fielded by the S.E.G.


It seems that between our daily raids and the supporting Cuban airstrikes we have broken the Maccoute completely in the South Department and that the al-Talleyrand  government has now largely drawn its Bar Lev line around PAP and Le Cap.


Reinforced with thousands of new Haitian Lavalas volunteers, now able to arm many of them with more than cane knives, we are planning a big operation to establish a chain of outposts and secure the roads between Jacmel and Pic La Selle. We control the South West and the Artibonite & Centre, we also hold most of the contral island high mountains of the DR, though not getting aggressive wit hthe Domincan Army, yet. Once this has occurred we will begin restoring social services to the substantial rural populations outside of the several cities we now control.


Under the guidance of solid Breuklyn born Hadar men and Persian handlers too the Jacobi Detachment led by Simcha Rathajzer and Isaac Zucker our old friends from Bronx Science are attempting to raise a full Divisions worth (10,000) of newly armed and trained native fighter’s each-one-teach one style.


A new song has come out by a famous Zouk band called Flexi Bangle, its chorus goes:

“We are winning, because we are mostly still alive.”


It’s a very catchy tune with Sax, Juba horns and also steel drums. There was no ways so many West Indians could be at war so long without introducing steel drums, Juevert and Carnival.

And every faction has now sent a witness to Addis Abba where Avinadav DeBuitléir restores his health and hands. The rumors are indeed true. The factions are fully united and the great snake President al-Talleyrand  is to be dealt with very soon. The ranks of the Maccoute are completely thinned. MINUSTAH troops are morally bankrupt as nation after nation pulls their commitments except the Argentines and Brazilians. A true fear of the resistance has taken hold among the Haitian elites in Port Au Prince. Random acts of violence against the military and police authorities are common place now in the outer provinces.

A formidable counter offensive has now begun. The elite of every oligarchy had once cast cynical bets how long this campaign could last. They are now in terror over us.

Because soon the war will spread to their castle and plantations too.

Yelizaveta has travelled West with a contingent of PIH-ZL doctors to survey our medical infrastructure. When she lies next to me all is peaceful. When she is near it is the only time I feel even the slightest sense of feeling. The passion that washes over me for the continuation of the war is a duty. My duty to act on behalf of the people of this nation and all nations. The concern I feel is subservient to the pleasure she brings me. It is not concern for her for none is tougher, not even Maya Solomon.

The concern is for myself. I worry that in loving her I will become completely vulnerable. To the tyranny of her moods. To total wrath should harm ever fall upon her. But mostly to the realization that sometimes, when I am with her and so in love, my Neshama could ask me to run away from this war and this duty. And I’d do it.

I see her smiling, I see her laughing and I imagine having children with her, being old with her. Having a normal life. But the road to Zion goes first through hell. She is a brilliant doctor. She is safe throughout South Haiti, because she has brought so much healing. She also travels in the entourage of General Salva who has fought the Maccoute and Talleyrand  for over twenty three years.


Also because she is with Watson who’d kill his way through a legion of slavers for her safety sooner than report to me that “my woman was taken”.


And lastly because I can see it. When my eyes turn grey.”





Black night falls and Dr. Yeli-Kay, as many of her patients call her, has just returned to her base at the Juba City General Hospital. Juba for over twenty years has been the official capital of the resistance. Her blue BDU uniform is dusty and wrinkled. She has been accompanied in her travels by the Injun-Yid Nick Mapfre, a film crew of Haitian journalists, as well as towering Obenson Etienne Mayardit. He is a powerful man with a full beard and black boy hat, the Chief of Staff of the Haiti People’s Liberation Movement/ Army. They along with senior FANMI LAVALAS official Dr. Justin Yac Arop have been taking a select group of foreign medical workers on a guided tour of the rebel infrastructure established across “South Haiti”.


Accompanied by a small platoon of Haitian-Emergency-Group paramedics as well as Dr. Michelle Kaku and Dr. Joia Mukherjee the PIH’s Chief Medical Officers; all are taken on a tour of clinics, schools, medical outposts and cooperative farms established using the “PIH Blueprint for Medical Infrastructural Development.”


The findings, films and the reports issued by Dr. Arop, Dr. Kay, Dr. Kaku, and Dr. Mukherjee will be smuggled out of the country and used to foster greater support for the international community to intervene.


It had been a two week survey expedition and Yelizaveta was quite tired and in need of a cold shower. She had heard Sebastian is out on a long range survey of the border roads. He’d have otherwise surely been happy to see his childhood friend Michelle. Happy to see her too she supposes.

Dr. Yelizaveta Kay composes a letter to go along with the humanitarian report.  It is to Dr. Emile Cange of the PIH-ZL. She had met him five years ago in Havana when he came to lecture at her medical college. She did her residency under his supervision on Haitian Island in the City of Port-Au-Prince.


She writes with a black stylette:


“We have completed our rotations through all the communes of the liberated territory from over and past the Dominican border. A fairly well-organized network of community clinics, training school and medical outposts have been set up by the local rebel leaders. Many in the JEM, FANMI LAVALAS and CEF leadership are medical professionals and development practitioners. The blueprints provided to us by both PIH-ZL and the Israeli development firm Mashav are well designed the intuitive. The Rebel leadership projects that a continued lull in the fighting will allow for most basic human rights services to be restored by the end of XXXX

“There has been almost a whole two months without an exchange of fire or atrocity.”

“Our most massive gain lately is that now South to South-East the roads are open. Which means the FANMI LAVALAS Food Program trucks can better supply the massive series of Haitian and Dinka tribe refugee camps our war has certainly exacerbated. Ferraris & Polidoro Industries have signed major contracts with the World Health Organization and have begun shipping a veritable armada of Spiruleena cultivation tankers into the Port of Jacmel which is now still in our hands as well as endless crates of expired medical supplies.”

“Slowly by surely those relief supplies are trickling in from Dominican Republic via our smuggling conduit facilitated by our sympathizers XXX, most notably their Minister of Defense


“Of course nothing those profiteers do is devoid of violent intent. They are taking money with one hand from the Otriad to move in more weapons, while taking money from the NGOs and the UN to bring in more aid. Their blurring of that line surely complicates things.”

“By month fifteen, we’ve largely succeeded in reducing banditry and Maccoute-type marauder operations in our Zone of control now being called “South Haiti” by the international community. After six months of patient training our Persian drill sergeants and the men of the Jacobi Detachment have outfitted a 12,000 person Brigade of Dinka and Fur being called the N. H.D.F. or the New Haiti-Defense-Forces. It’s an Persian joke at Israeli expense.”

“Each of its 1,000 person Battalions is being led by a seasoned platoon of Jacobi Detachment and FANMI LAVALAS fighters. Arming them is now the more difficult part. While I am happy to safe that medical development and security are taking hold here, please know that the Port Au Prince government could undo everything we’ve accomplished in just 48-hours, most of the guns in the rebel’s hands are empty. I ask you and your organization to honor your mutual-aid-agreement commitments to the alliance and proceed with all promised support for Operation Marcus Garvey based on the benchmarks I have brought your witnesses to verify.”

“I write to you as a former student as well as a disciple.”


Noticeably absent in the letter was any mention of her medical work. If one took every seventh letter going in reverse the access code and its data told Dr. Cange exactly what he needed to know to begin preparations in Cuba, St. Lucia, Jamaican, and Grenada for the events which would soon be upon them. We’re about to be re-supplied and rein enforced




Just east ten clicks from Jacmel City on a Congress of the many factions is underway at the Villa Nicole.


The indigenous language with the most speakers is Haitian Creole and also Haitian Creole. Some, maybe 5-10% speak fluent French, many more actually speak Spanish from time share cropping in servitude in the DR. French is the country’s official language although of a population approximated at thirteen millions, 80% are functionally illiterate in all languages except Haitian Creole.


In a massive light blue sand-gypsy tent adorned with dozens of rebel flags a Congressional Council of Allied Rebel Forces is underway to plot the next stages of the war and sign formal mutual agreements between all of the various factions.


The Port-Au-Prince government has been mobilizing its troops and our spies report that after nearly two months of undeclared ceasefire, the New Haitian Military is ready to test the rebel lines with Dominican Army, UAS and MINUSTAH support. The PRC has over five thousand “technicians” in country setting up advanced drone defenses in the Capital and reequipping the air force and armored corps.


Commander Maya Solomon is in country now less than two weeks, but everyone knows who she is. Her reputation precedes her and she conducts the meeting dancing between eight local different languages.


Commander Adon and Captain Entwissle are helping her facilitating this sit down between the rebel factions. It is being conducted largely in Haitian Creole, but also at times in Spanish and Breuklyn dialect Americano.


The Haitian-Emergency-Front (SEF) represents the largest factions of the Haitian tribes, the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) which is Muhammadian-Noire, and the Haiti Liberation Movement (HLM), which is Socialists as well as the South-Haiti-Liberation-Movement (SSLM) which is an armed group that operates in the southern departments and is connected to Mullato drug running. The SSLM was declared to be unaligned until recently. Famni Lavalas, the Waterfall Family, the Big Cock, the Cleansing Flood; is clearly an all Haitian grouping, the largest single faction except for the Muslim one.


Officially representing the S.E.F Block in the votes to come are Gibrl Ibrahim and Khalil Ibrahim, brothers and co-commanders of the Muhammadian Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) as well as Eltahir Elfaki the General Secretary of JEM’s legislative council are in attendance. At their side are St. Pat’s commanders Hubert O’Domhnaill and Father O’Sulliven. As well as Commander Jerome Marcus and Michel Allamby of the Haile Selassie Division, a force contributing 12,000 fighters to the Haitian Defense Forces pool.


According to their reports S.E.F.-N.S.D.F has over 55,000 fighters holding western coast positions between Jacmel City and Gonaives and in the new camp compounds across the border in DR. They have no aircraft or tanks. Stores of armaments are dwindling and offensive capabilities very low. Food is being rationed strictly. The only thing not in demand is fuel. The several dozen missile batteries they have gotten into the country are being used to guard Pic La Selle and the refugee camps around it. Less than sixty Fenian nationals are still alive. St. Pat’s has dissolved as an independent force.

An empty chair is at the head of the table thus symbolizing that Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir is still recovering from his torture in Cuba.

The Dominikani Congress (DC) representing the Dominikani Nationals and the Rashida Free Lions (RFL) representing the Rashida Tribe agree to dissolve their autonomous command of the Eastern Front and formally merge into the S.E.F.-S.D.F. They had mostly been concentrating on striking strategic assets, such as the Port Au Prince-Port Haiti Highway, the oil pipeline, and the military installations defending them. They do not have a significant fighting presence, having fewer than a few hundred fighters and operating under the close control of the Eritrean military. The BC did achieve a number of modest military victories and has the ear of the Eritrean government.

At the war table sipping mint tea and chain smoking cigarettes are:

Commander Sebastian Adon, leader of Bielski Detachment. He is in dark grey fatigues and the brown partisan cap beret he is well known for. Commander Nikholai Trikhovitch, leader of Betar Detachment. He has dagger of alarming size always dangling from his hips. The other three Hadar detachments have been phased out and reabsorbed due to casualties. Commander Scott Sevastra is there but abstaining from the vote as usual.

Representing the Haiti People’s Liberation Army (S.P.L.A.) and Lavalas explicitly is the towering Commander Obenson Etienne Mayardit. He is a powerful man with a full beard and black boy hat serving as the Chief of Staff of the Haiti People’s Liberation Movement/Army. Also present is the S.P.L.A. official and Chief Medical Officer Dr. Justin Yac Arop.

There are other armed factions of various sizes. Kaveh Ali Shariati representing the increasing presence of Persian military handlers. Abner Washington the de-facto Israeli representative, and Nick Mapfre is now in country filming the whole thing for posterity.

Captain Watson Entwissle is now serving as “official observer” for the military of Haiti and Dr. Yelizaveta Kay an “official observer for Partners in Health.” Others watch from the sidelines.

“So D R wants to keep the war cold still correct?” Commander O’Domhnaill asks.

“Check,” responds Trikhovitch.

“They are asking us to break down our bases there banking on great power intervention within the next several weeks,” says the deep voice of Obenson Etienne Mayardit. He is the closest thing Avinadav DeBuitléir has to a friend or family member.

“They are asking us to remove our bases near San Juan and Jarabocoa now that we have so much real estate in “South Central Haiti”. The way their Defense Minister is talking on television, it might do us well to evacuate the POWs and Commander DeBuitléir lest they get any very sweet deals from the U.A.S., Han, IMF, or anyone else,” explains Adon.

“And Cuba has been promised it will receive a substantial investment from Ruus Federation not to grant continued smuggling access via Ile a Gonave right?” asks O’Domhnaill.

“Correct. That port will be closed to us shortly,” states Commander Trikhovitch.

“And Perchevney can’t subvert that somehow?” asks Magnus Allamby.

“Not enough money on our end to try,” says Yelizaveta.

“And Puerto Rico has been sold to Saudi and US oil money? Wants nothing to do with us?” posits O’Domhnaill.

“That is correct,” says Adon.

The three dozen members of the leadership are quiet. The smoke hangs low in the tent. They gaze at a large map of Hispaniola and its surrounding nations rolled out over the table. If they cannot find a road to the sea they will hold the South much longer.

“Well,” says Scott Sevastra, “scariest port in a shit storm, but have we contacted anyone in Trench Town lately?”

“You’re talking about off-loading in Jamaica?” asks General Obenson Etienne.

Berbera is a city and seat of Berbera District in Somaliland, a self-proclaimed Independent Republic with de facto control over its own territory, which is recognized by the international community and the Government as a part of Jamaica which hasn’t had a formal government in forty five years. Located strategically on the oil route, Trench Town has a deep sea port that was completed in 1962, and which is still the main commercial seaport for Jamaica.

“Jamaica seems like the only way to play,” Trikhovitch says.

“We need to crack open a road to the sea,” explains Adon, “any day now President al-Talleyrand  will regroup. The Chinese are very serious about not losing their foothold and oil concessions here. They’ve already re-armed and have technicians on the ground showing the Haitian military how engage in effective counter-insurgency. There People’s Army trainers swarming all over Port Au Prince. Al-Talleyrand  will roll his 2nd Expeditionary Division South down Highway Pilor and soon realize we have a big army without many bullets. He’s got two infantry Divisions left intact. That’s 60,000 fully armed men supported by armor and Han fighter jets. They will do an epic amount of damage to our lines.”


“Our most sophisticated weapons on hand are the three dozen SAM Batteries defending the camps near Pic La Selle and under a dozen now moved just North of Bor. Other than that it’s mostly all camels, half-trucks, armored ambulances, sticks and stones,” reports O’Domhnaill.


“You know what they say about sticks and stones,” says Obenson Etienne Mayardit with a smile.

“They can break your bones?” asks O’Domhnaill.

“No,” says Salva, “they’re completely fucking useless against advanced air support and a modern armor.”

Yelizaveta Kay chuckles. She’d grown very fond of the burly cowboy hat wearing FANMI LAVALAS leader in their two weeks of travel and survey. She hopes the pacts formed at this Congress will avert an eventual power struggle between Capois, Etienne and DeBuitléir.

“So what about this Jam Rock option?” she asks.

“It involves us capturing a lot of real estate along Highway 2 and it will piss off the Dominicans to no end that we ran so many toys across there border,” responds Allamby. He is highly familiar with Dominicans as he used to fuck one for years, Jamaica having been serving recently alongside Dominikani Congress and aware their knowledge of Euro-Semitic languages is very poor. It will allow the small ship armada of the resistance to outfit and off laod and reload in its turf to smuggle weapons to the coastal cities the résistance is holding.

“Well we’re going to be the world’s most infamous paper tiger in less than three weeks when all that Han Armor starts rolling South down Highway Pilor,” states Adon.

“Jamaica is the only viable option,” says salt and pepper haired paramedic Scott Sevastra.

“He’s right,” mutters Abner Kreminizer the Israeli agent with intimate knowledge of Ethiopia and the Caribbean and the prophesies, “We need those guns very, very badly. To get them here we have to neutralize or bypass enemy fortifications in Jacmel, then secure Hannibal Highway 2 out to the border. Then quietly occupy the Dominican Choke Mountains along Highway 5,” she traces this with his Semitic paw along the map, “We then slip quietly via the sea-route Highway 4 past Adama and Mojo to Jijiga City. After that we move along the empty border roads to Hargeisa then on to Berbera. Once that road is open we will have a less than twelve hour window, tops, to move a convoy from Berbera to Bor. Any longer than that Dominican or MINUSHAH forces will jam us up heavy off loading swift boats.”

“That’s a rather ambitious commitment of troops and vehicles,” says Watson Entwissle.

“Anything less than the entire commitment of our fleet will not suffice. We will not get the sea roads open twice,” rhymes Magnus Allamby.

“Well I suspect fully capturing Jacmel and Ile a Gonaves will not be difficult. It’s lightly fortified since they seem to have pulled the bulk of their First and Second Divisions back to Port Au Prince,” says Sevastra.

“I have something a little lower profile to suggest,” states Commander Maya Solomon.

She largely left the inter-group alliance building to Adon and spoke little until now on the war strategy.

“If the Haitian-Emergency-Front’s Selassie Division, JEM, and what’s St. Patrick’s Battalion, beleaguered as you are can completely seize Jacmel and Goniaves then that will draw most of the 2nd Haitian Army Expeditionary into the Centre of Haitia thinking that’s our main offensive and leave minimal resistance along Hannibal Highway 2. Goniaves in particular is their last serious crude-pumping station. If you take those two cities, bypass Jacmel on Highway 2 and get the green light from the Dominicans to turn their eyes for twelve or forty hours, then pay off whomever is charge of Trench Town Gaza or Gully; these days, then I think this might go well.”

“I like the sound of that,” says Salva.

“Twelve Sea Stallions worth of long guns, ammunition, and at least nine-hundred Katusha rocket batteries are waiting for us in cache ships off the Trinidad islands, but we have go nowhere to land um, until now. We could put a weapon in the hand of every partly trained rebel in the country and young kids too,” explains Allamby.

“We were negotiating for rights to Port Massawa but the Trinidadian Government is still “neutral” and won’t let us move them across their turf even with Dominikani Congess escorting and cut off the top. Mr. Ferraris also has three container ship filled with an arsenal to match everything we’ve got stashed here and on that Island, but we ain’t got a friendly port unless Trench Town is golden,” he continues.

“General  DeBuitléir long with the surviving Scarborough Commanders Dbrisk and Tantamount, St. Pat’s officer Hartman and Duffy along with 12 others are still in Addis Ababa and must be evacuated quietly before this gamble,” says Adon.

“Let’s get DBrisk on the smart phone,” says Salva, “maybe he can make the Jamaicans an offer they can’t refuse.”

It makes for a good Segway to dinner, prayer, cigarettes or whatever else the leadership needs to smoke after an entire day of planning.

They do not have to wait long for good news. General Avinadav DeBuitléir and Scarborough Commander Mickhi Dbrisk have shortly met with the Jamaican Military attache in Eithiopia. Apparently the U.A.S. is making some rather insulting offers of aid and the government there wants to pay Haiti back for all its years of aggression. Not only will Ethiopia turn a blind eye, it will lend trucks and driver to help with the treacherous movement across its mountainous nation.

When the congress reconvenes two hours later there is only good news to report.

“Affective immediately upon arrival, for twenty-four hours the Provisional Revolutionary Government of Jamaica will allow us to offload the vessels of Polidoro Industries and Ferraris International a their deep water facility in  Berbera and the government of D R will allow transfer of our weapons via a safe highway into Haiti. And here is where the problems begin,” announced Maya Solomon, “the Ethiopians had been watching the fighting from the highlands above Southern Haiti. They had already agreed to allow us to build a weapons dump and training faculty in the city of La Vega, as well as hospital and military college in San Juan, but until now had stayed out of most of the military operations we collectively conducted against the al-Talleyrand  government.”

“We will have to create a massive diversion to convince the MINUSTAH Military forces to leave the XXXX Highway relatively free of checkpoints and road blockage then cross by night at XXX Crossroads and traffic nearly 700 flat-trucks worth of guns undetected or unnoticed across the state of a sovereign ally. Then make it through Jamaica without upsetting the trial authorities. A cake walk as you can see.”

“Well looking at it on a map it doesn’t seem like a much worse plan than the execution of the Eid-Massacre,” notes Salva.

“Or the very idea of coming here,” glibs Trikhovitch.

“So by your proposal the CEF’s Selassie Division, JEM and St. Pat’s will attack Jacmel City and their hold outs in Goniaves in the evening before the operation, cause general havoc and get the Port Au Prince Government to think we’re fully mobilizing to seize all of the Dar Haitian oil fields?” asks Captain Entwissle.

Many nod at the ambition in all this.

“Yes, then in  early morning Hadar, S.E.F. and S.P.L.A. brigades will seize Jacmel and get a seven hundred truck convoy rolling over the border, into Ethiopia, down into Somaliland to load up in Port Berbera,” says Commander Maya Solomon.

“That will take 72 hours to do properly,” says Adon.

“So that’s how log we’re going to have hold onto those three cities for,” says Trikhovitch.

“A lot off eggs into three baskets,” says Commander Salva.

“Gotta sometimes trade in eggs if you wanna have a cock fight,” says Watson Entwissle.

Everyone chuckles at just how many sayings don’t translate amid the diversity of the alliance present, but that Haitian adage somehow did.

“And we’re also going to have to move General  DeBuitléir, Commander Dbrisk and fifteen others out of Addis Abba without alerting the Ethiopian government of this,” adds Maya Solomon.


“Well it looks like a real shit show,” states Trikhovitch.


In a unanimous vote the thirty two-delegates representing the thirteen major SEF-FANMI LAVALAS factions, along with three votes from the Breuklyn Otriad cast by Adon, Allamby, and O’Domhnaill, and witnessed observers from Cuba, Haiti, Israel, Iran, and the PIH-ZL; the war machine prepares to launch Operation Harbor Road an completely violate the undeclared ceasefire to move a veritable arsenal across the lawless Choke Mountains and into Haiti by boat, plane, and donkey train.




The morning before Operation Harbor Road, Maya Solomon patches Commander Adon through to a secure line, into space, back to Norway, triangle scrambled and then to an Adis Abba registered grey berry. Dbrisk is calling in from Ethiopia where the survivors of the prison break are concentrated into two covert medical facilities.

“I heard you were dead like eight times,” exclaims Adon to his dear friend and partner.

“I get that a lot my dude,” comes the rough response.

“How many of you are still alive?”

“Seventeen. Might be fifteen rather soon. Two in real bad shape. I’ll know exactly by tomorrow. Only eight from my original detachment are still with me. The sympathizers smuggled us out of the hospital rather hastily. I assumed moves were being made on your end.”

“They sure are. The rest of the Scarborough survivors are with Allamby and Marcus somewhere outside Mirogane Tonight will be a big night. We all heard about your raid on Port Au Prince. That was some fearless bad man shit brother.”

“What fuckery. We thought it could end the war sooner to kill al-Talleyrand . No dice.”

“You still got both your hands?”

“I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“It will be safer for all of you in the South. We control the roads all the way up until nine clicks South of Jacmel. The surviving Fenians, the JEM and the SEF hold most of the Southern State of Dar Haitian with their combined forces and the mighty, mighty Sellassie Division. That’s where Allamby is enlisted by the way. Juba City is the capital of the rebel zone. The roads are finally open and we can communicate again, but we’re very low on ammo, armor or aircraft of any kind. ”

“Well small favors and some good news.”

“We always need some good news. You all need to be ready to leave tonight. At sundown the Selassie Division is going to attack Goniaves and the SEG-JEM-St. Pats are going to storm Nyala City with twenty thousand newly trained fighters. It’s all a big diversionary maneuver” states Adon, “We’re going take Jacmel in the early morning and then move you all and the arsenal from Berbera to Bor.”

“That sounds like a pretty ambitious undertaking Boichik.”

“Just get ready to rock and roll when the covered wagons come through.”

“10-4. We’ve killed just about all of ‘um right? 62 out 64 of our targets are bled and dead,” states Dbrisk.

“According to our best estimates that is correct. We’ve killed just about all of the men responsible for the genocide. The Maccoute effectively have no leadership to speak of as per Maya’s  latest report. We’ve murdered the bulk of their militia. Along with roughly two divisions of Haitian Military regulars. The Israeli Airstrike reduced their air force to nearly nothing functional. Although the Han have resupplied them with tanks and mechanized infantry.   President al-Talleyrand is holed up in Port Au Prince just back from Saudi. Our work is almost done. ”

Mickhi laughs a little at the prospect. Thinks about all it has so far cost.

“Two bad men left, the hardest two to get at. We have come very close. The Frenchman will get away you know, prepare yourself for that,” Mickhi states coldly.

“I’m sure only time will tell.”

“Snakes and rats flee fire, rapists too.”

“There’s news of an attempt against al-Talleyrand ’s life every other day. Even his own people want him dead, his own generals and bag men. Everyone hears about ‘life in the South’ and can smell what freedom and human rights might look like.”

“We plan to crack the road to Berbera in eight hours. So be ready to move.”

“We fuckin’ with Somalia now for real?”

“Not Somalia. Somaliland, it’s the quasi-stable northern break away of that very broken nation. And yeah, that’s crazy talk of the hour down here at the Southern Command. Stand ready for evac. I want every one of you alive and on the convoy to Bor.”

“See you at the crossroads,” Dbrisk says in Haitian Creole.


That’s a saying about the afterlife.


“Don’t be a wise ass Mickhi.”

“Don’t trust her Sebby. Remember what she did to you the last time you let her this close. She has that very sick old man and you know exactly what happened, even if the salt blocks it. You know.”

“Mickhi. Just get back here alive and we’ll worry about the girl later.”


But, Commander Mickhi Dbrisk has heard those words before.







To My Colleague Dr. Kay,


I have observed the conduct of the Banshee Otriad-ZOB now and again with a troubled disposition. It cannot be said enough times that your husband and his team possess zeal and unusual talent at both killing and healing. In the years since encountering them during the revolution on Palmares Island I have never doubted the sincerity of the leadership only the judgment. I am an old soul, like many of you, though in the field of service I have many more years. This perhaps makes me wise, but certainly makes me cautious. I am not the demagogue and egoist Adon has times accused me of being as he falters back and forth between his hero worship and his total defiance of me. I am proud of you both as healers; it is your other impulses that worry me.

What was accomplished on Palmares Island took two hundred years to socialize, twenty years to organize and just two years to achieve in totality. The Haitian people were made independent and human rights loving by fate and history. They were made free by the unity of forces brought to bear. Certainly it is clear that boldness of Adon, Cange and the siblings Capois brought the struggle to decisive conclusion while we in the old guard thought the victory would be much further protracted.

We didn’t invite Adon to Haiti. The earthquake brought him. I didn’t ask him to stay in Haiti. In fact I agreed with his initial deportation. History proved us wrong. He did well. You all did. But this operation is completely different.

As Partners in Health prepares to open four medical outposts as part of a pilot program in Haiti. As the Aristede Government prepares to commit three companies of GAI paramedics to your effort and continue of course it’s unofficially role as an operational hub. As the Haiti Emergency Front, Haiti People’s Liberation Army, Justice & Equality Movement, and the three columns of the Otriad prepare to brazenly violate the UN ceasefire and re-arm via Somaliland and Ethiopia. Know that we are all watching you.

We, the eyes of free world and forces of international human rights movement.

I know you to be a physician of remarkable ability and empathy. I have watched you grow as a doctor and as a champion of the wretched and poor. But a lot of killing has happened in the past year to keep your boots on the ground. And a lot more is coming. Such killing taints our vision and poisons the wells of the world for those who dream of real change.

I beg you to temper Adon. To bring the reign of violence and terror unleashed to some conclusion even at the cost of half victory. You do not need to take Port Au Prince. You can secure the Haitian, Dinka and the two hundred tribes without storming the Twin Cities. The Maccoute are done for. Half the country is now in the hands of the rebel alliance. If you all push to far, too fast the repercussions will be dire.


Dr. Kay, I implore you to stop Adon and Solomon from pushing all the way to Port Au Prince. Things will spiral completely out of control.


You friend and mentor,


Dr. Paul Farmer





That morning the pale officer awakes after just two hours of slumber to the breaking of a 5am dawn. He finds Captain Watson Entwissle, his multiform crisp, awake as well standing on guard over the assembled fleet and convoy of ambulances, half pickups, and reinforced armored personnel carriers ready to ride on Berbera. The late great re-supply to tip the scale in the favor of the beleaguered resistance.

An arsenal larger than that held by the NYPD prior to the Great Disorder combined must find its make its way half-secretly across Somaliland, Ethiopia, and Southern Haiti without killing anyone, breaking down or blowing anything up.

“I suspect the operation may become complicated,” Watson notes.

Adon says nothing.

“How many more of your people will you sacrifice for them?”

“How many did we sacrifice for yours?”

“We were different.”

“There was no black gold under your mountains. It made them easier to take.”

“I can see the foreign vultures flying above Haiti waiting to move in and take things they didn’t pay for in blood.”


“When the blade falls it will always fall on your house first. No matter what you do, no matter how many we kill, or how many bad men and violators fall by our sword, it will never be enough to wash your hands of this calling. Doesn’t that make you tired?”


Adon looks off into the wasteland.


“I want you to summon Papa Legba.”

“You’re playing with fire again,” Watson says in Creole.

“Better fire in the wounds than salt.”







Back in the disremembered past.


Captain Watson Entwissle and Paramedic Sebastian Adon and the Doctor Emile Cange, a Haitian raised in Breukland Soviet have trekked into the Forest Mountains of Palmares to find a mambo name Amelia Danto, who was once named Jessica Pilot.

Amelia Danto conducts her practice in a cave that can only be accessed through the floor of hut in a village that does not look much different than it did in 1750. The heights needed to be bested, the strength needed to climb has made this place a simple ghost story to the various factions that have struggled to control Palmares Island. Although for the first time those struggles are over.

The travelers are all wearing the blue fatigues and covered Velcro medical patches of the Gwoup Ayisyen pou Ijans, the Haitian-Emergency-Group, the guerrilla medical outfit lead by Tiputti and Geraldine Capois, the brother and sister whose organization of a volunteer ambulance service is what finally secured the revolution here. They are caked in sweat and jungle. Not even much water left is in their canteens.


Adon walks with a slight limp in his left leg. You wouldn’t notice unless you were following him. Someone once shot out his knees. Emile Cange is slender for a Haitian and darker than Entwissle though he has Arab complexion being of long removed Libyan descent.

The Syrian and Lebanese population here has been largely unaffected by the recent rising. If anything it has grown in the years since the Arab Spring.

Doctor Emile Cange and Adon carry red medical trauma packs. Entwissle carries an olive military ruck and pistol on his hip with three bullets left. Although they are largely illegal throughout the island. Lethal bullets of any kind. Everyone has a pistol.

They are greeted at the edge of the village by the sentries. It is dusk and the sun is setting somewhere in the adjacent range where the trees are still thick as they were in the days of the Taino. They are offered foot and water immediately. Cold water from the caves below.

Darkness falls and one can hear all kinds of noise in the jungle. Echoes and ghosts, spirits and the moans of occasional zombies. The village is lit up with a blue light LED grid, stored solar energy collected over the course of the day.

A lean and muscular Haitian officer dark as the night itself arrives and they arise to salute him. He is an old dear friend, but formalities are observed so they can be disregarded


“You’re late. This is unprofessional,” says Tiputti Capois the Chief-of-Staff of the Haitian Emergency with a smirk.

Adon and Capois embrace.

Sebastian Adon says via his eyes which flash grey and his ESP; “Mountains beyond mountains.”

Tiputti was young when Adon and Cange met him years ago at the General Hospital six days after the quake killed 370,000 of his people. He has grown into quite a force. His medical flying columns have a three minute response time in urban areas, eight minutes in the rural interior. His ambulances and his foreign friends have secured the entire island.


“They’re all in the temple below,” he says.




There was once a hotel in the City of New York named the Hotel Benjamin.


It was sacked and torched during the Great Disorder, but had been rather fancy once. At least enough so to make it a destination of choice for a wealthy French fancier named Dominick Strauss-Kahn.

He was a bourgeoisie through and through.

And that is not meant to connote so much his tastes, but more so relate to his impunities. Like so many bourgeoisie before and after him he had so much that precious little remained exciting and thus grew a penchant for debauchery. Before his fall from all public grace due to his actions being broadcast upon social media; he was the president of the International Monetary Fund and a leading candidate for president of France. His hobbies if you could call them such, were boating, collecting sports cars, human trafficking and cruel rape followed by the disgrace of his accuser. Normally the women of Eurasian, although sometimes even hotel maids in the fancy places he stayed.

In the scheme of wanted war criminals his rank was supposedly low due to the fact that he was a blan and a man of westerly influence and had not directly presided over any large scale accts of ultra-violence.


Also because the ICC tends to focus on crimes against humanity and not crimes against class.


And also because the ICC like so many other multi-national institutions are dominated by men that the financier who is also a serial rapists plays somehow second fiddle to a wide range or African war lords.

As if there is something novel about kidnapping a woman and forcing her into a cage then transporting her across an ocean so you and your wealthy friends can have some fun and take some turns with her.

The judgments based in the Hague often bear more publically upon vile men of color. Not men of so called breeding from Western metropoles. Men who climb to the top tiers of finance and government. Men who consider themselves immune from the wrath of the mobs and masses.


But all who know history know what crimes have come out of Europe.




Before “ceremony”, as the process was called Adon and Cange are stripped naked and cleansed in a scalding hot chemical shower before donning the grey groin and torso rap that seemed no thicker than skin. And then smelling something like citrus and something like formaldehyde they follow Tiputti Capois through a series of chambers and onto an elevator to the caves within the mountain, far below the village, below the jungle, concealed from the drones and satellites that never leave the reborn nation alone.

Until recently when the Israeli army installed the laser aerial defense grid and armed the rebel nation with atomics and intercontinental ballistic missiles.

There have been no land incursions, no more Pigs arriving in the bay since those missiles were aimed at the cities of the United States. Now just things flying far above attempting to take pictures of the liberated people organizing below.





The rape of the hotel maid was vicious. After inviting her inside, a woman in her early forties to his room he bolted the door and curtly ordered her to perform felatio on him. He tossed her a photo of her young teenage daughter Yelizaveta and told her if she didn’t “suck his balls dry” he’d have her seized and deported to indefinitely service the Eurasian front. And so she complied as this is what mothers have done for centuries to protect their children.

And then he decided to break her jaw.




Emile Cange the spindly physician enters the inner temple to engage the Lwa the old spirits. He passes through a hermetically door behind a large grey banner bearing the veve of Papa Legbe, the guardian of the crossroads. The door allows only one person in at a time. Tiputti Capois holds Sebastian back.

“Old friend wait,” says Capois in Creole.


“I am reminded of the first time you came to this island. Five years ago. Or was it 500? I am to remind you that every time you ride with the Lwa there is tremendous capacity for bloodshed. You are not just a pale horse, you are death. The man in the grey mask.”

“This round will be different friend. I will be mitigated by the iron will of the other candidates. These woman and men will guide the sword differently.”

“You prepare to kill my brother. What pray tell is different about this rising than the last?”

“This will be the last violent rising.”

“You say that every rising. For man whose trade is healing and saving you certainly have quite a stomach for murder my brother.”

“The last time. After this round we can try it a new way.”

Commander Tiputti Capois, one of the most powerful men on the island bows his head to Adon his old friend and mentor.

“There is one more thing,” he adds.


“You partner left a letter for you she said I must give you before you join her on the lines.”

“What’s the use, the salt will wipe away her bitter sweet words.”

“Yes, but before you cross over, you can at least take a little comfort in that she does her best to love you.”

“In the world to come, I suspect she’ll cut my heart out before admitting those words were hers.”

“Old soul, you have so many more lives to live. She will forgive you eventually.”

“Only after she has slaughtered Kahn.”





The sun is setting on the enemy lines.


Anti-tank mines and IED have been laid as far as forty five miles North of Bor and a series of trench works have been dug amid a graveyard of derelict vehicles that could not be salvaged for the coming arms convoy run. Conspicuous along the line are eight highly modern looking SAM anti-aircraft batteries brought from Chad. They are invaluable in keeping the drones at bay.

Yelizaveta finds Nicolai Trikhovitch on the barricades in order to speak with him about what revenge really means.

“Spiruleena is a lot like anal sex, if you were forced to have it as a kid, you won’t appreciate it as an adult,” states Lt. Moishe Cohen matter of factly.

She ignores him completely and heads toward the blue tent she knows him to be residing in to avoid the dangerous solar barrage inflicted here.

“If he makes one more comment to me, I’m gonna cut his balls off,” she tells Trikhovitch who is reviewing a map of the defense grid with a Noblisse dangling from his lips.

Trikhovitch gently orders two Haitian Captains out with of the room with a slight twitch of his head.

“And how are things today at the hospital Dr. Kay?”

“There’s nothing to eat but Spiruleena and all the synthetic medications are three years expired. Where is Sebastian?”

“He’s gone out with the scouts to survey the roads to the border.”

“You look like death.”

“Is that a medical opinion?”

She takes one of his cigarettes and lights it. He says nothing verbally.

“I suspect once the ceasefire breaks down tomorrow the Han Republic will alert Talleyrand  of the convoy and he will scramble his fighters. If General Allamby doesn’t crush the 4th Army in Mirogane it will make it nearly impossible to hold Jacmel. And then the convoy will be stuck in Ethiopia and wide open to airstrikes.”

“Endless clustery,” she says as if almost bored.

“Where do you plan to be tomorrow during the offensive?”

“Jacmel General Hospital.”

“Once we seize it.”

“Once you seize it. I’m a lady, I don’t seize things.”

“Adon said you’d had another vicious fight. If that’s why you’re here, that’s not what they pay me for.”

“You think that’s why I’m here?”

“I don’t care. However easy you are on the eyes to him you’re grating on the nerves to me.”

“I’m here for a gun.”

“A gun? Why does a doctor need a gun? You’ve never asked for one before.”

“A few things change tomorrow.”

“You’ve refused him when he tried to force you to take one in the past.”

“I will not fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“Are you worried about our defeat suddenly? Why now?”

“We’re stretched too thin. Our vehicles will be tied up on the road. Our ammo will run out somewhere between taking and holding Al- Fashir and Jacmel. The 4th Army will show up. I won’t end up like my mother.”

“You don’t think we’ll protect you?”

“I think they’ll kill you and him and the others. They’ll keep me alive for worse things.”

Nikholai looks her over. Thinks they just might. And not for her talents in medicine. It’s idiosyncratic of her to ask for a shooter now. They’ve been out gunned and on the run before. She always just stuck near Sebastian and rolled with the punches. He figured she was either a pacifist like her famous mentor Dr. Farmer, or she couldn’t shoot.

He unclips his sholem from his belt and slides it over the table to her. Passes her the belt and the four clips.

“He’s not gonna let them take you,” is what he’s saying, but ‘I wonder what you want the gun for is what he’s thinking.’

“Thank you,” is what she responds, but ‘fuck you,’ is what she thinks.

“I don’t mind the Spiruleena. It tastes like spinach,” says Nikholai.

“You’re going to die tomorrow Nikholai Trikhovitch.”

“What makes you think some morbid shit like that, besides the obvious,” he says.

“I have a dark mind since the incident.”

“A messy incident to be sure.”

“Your wife as well I heard?”


“Krissy was her name?”

Nikholai Trikhovitch engages in a forty yard stare. He looks up at her rather sadly for a former Soviet.


“Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know. They took her sometime before the revolt. If she is somewhere it’s not my duty anymore to cry for her in public.”

“You seek revenge?”

“Do Ruus like herring? Do you take me for a black wolf or a drunken rabbit,” he spits out an old proverb.

“Answer my question in Americano, tovarish.”

“I was there when Adon founded the club. He says I played some part in that. I don’t believe him. I was there in Haiti the day it was liberated. I was the third volunteer to enlist to come here to fight and shed the blood of our enemies. I had this blood on my hands before and after the rising. Revenge is not the right word. Revenge is what you two do to each other every round, epoch, whatever. Revenge is his letters and your mind games. Revenge is a low burning flame. I don’t take the salt like you two do. I live with what happened to Krissy every single moment of my life.”

“She left you long before the revolt did she not?”

“Aye. The slavers took her sometime during the anarchic battles for Strong Island. I can only hope that if taken has she killed herself. I can only pray she isn’t at some comfort camp near the Eurasian Front.”

“So revenge isn’t why you enlisted? It’s redemption then like Adon? Duty to act? You’re a noble a zealot?”

“Who ya gonna shoot with that there burner Yeli Kay?” he says changing the subject.

“Myself if captured.”

“Not that I in any way doubt your capacity for self-destruction matches that of my dear tovarish, but I must now ask. What did you really come to speak to me of? You’re the only blonde blan bombshell in this heart of darkness, the lover of Adon and a physician of wild renown throughout the liberated communes. If you wanted a fucking shooter, there isn’t a person who’d deny you anything around here.”

“You’re not a drunk rabbit after all.”

“How now Dvotchka?” he says slamming his fist on the table.

“Vendetta. I’m here to kill one man whose death means more to me than the liberation of this entire pathetic species. Do you think when I kiss him, stroke him; let him cum inside me night after night that I can forgive what he once did? Even a whore has honor. Has motive for being a whore.”

“He knows not what he did. And he did it in another life.”

“And only because of that is he still alive.”

“So you lie beside one you truly hate? To what end does he serve?”

“He is the only one that can get me close enough to put my blade into Kahn.”

Nikholai Trikhovitch allows himself a rare smile.

“I know you love him as a brother. So I will tell you what I plot to do. So you will help me for his sake.”

“Will I now?”

“For Krissy’s sake too. If you cannot find her or the men that took her away, know that Kahn is guilty of the crimes that separate you so horrifically from your estranged love. Know that helping me kill him will avenge her too.”

“I don’t see how. The world is wide and filed with slavers, violators and rapists it seems. That is why we are never able to switch tactics. We’re always doing bloody damage control. Perpetuating the violence we fight I increasingly have grown to believe.”

“Jacmel will fall. And before it does you will have the opportunity to get me to Port Au Prince before this revolution swallows the whole land and makes my quarry hard to find and there by murder.”

“Jacmel will not fall, because we will hold it securely until the convoy breaks through.”

“So you won’t help me cross the lines and strike at Kahn?”

“Not for your sake, not for his, and certainly not for Krissy’s. You are a candidate not a murderer. You will wait to have your revenge along with everyone else here.”

“HE WILL SLIP AWAY! He always does!”

“Not this time.”

“What makes you so sure of that?!”

“All I know is that by this time next year I will be on beach in the Caribbean. The war may not be over, but I will have a bottle of Baboncourt and a sexy Caribe by my side, and I will certainly know that we liberated not one, but two nations, two hopeless places. And I am sure, like I am sure that I like rum and also fucking, that as I relax on that beach I will hear the noise of your bickering and his.”

“So sure are you of this?”

“As sure as I know that I can’t get you and I alive anywhere near Port Au Prince to strike against that man, not until the re-supply, not until we arrive at the gates of Port Au Prince with seven full armies and spill an ocean of our blood to end the battles here for good.”

“Tell him not what I’m planning.”

“I’m sure he’d help you. Don’t become a killer like the rest of us.”

“Have you ever questioned that we are not serving the same Lwa?”

“And that’s why some of us are candidates and the rest of us are comrades. We serve our human loyalties before we serve your old gods.”

“Don’t tell him I plan to slip away.”

“If you slip away, I will chase you and I will return you to him in cuffs.”

“He’d probably find that arousing.”

“Certainly more arousing than news of your gang rape and capture.”






They tear into each other with passionate glee and fuck like animals on the carpets of the Sand Gypsy tent, she takes him again and again and again.

Wild eyed, mad passionate fuck is what they make, he takes her everywhere she’ll let him and she lets him put it everywhere. They have hard Arab fucking, wild passionate Africa tent sex. All the killing, all the war, his dead friends and brothers, his shattered mind, his lost ideals translated into ravenous passion. She is the water in the warzone and he drinks deeply.




“I love you even if you can no longer love yourself,” is the last thing she whispers to him slipping out of white satin and into a dark blue multiform.


In the morning the Human Rights Commission tries to convince her to fly out toward Cuba or at least the DMZ and soon by dawn the next day, the initial shelling of Jacmel began again in earnest. She refused of course to evacuate. She got ready to storm the City alongside the Hadar and FANMI LAVALAS men.

Adon is not the same without her by his side, but those that have come to know him before and during the war doubt he can ever be whole again until his zeal is exhausted and in some Zion, some world to come he’s laid to rest.

It has taken all the energies he can muster to convince her to leave of the front lines as they prepare to storm the heavily fortified Jacmel lines. He had only nearly succeeded with a deal. If she agreed to wait in Mirebalais until the assault he will promise that this will be the last war.

Yelizaveta contemplated traveling south into the DMZ but knowing she may have been lied to eventually refuses.

“How many times into this escapade have I risked exactly what you risked? Don’t make me suffer the side lines while you and the men move in for the final kill. If you are to die and I am to live a relic of your protectionism, how could I go on?”

“It was of course a test which you’ve passed time and time again.”

“I’m not like other girls. I don’t need your tests.”

“You’re not like other girls, but everyone needs tests.”

Yelizaveta strikes him with the back of her hand.

“What’s wrong with you! How far do I have to go to show you that you are loved by a living breathing person?! Can’t you be content with that! Can’t you act like a human being and not a fucking slave to your own zealotry? How far does this all have to go!”

He stares at her enraged. Wasn’t the first or last time she’d struck at him.

“That’s what you loved in me Yeli isn’t it?”

“That’s not true at all. I love you as a man, a good man taking on always too much and going too far, but still a good man. But you have to stop after this. How many more friends will you have to bury before you get to this Zion in your head.”

“As many as I have to.”

“Including me?”

“I told you to travel south didn’t I? I want nothing to befall just one hair on your golden head. But I can’t change my stripes to the tune of your harp and fiddle; I cannot.”

“You’d have me flee south to save me from your martyrdom. I followed you to Israel. I followed you to the Port-Au-Rebele. I’ve stuck by you through the hospitals, though the terrorism charges, when my own mother disowning me. After all that you have the gall to send me south for my alleged safety?!”

“Fair enough. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t be indecisive. It makes me love you less.”

“Know that I live a life of night my dear Ms. Kay, know that as long as the night persists there can be no quarter given, no time to sleep as we Germinal on that the den full of predators.”

“All this time we’ve tried to love each other is just part of game then? You never had any intention of calling it quits?!”

“I think we all have our orders do we not.”

“I haven’t been under contract since I followed you out the jump of that plane.”

“Follow me only as far as you need to.”

“I’ll follow you only as far as the gates of Port Au Prince. If you leave me there, know I may wait for you until the sky falls down, or I may soon move on, but it was you who lost your chance to be a man when you put me in that position.”

Adon looks at her in the flickering candle light. Her golden eyes tell him stories he’d like to believe are real.

“I for one know quite well why the road stops for you in Port Au Prince. Don’t play me for a fool,” he says.

“The round will be ours, but I have an itch that even you cannot scratch.”

“I can’t live without you. Please, never leave my side again.”


She kisses him with a gentle passion, on his forehead and then on his lips.


“I will love you forever, no matter what you think I’ve done. Or what you do to me,” he tells her, “I am dedicated to you completely. As I promised your father.”


“My father is a very, very sick man.”





The sun sets behind towering Pic La Selle and distant border-wastelands with Chad.

The lights go out and the war resumes.

Commanders O’Domhnaill, O’Sulliven, Allamby, Jerome and twenty thousand lightly armed rebels in blue, grey and civilian dress with a pistol gun for every fifty of them, a rifle for every hundred follow narrow mountain roads on foot, horse, donkey and camel toward the town of Menawashei where the Selassie Division divides at the crossroads after capturing the town without much enemy resistance.

Most of the men are armed with daggers, swords, kitchen knives and sharpened wooden spears. There are no vehicles on hand to participate in the coordinated attacks on Nyala City to the South and Goniaves to the North.

Marmelade is a hot bed of rebel sympathizers and should be easy to take. Goniaves is swarming with government collaborators, former Maccoute, and Han technicians. It is also the primary crude pumping depot of the region.

They plan to burn it to the ground for the second time after bleeding the 4th Army there for seventy two hours first.

Anything that rolls and can carry cargo is heading toward Jacmel to storm the enemy defenses along the White Nile and then drive over the border to participate in the greatest arms smuggling run the world will ever know.

At 1845 ten thousand Haiti Defense Force fighters from the Selassie Brigade ALEF led by General Allamby attack Goniaves with Katusha rockets and morters. Another ten thousand fighters from the BET Brigade lead by Jerome Marcus attack Cap Haitian from the South.

At 1900 after passing through the rebel controlled villages of Dibbis and Kas; 15,000 lightly armed JEM fighters attack Cap Haitian from the West in the second prong of the assault. The garrisons of the FAd’H are quickly overrun.

By 2300 Cap Haitian is completely in rebel hands with no massacres having occurred or scalping. This time men that surrender are hand-cuffed and taken as POWs, not slaughtered.

Goniaves for the second time this year is heavily shelled and in again in flames.

There is at least nine Companies of heavily armed Haitian Military regulars and Han People’s Army handlers operating Pegasus anti-infantry guns.

News of the fall of Le Cap invigorates the fighters under the command of recently promoted General Allamby. He is told to expect reinforcements from JEM and B Brigade in under an hour heading North in captured armored personnel carriers and civilian pick-up trucks.

Ghost fighters in 9 person units line the ridges to the North, East and South of Goniaves. Katusha rocket batteries on portable launch silos are fired down at the city in the hundreds, then the men shift before the Han can return more accurate fire.

The objective is to lure the Haitian 4th Expeditionary Army away from its base in El Obeid prior to the FANMI LAVALAS, BC, RFL and Hadar Column raid on Jacmel.

Scouts have radioed that the 4th Army is now mobile heading our way. Satellite images collected and transmitted to the Rebel Commands in Juba City and Pic La Selle reveal that the 4thArmy will arrive to secure Mirogane no sooner than 0300. Giving General Marcus and the JEM ample time to support the attack.

The objective is to fight in the city for as long as possible, doing maximum damage then fall back hold the mountain roads pinning down the 4th Army down in the highlands outside Goniaves and if necessary Cap Haitian.

Shortly after midnight the FANMI LAVALAS and Hadar seize Jacmel opening the highway over the border. Wearing grey cloaks thousands of rebels surprise and quickly overwhelm the army regulars. Many of the enemy surrender without a fight and are placed in the Jacmel stadium and the Central Bus Station under guard.

At 0100, with confirmation that the 4th Army is heading West toward Mirogane, the massive convoy of seven hundred vehicles begins to make their way toward the Red Sea to load up in Port Berbera, refuel and turn around as quickly as humanly possible. General Salva leaves Commanders Adon and Trikhovitch along with 502 hardened Hadar fighters, 10,000 FANMI LAVALAS fighters, and 45,000 poorly armed CDF irregulars to hold Jacmel for at least the next 72 hours.

Commanders Entwissle, Solomon and Sevastra, and 64 of the best Hadar fighters supporting 2,000 FANMI LAVALAS regulars are to secure the convoy.


By 0245 they have crossed the border into Ethiopia.





3 am in Cap Haitian:

The City is deathly quiet and the power station has been occupied and the juice turned off. The population is very sympathetic but whispers fly everywhere that the 4th Army will massacre everyone here once they are done with the rebels fighting fiercely in Goniaves.

Everyone gathers around radios turned low or TV sets with satellite access to watch Al Jazeera’s front line coverage of the Goniaves inferno. Many in the population are part-Haitian or part-Dinka from all the years of sexual violence. Even the Arabized-Noire population has been brutalized by the secret police, the Maccoute and the military.

A skeleton crew has been left to hold Le Cap while the bulk of the fighters travelled North in captured vehicles. Father O’ Sullivan has been left in charge of Le Cap with only 5,000 men, only thirty-six survivors of the St. Patrick’s Battalion.


There are whispers among the men to massacre the hundreds of Haitian soldiers being held in the Agricultural Ministry. Commander Father O’Sulliven triples the guard detail around them.


There are no more massacres to occur. This is a command order from the very, very top.





4am in Goniaves:

The night is ablaze. General Allamby orders wave after wave of fighters to storm Goniaves’s defenses. Black plumes roll like cloudy towers into the stars. Helicopter gun ship from the 4th Army strafe the outlying districts held by the Selassie Brigade Alpha. Missiles are flung without any sense of aim into the heart of the city.

Screams of the dead and dying are heard everywhere. Sometime around 04:30 with the arrival of the 4th Army at the Eastern outskirts, Commander O’Domhnaill orders a team of sappers to demolish the Ministry of Oil, the primary refinery, the pumping station, and thirty other installations.

A free fire zone has been declared throughout Goniaves. Any male of military age can be shot without question. But everyone remembers the last time. Remembers the Massacres, remembers the Battle for Mershing and the five camps.

With fires burning throughout the west of the city, with rebel troops digging in throughout the districts they’ve captured. The 4th Expeditionary mechanized infantry brigade is ambushed near the city center.


General Allamby orders his commanders to, “Give them a third Grozny[3].”




4:35 am in Jacmel:

Reports reach Jacmel via the sat-coms that Gonaives has erupted in block to block urban warfare and Nyala has been captured without much of a fight. Solomon says that the convoy is making excellent time and near the border with Somaliland.

There are 2,082 Haitian Military prisoners held in the Jacmel Stadium and another 423 in the Central Bus Station.

They had taken the city rather quickly aided by sympathetic locals who poisoned the water supply plant used by the enemy troops. Most of the city was taken intact and the sick and puking prisoners were all now concentrated in two locations.

General Salva and Commander Trikhovitch have been arguing what to do with them for about an hour. They are only planning to hold Jacmel until the return of the convoy much to the chagrin of the locals. Salva argues that leaving alive this many prisoners will be a seriously liability.

“And our enemy al-Talleyrand  has so far not taken many prisoners either,” he states.

“In the beginning of the war, when our numbers were few will killed indiscriminately and murderously because we thought that would terrify our enemy and break their resolve to fight. What our media specialists told us was that while the word was highly sympathetic of our cause, they were appalled by all our blood thirsty carnage.”


“I don’t answer to the whole wide world. I answer only to Haiti,” says Salva.





5:45 am in Goniaves:

Flame and death. No differentiation of innocent and guilty, civilian or combatant. The City burns and the black gold jets burst from the earth like dragon breath and explode into the night. Gun fire is unceasing. The rebel advance is turned with Han Tanks, this time with Han People’s Army operators. Hugh O’Domhnaill refuses to order the retreat. General Allamby has promised Rebel Command that they will keep the 4th Army occupied. They must hold out until the morning, and not retreat until the trucks reach Jacmel laden with arms.


The fight goes on. Cat and mouse, street to street, burning building after building.



5:50 am in Jacmel:

The dawn is about to break. Adon fought with him about it until the end. Trikhovitch threw down his rifle and yelled they were no better than their enemy. General Salva is insistent that all the Haitian military prisoners be executed.

“Look what these animals did? The 600,000 murdered before we invaded. The 80,000 since?! Millions more driven into exile their homes looted and burned. It’s an eye for an eye brother,” General Salva explains.

“An eye for eye?” AN EYE FOR AN EYE! We killed the Maccoute because they were rapist brigands. These men are prisoners of war! If we butcher them, if we slit their throats while they sit blind folded and tied on their knees we are no better than Al-Talleyrand  himself!” yells Trikhovitch.

“I don’t condone it either,” says Adon but then, “ but I am not a Dinka. I am not a Haitian. A Dominikani or a Rasheidi. And we didn’t come here to lead we came to tip the point.”




Nikolai Trikhovitch throws his dagger on the ground and storms out of the command center. The Haitian logistics staff doesn’t understand Americano, but they know exactly what the fight was about. General Salva, who never yells or loses his temper gives an order in Dinka.

He speeds through the narrow street toward the General Hospital. He knows that Dr. Kay is the only person who can influence the sometimes rash and violence nature of General Salva. Surely she can persuade Adon.

He is informed by the FANMI LAVALAS and PIH-ZL medical team at the four story hospital that Dr. Kay has not been seen for any hour. He is handed a letter by one of her orderlies.

It’s in Hebrew so he can’t read it. But he knows where she’s heading.

Before he departs he orders the Hadar men guarding the prisoners to turn their guns on anyone, including Adon who orders the killing of the 423 POWs held in the Central Bus Station by the Nile River.

Nicolai in a bloody, bloody rage jumps in his jeep and takes off onto the north road. Sentries tell him she left by motorcycle an hour before.

“Why the hell didn’t you stop her,” he yells in Dinka.

“She is the Commanders woman she can do as she wishes.”




0600 in Mirogane.

General Magnus Allamby’s parents were born on Tobacco Island and then moved to Staten Island just south of the Isle of Man before he was born. He remembers the Noire Ghetto at the North of the Island and clearly remembers his Iytai and Fenian neighbors burning and looting the district during the Great Disorder.  Now Staten Islandb is a listening post and military garrison for the U.A.S.. And he’ll probably never see his parents, if they are alive, and his home if it wasn’t destroyed ever again.

Magnus Allamby doesn’t have what you might call “beliefs”. The war is not a war of ideas or dreams or promises. His legacy is entwined with that of the club. He will capture Mirogane not because of the blueprint, but because it expedites the needs of the Otriad. He is the cousin of Mickhi Dbrisk and was there the day they put the machine in motion, but blood is always, always thicker than ideas.

The sun begins to rise and through the falling ash and grim fog of war the rebels still control more than half the bombed out, burned down city. The Han military handlers and half of Haitian 4th Army have retreated to the eastern city limits and dug in.

The other half of the 4th Army is dead.

Battling all night in the allies and low rise urban trenches with small arms and gasoline bombs, 44,000 rebel fighters are dug in and waiting for the orders to storm the enemy lines.



At 0700 am an hour west of Port Berbera Commander Maya Solomon watches the endless metal snake wind its way through the rugged mountains short range aircraft on flatbed trucks, armored omnibuses and 4,000 camels laden with sacs to move rockets, ammunition, long guns, small arms and all the rest of the inventory needed to wage this war. More than 800 assorted vehicles are being utilized in the second largest, irregular military resupply in the 21st century.

Mickhi Dbrisk and the other fourteen escaped prisoners are with her and also General Avinadav DeBuitléir who jokingly suggests that in his absence General Salva will likely launch genocide of his own.

They are greeted at the water front by the Defense Minister of Ethiopia, the President of Somaliland, and Ysiad Ferraris himself. A vast welcome center has been set up by the loading docks. A buffet has been set up and meals packed for rebel drivers. Showers, coffee, and the full works courtesy of Polidoro Industries. Each vehicle had two drivers on it, one for each leg. They will be loaded back up to the hilt with arms and routed right back the way they came.

“I’d say this is as logistically sound as we can get it,” says Solomon.

“Well your boys have basically burned Goniaves to the ground to capture it. Oil exportation completely halted. They continue to hold Jacmel and Nyala without any opposition. And the 4th Army is dug in outside of Goniaves with only half it men alive, looking like they’re ready to fall back to Al Umayyad. That’s what the reports and the satellites are now confirming,” says the Ethiopian Defense Minister, an old friend of Maya Solomon.

“Massacres anywhere?” asks General DeBuitléir embracing the President of Somaliland, an old friend and ally.

“None so far,” says Solomon.

“Smashing,” says the Defense Minister of Ethiopia, “so hopefully we’ll all be back where we’re supposed to be by this time tomorrow.

It’s been a happy past three months for Ethiopian and Somaliland infrastructure. As a part of the ongoing negotiations between DeBuitléir & Dbrisk and the governments of Somaliland and Ethiopia, over two thousand miles of freshly paved road was laid from the border with Haiti to the sea in contract with Ferraris International, aid for in an oil-for-access and development pact signed by Ethiopia and the internationally unrecognized micro-nations of South Haiti, Somaliland, and Puntland.

Over breakfast, as vehicles load up at the Port up one after another like a conveyer belt of circulating mechanized death, the President of Ethiopian, the Defense Minister of Somaliland, along with General DeBuitléir and Commanders Solomon and Dbrisk discuss just how much oil lies under the Haitian State and Haiti Southland. They discuss just how many miles of paved road, how many modern hospitals and universities that black gold can buy in all three of these nations, ranked lately in the bottom billion poorest nations on earth.


“With the completion tomorrow night of Operation Harbor Road, I would suspect that not only will the rebel alliance be in control of 2/3 of Haiti, but you will be well armed enough to hold onto it for some time” says Ysiad, “if the right deals can be negotiated there is lot of good this nasty war can bring to the people in all three of your countries. And I know that both myself and my business partner Vincent Polidoro would like to invest in the infrastructure to turn your newly liberated reserves into an investment in your people’s future.”

As talk of education, medicine and infrastructure goes on so does the endless convoy of trucks, buses, ambulances and camels sending the tools for more killing back to Haiti.



Around 10 am the ruins of Goniaves are all in rebel hands and the murder of the prisoners begins in Jacmel. News that what’s left of the 4th Army is being re-routed to attack the returning convoy under orders from President al-Talleyrand . Informed by Han Military intelligence that a vast and alarming arsenal is being moved into Southern Haiti all available troops not guarding Port Au Prince have been sent south.

The Haitian Air force is on standby. An Israeli diplomatic cable has been sent to the Han Embassy stating that if that if the Haitian Air Force is deployed against vehicles traveling through the territory of its ally Ethiopia, the IAF will have no choice by but to intervene. The People’s Republic of China politely informs Israel that if it so much as flies a cargo plane south or east of the Sinai Peninsula:


“We will fire atomic weapons at all your major cities, with little regard for the conequences.”


In the meantime the head of the convoy had just crossed back into Ethiopia.

There are no Haitian Military prisoners left alive in the Jacmel Stadium and still 423 in the Central Bus Station due to the insistence of Adon and Sevastra. Adon is informed just a little after ten am that Yelizaveta has deserted the hospital and headed north on a motor cycle with Trikhovitch pursuing her.

“What do you want done about it,” asks Scott Sevastra.

“We will hold the city until the convoy returns. Either Nikh will find her or they will both be captured, but our job is to hold this road open and that is what we will continue to do.”


If the man was blinded by love, it was he who put his own eyes out to not see it before him at moments just like this.



It’s now 1400. The convoy is now just south of Addis Abba with helicopter gunship escorts from the Ethiopian army. Nyala City is being fortified with the aid of its population. Over 60,000 rebel fighters on foot scorching the earth and oil fields behind them are marching on the city of Al Ubayyid.


Oil is no longer flowing out of Haiti. Over the course of the evening hundreds of Han technicians and soldiers posing as engineers were killed in the mêlée street battles in Mirogane, now a bombed out, scorched, leveled and looted ghost town. The Han People’s Republic has moved their 7th Fleet into the Indian Ocean off the coast of Djibouti.


The Israeli Air Force is on red alert. The convoy rolls on, music blaring through the mountains. All are aware that the Han supported Haitian air force has the capability of obliterating them on the mountain roads.


Without much effort the JEM Brigades and the Halle Selassie Division take the towns of Hinche, then St. Marc, Gros Morne, Wad Banda and then before 1500 En Nahud and Mole St. Nicolas. This brings most of the North and Centre under rebel control as well as all the countries oil under rebel control.





Maya Solomon is looking over some satellite maps on her laptop as the armored ambulance being driven by Mickhi Dbrisk grinds along near the front of the convoy. The mountain roads wind, and although recently paved just for this undertaking, have perilous guard rails leaving all staring into the deep ravines below.

The Cuban helicopter gunships fly overhead, but will not provide any true protection from the several squadrons of Haitian MINUSTAH bombers about to take off from Sennar Airbase to obliterate them. She is also aware that a reinforced 4th Expeditionary Army is moving south from Kosti toward Jacmel.


“If there are any gods you gain comfort in praying to Captain Dbrisk, now would be an excellent time to remind them of your piousness and the righteousness of our cause,” says Maya Solomon. Her brown hair blows in the wind.




As Goniaves smolders and General Allamby presses the attack toward Al Umayyad, as the convoy passes the “red line” the Han have declared will be the bench mark for air strikes, as the Persians sink derelict vessels and mine the narrow Straights of Tiran cutting off the spigot on a quarter of the world’s oil; as Israeli fighter jets are readied across country, as two U.A.S. carriers sail toward Port Haiti while a Han Vessel waits 18 miles offshores; as President Obama and Chairman Hu Jintao haggle in Mandarin about hegemony, as Father Timothy O’Sulliven argues with is men about killing the prisoners in pacified Cap City; and as Maya and Mickhi continue to watch the skies above the convoy:

Nikh speeds off to toward death. He follows the only road north knowing if he doesn’t catch her she’ll run right into the enemy lines. Maybe that’s what she wants. The sun rises and the heat gets real and he never finds her. He finds the enemy first.

Nikholai Trikhovitch meets a gruesome end along with thousands of others that vicious afternoon. His jeep speeding north encounters the entirety of the 4th Army advancing its lines just outside of Kodak.

He is pulled from his vehicle, tortured, mutilated and hung upside down from a poplar tree.

And he awakes as if still dreaming, yearning if for a moment to break away from something intangible as if for a moment to cling to precious cognizance of life before all this. And the dew of dust and ash he found had settled upon him. In the twilight he realized how far he’d come from what was once his home but also what was once his conception of himself. And the less he slept, the less he tried to escape or dream away his life the more he focused his will and cunning on the terrible task at hand. And he made himself a black machine, a forge of some arcane old notion of death and heroism. Like a Soviet novel he unwound himself and looked deeply upon intention. And as the nights were made less, left to his own notions of what was fate to be made he drew inspiration from a single dark fact. That he had been asleep too long already, that it was in fact death’s cousin, and the more he slept the more tired he grew as death was made a bed fellow.

And he missed the thought of her. His other distraction from sleep. His lost lady love Krissy. A woman he’d divorced years ago and was the only thing tying him to the word of man anyway.

Once his lady had told him that when the night became us he was found more alive, more alert, more ready as if the daylight exposed something in him he did not wish to see. As if oblivious to basic laws of nature, the moon was his balm and he basked in it.

But disgusted by the war he’d driven far north into the enemy hands and their advancing lines. Nikholai had found many others like him, those cheating death hour by hour, grappling with the dawn as if locked in mortal struggle with the inevitable reaper being kept at bay.

Nikholai awakened now with a light yawn from something some called sleep with a twitch and shudder.

He was alone under a sea of oil black azure illuminated by a blood red moon and each star itself like a glimmering candle for a murdered foe or fallen friend. Into the heart of darkness they had thrust themselves uninvited by man or nation, or maybe invited by those same whispers that drew him to distrust sleep.

His trusty barking sword, his lance of wood and iron and the death it threw lay abandoned in Jacmel. His pistol he’d given the girl and his long dagger tossed. Even his second dagger he threw out long the road as the dawn broke. He only wished to be again nestled in the arms of his last lover who he hoped was always watching him. There was no god to a man like Nicolai Trikhovitch. Only really comforting were the face of his lady, the moon and also the inevitable face of death.  Who shortly before noon he was staring at both.

And the faces of dead friends whom he had mounds of hope and trenches of faith he’d never see again.  Nikholai stumbled into dreaming-hood, he had fought off sleep, and hard enough though he’d tried with is his body and forced his mind into retreat.

If the battery of human life was a rough a hundred years; then the bottle and the Noblisse would steal at last twenty, his love of wakeness compensating maybe five years more of waking life, his friendship with Mr. Adon would make all these calculations of longevity arbitrary.

Nikholai Trikhovitch, called the Pale Officer, called the Golem, called pookie, called Nikh, called a lover, called a dear friend. Nikh was about to wake up dead, a month before his 29th year.

He had driven too far from the false safety of Jacmel and the safety of the sentries, he’d left himself exposed. He found himself driven off the road and completely surrounded. He was trying to prevent the lover and comrade of Adon from doing something very, very stupid. He had failed.

He awoke briefly from his beating to the butt of a rifle striking his face. A bag pulled over his head, and then true, true sleep.

It was just like death.


“Do yer fuckin’ worst,” were the last words of Nikholai Trikhovitch.





And everything else that afternoon was called history.

The Army of D R with over 100,000 Haitian mujahedeen light infantry invades from Aswan and advances with armor and mechanized infantry all the way south along the Massacre River to Croix des Bouquets.

Their motivation was the settling of a long border discrepancy with Haiti and kicking an enemy while they are distracted, as well as ensuring that their deal with  DeBuitléir and the Otriad is honored via their boots on the ground.

At 1600 what’s left of the Haitian Air force takes off from the Sennar and Singa Air bases. Most of the pilots are Han nationals. Their objective is to bomb the convoy into the ground. At 1604 the Israeli air force takes off from bases in Ethiopia to engage them in the skies above the Choke Mountains.

Chinese Air craft Carriers are eighteen miles from Port Haiti. Then the Persians announce they will permanently close the straights of Tiran to oil shipping and cut off supplying East Asia and Eurasian companies until Han interference in Haiti ends.

The United American States warns the Han People’s Republic that if they even think about attacking U.A.S. allies Israel, Egypt, or neutral Ethiopia they run the risk of total war.

The red phone that directly links the U.A.S. Capital in Chicago with the People’s Republic Capital in Beijing goes off.


“Well of course it’s about the fucking oil,” says Barak Obama in press conference at 1420 to the nation the media no reporting extensively on the quickly escalating conflict.


The Cuban Air force smashes the Haitian Air force in the skies above Gonder, Gore and above Hannibal Highway 2. As the rebel convoy glances at the flames, fireworks and fury in the sky above they mostly keep their eyes on the road home to Bor.


Around 1530 the rebel army nears Al Ubayyid but stops outside it twelve miles to the west in the town of Khuwei. At 1600 the Battle for Jacmel begins as the 4th Expeditionary Army advances on the Northern fortifications erected by the Hadar and FANMI LAVALAS fighters.





The PTV press release on YouTube racks up 100,000,000 + hits in the first five minutes quickly going viral three minutes in. The website used by the club to host the live streams apparently has over two million viewers watching by the time the air skirmishes began.


“This is Nick Mapfre a People’s Television Correspondent reporting live from the Jacmel defensive lines. As many of you know from watching the live streams we are currently engaged in a risky three front offensive and resupply across the border with Ethiopia.”


Adon, Sevastra and General Salva savagely hold the city of Jacmel against the 4th Army. The fighting is some of the bloodiest in the whole war. Dug in all over town fighting their enemy outnumbered 5 to 1, the rebels bleed the 4th Army; lure them into the narrow alley ways. Set them on fire with Molotov cocktails and booby traps and blades. By the time the convoy can be seen from the sentry towers, after almost all ammunition has been exhausted and bodies litter every street in the city, the Nile red with the blood of martyrs, the 4th Army is in shambles and retreats.

The convoy shores up the Jacmel defenses. The beleaguered survivors embrace their comrades as hundreds of vehicles head south and south west to shore up the tremendous gains of Operation Harbor Road.

Three major cities and three dozen towns are in in rebel hands. The Haitian Air Force is finished. Egypt’s Army has invades the North and Ethiopia’s Senate is voting to invade from the East. U.A.S. has forced the Han to back down. Iran has sealed the Straights and cut the world off from a quarter of its needed oil. And re-supply has occurred.

But when Mickhi Dbrisk sees the face of his friend Adon he knows before he is told.


“Zamni Cherie, what foolish things has she done to you now?” asks Solomon.

“Give me forty of your best men, we’re heading north,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.


He knows what they’ll find.


“A waste, a silly waste,” says Solomon.

“At least wait for night fall.”


That very evening with little sleep in any of them, Solomon, Dbrisk and Adon lead a reconnaissance team heading up river toward Kodak. Solomon knows what they will find but says little.

Sometime around the dawn they leave the river boats behind and trek to the place where Maya has located Trikhovitch via a tracker she once put inside him.

Sebastian finds his best friend in the world hanging disemboweled from a hook, eyes put out, hands cut off, bayonet marks slashed about his body, hanging from a poplar tree, cold wet and dead.


“Cut him down and bury him,” commands Sebastian Adon.


In his pocket is a letter written in Russian. There is no sign of Dr. Kay. The letter has To S.A. written on the envelope. It says:


I’ve gone to Port Au Prince. Don’t be afraid for me. I do love you. I will make quick work of this. Stay calm and carry on.


It is signed Y.K. It says also:



            P.S. If you love me too you won’t forget to take your god damn salt.




At a press conference is being held at the Baha’i World Center on the Southside of Union Square in the Isle of Man. It is perhaps the best attended press conference focusing on a foreign rebel movement in the history of the City of New York since the Cuban revolutionary Fidel Castro spoke in Harlem almost a hundred years before. They might have had it at the UN except the Secretary General had spent the last year condemning the actions of the Breukland Otriad as a “vile terrorist cult hell bent on setting back development and relief efforts in Africa by 400 years.”


Lights flash and cameras roll. It is a starship spectacle. Molly O’Hooligan in blue fatigues facilitates the interviews and presentations alongside Erza Pula and Jasmine Howard.


At this press conference numerous rebel leaders including Avinadav DeBuitléir, General Obenson Etienne Mayardit, Mickhi Dbrisk, Djbriel Okonkwo, Hugh O’Domhnaill and Scott Sevastra address the free press via PTV sat-cam and paint a carbon copy of the situation on the ground in Haiti. Testimonies from civilians are live streamed via the website and the elected representatives of Juba City, Bor, Nyala and Jacmel attest to the real developments on the ground. Schools, hospitals and agricultural cooperatives where once there were only oil wells, disease and brothels.

The world gets truth this time. Sees the full magnitude of it all. Sees the heroes’ faces, hears the voice of a people on the eve of being free. About to rip asunder the limbs of the iron heel upon their neck. The media puts faces to rumors, puts people’s names to deed and legend.

Erza Pula, the famous human rights lawyer and attorney on call for the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club reads off a list of the executed Maccoute and Haitian military leadership and for what heinous crimes they were cut down. Of sixty-four primary targets only President al-Talleyrand   is still alive.

Commander Maya Solomon via satellite holo-cast from Juba City says it well, “We’re just everyday people acting on a promise they once made to our grandparents. They once sat in ivory and iron towers and wrote down “rights”. So called “human rights” and dangled them in front of us for over one hundred years while kicking in the faces of our children. They told us that this was your nature. That without government and without religion you’d all be eating each other. And then they dined on you. What we have started in the land of Haiti will soon wash upon your shores. What we did in Palmares took less than five years without much blood. But you didn’t pay enough attention. If you’re watching this from home, just tuning in: we’re just five minutes away from nation time again. There are no borders we are prepared to respect. It’s time you asked your governments about the human rights they took from you. We had a non-violent modal to attain universal human rights. And now we have violent one too. Those that aim to keep you from dreaming, know we possess the zeal to keep them from sleeping and bringing their oligarchies one by one to their knees.”

Erza Pula faces the camera with her pale beautiful face and hard thankless Albanian eyes.

“Let me tell you now viewers at home the issue at hand. Let me make this explicit so into your minds it will sink. I come from a place called Albania and you have heard of it, but tuned it out. Once a decade past a people called the Serbs came to my city Pristina and did unspeakable things to my family and my people. And you in the West did almost nothing until the deed was near a-fait-complete. In the last twenty years there has been more ethnic warfare, more vicious blood-letting, more human slavery, more human rights violations than in the totality of the last two hundred years. The marked difference between this holocaust and the last was its diversity. The pot my friend’s has finally boiled over and all of us are made black. And with your wireless access to the world-wide-web, your plethora of so-called free news agencies, your broadband, your satellite radios and your smart-smart fucking phones you are all accountable for what has happened. You are unable to look me in my beautiful eyes and tell me that you didn’t have knowledge of what was happening. And you did nothing. You watched more movies, and drank beer and made babies while more than three quarters of the human race wrenched and wrangled and found itself crushed under the iron heels of despots and tyrants. Mark my words. The rising has begun and there truly are only two sides. Our enemies are minuscule in number. Their greed and vile rapes rely on your complacency. My name is Ezra Pula. I am a human rights lawyer. I would have liked to see President al-Talleyrand  and his ilk dragged before the Hague years ago like the brute Milosevic. But to be perfectly honest, and I think I speak for many Dinka, many Haitian and many Haitian when I say this: maybe we have to get ultra-violent so we can send you all a message in Eurasia, East Asia, Oceania and the U.A.S.. If you don’t give us our human rights, our democratic process, and our total freedom: we’re going to burn your capitals to the ground one by one. And the rapists, the violators, the collaborators and those that sit on the fence as humanity is marshaled. Your numbers up.”

Just before midnight and and begin uploading the Blueprint, “a digital manual for organizing, development, and general human rights based resistance.” Viewers at home can download to their smart phones and computers a veritable media compendium of lessons and tactics learned over the course of human resistance to tyranny.

In one single hour the servers hidden in Norway register that there have been 39,775,992 blueprints downloads. Ryder Haske and Nick Mapfre are on PTV-Secure-Skype. Ryder winks from the Isle of Man, Mapfre fires up a Cuban from Juba City Media Operations HQ.


“Let the hungry games begin,” says Nicholas Mapfre.




For eight days the remnants of the Hadar Column retreat with the body of Nikholai Trikhovitch to the D R highlands near Gore where they bury their dead. They take with them in chains the 423 Haitian prisoners they had held under protective custody in the Central Bus Station. On the road to Ethiopia Sebastian shaves his head and upon arrival in Gore fasts for the period of Nikh’s Shiva.

After a single year of fighting there are less than two hundred men left alive in the column.

They are a wretched and haggard lot, all seen desperate evil things men do in wartime.

For eight days their commander Sebastian Adon is utterly despondent. When no one is looking besides his God or sometimes Mickhi Dbrisk, he cries out his water and beats the red earth with his feeble fists.

He feels for the first time, that this place had taken from him more than he is ever able to give. Lt. Moishe Cohen, a few years his elder, by far the most outwardly devout man in the column when not making dirty jokes takes a census of the surviving fighters. They had taken quite a beating in Jacmel. For every four that marched in one had marched out.

Not a one among them wishes to return home. Surely they would no longer be recognized by their lovers, friends and families. They in fact surely can no longer recognize themselves.

Out of the 1,002 Yiddish and Soviet fighters who had crossed the border in Brumaire only 193 are left alive. Most had not had the luxury of either burial. Only luxury was a quick death which not all got. The makeshift cemetery in Gore has only thirteen bodies interred inside it. They sing a vodka soaked Kaddish for all their fallen brothers. It echoes through the valleys. Some agree to keep the Shabbos with Lt. Moishe Cohen leading some degree of the observant in prayer. To others religion is a dirty joke.

“Who better than Moishe to personify it in this yarn,” states Scott Sevastra.

Moishe tells a joke to the men.

“The queen of Sheba was going to marry and evening of her marriage King Solomon wrapped upon her chamber door, and she said I offer you my honor, King responded I honor your offer and then it was on her and off her all night.”

Fewer laugh than even usual at Lt. Moishe Cohen’s latest dirty joke.

As sun fall on Sabbath. Adon emerges from his tent accompanied by Watson Entwissle. They are carrying Machetes. Sevastra and Moishe Cohen attempt to stop them, but they are ready to play hatchet men again. To slaughter and sacrifice, sin against the God of mercy for the old gods who thirst for blood and play on men’s emotions. Some of the men eagerly follow them, their blades ready. Others lack the will.

Sevastra sits with Moishe by the fire they have just kindled, the Shabbas over.

“Nikh’s last orders before he got himself killed going after your woman were that these men would be spared,” says Sevastra.

Adon doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t care.

“There he goes again,” says Lt. Moishe Cohen.


The massacre of the 423 prisoners with hatchet and machete, musket and with dagger takes less than sixty minutes. Their grisly screams travel throughout the valley. The slaughter and gore and wet work of hatchets is made easier in that the prisoners are all bound.

The screams go on for sixty four minutes. Adon returns completely covered in blood.


They rest another day, burn the enemy dead in a shallow grave petrol pile and get back to their terrible work.





Writes Adon in a letter to Jessica Pilot:


“A lot of saber rattling goes on in the days to come. And some saber swinging and heavy iron barking too. Egypt, Ethiopia and the United American States all pledge forces for a UN Peace and Stabilization mission. An oil grab by any other name. The Selassie Liberation Legion and the remnants of St. Pats strike mercilessly at Al Ubayyid held by remnants of the 3rd and 6th Brigades of the FAd’H. Retaking the city, they slay its Haitian military occupants and dig in reinforced by every man the Haitian-Emergency-Front has in the area.”

“The vast and Han modernized Armies of Haiti are not worth much now. All the remaining hardcore loyalists are being called back to the twin cities,” states General Salva.

“They do still have vast warehouses of artillery shells and drones and they use them against us with brutal effect. Waves of drone airstrikes have reduced much of Al Umayyad, Nyala and Jacmel to ash, but the population soldiers on building new settlements below the ground of these rocket scarred battlements once called cities,” states General Allamby.


“We have evacuated most of the non-combatants back behind the SAM batteries which guard expanded South Haiti,” writes DeBuitléir.


The survivors of the Hadar Column; Sevastra, Mapfre, Rathajazer, Entwissle, Cohen and the others merge with what’s left of the St. Patrick’s Battalion to form the Z.O.B.-Dublin Detachment to hold the lines at Jacmel. General Allamby along with the surviving fighters of Jerome Marcus, Okonkwo, Dbrisk and Tomas hold the lines from Al Umayyad.

DeBuitléir leader of the SEF has brought his full forces to Nyala and the Al Umayyad Front. General Salva leader of the FANMI LAVALAS has his armies ready Jacmel.

“The only thing President for the rest of his short life Omar Hassan Ahmad al-Talleyrand  controls are the three cities of the Capital where he has dug in to hide,” says Adon to  DeBuitléir.

He pauses.

“Her letter tells me her intention is to murder Dominick Strauss Kahn before he can escape the impending siege of Port Au Prince. She tells me not to be scared for her well-being. That perhaps she can kill Al-Talleyrand  and Kahn together and avoid the bloodbath of the final siege. She tells me she will consider forgiving me. A girl has to avenge her mother.”


“Apparently at the cost of your best friend,” DeBuitléir responds.



She jettisoned the motorbike not far North of Bor. She then took off her blue medical multiform and donned the black burka so readily imposed now in the Capital. She clipped Nikh’s pistol to her waste below the folds. Fluent now as she was in Arabic she then paid some fishermen to bring her up Nile until the outskirts of the city during the night. By this time the 4th Army has been decimated. By this time the rebels are unloading an arsenal in Juba, Nyala, and Bor. Then carefully, very carefully she arrives at the forward lines.


In flawless Arabic with her hands in the hair she walks into the hands of the enemy and says, “My name is Dr. Yelizaveta Kay, chief physician for the rebel armies. I am here to negotiate a ceasefire with President Talleyrand . I am armed.”

The Republican Guardsmen keep their rifles trained on her as she slowly prostrates herself and carefully lays the burner on the ground.


“I am acting as the direct emissary of Emma Solomon and Avinadav DeBuitléir. If a hair on my head is harmed not one of you will escape this country alive,” she says.


Through her dark grey burka the only thing her enemies can see are her eyes flash grey.



In the bunkers below Al Ubayyid all are pacing restlessly.


“The rumors are true brothers,” states Avinadav DeBuitléir, “At 0600 this morning four brigades of the U.A.S. Marine Corps have landed at Port Cap Haiti and conquered the city without much resistance.”

“President Obama himself has ordered and I quote ‘an immediate end to the genocide in Haiti via the multi-national occupation of the country’,” the soft spoken leader Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir informs the council.

“In coordinated maneuvers the D R forces have advanced forty kilometers north of the Capital and the D R armored corps has advanced forty kilometers to the east,” he states.

“The enemy is boxed in within the Twin cities and Port Au Prince down to 80,000 soldiers, two of the hardest divisions. At least a thousand tanks. Down to their loyalists and their profiteers. Everyday thousands flee the city. Talleyrand  now has to keep his own people under siege. Nine million civilians locked down at the fork of the Nile.”

Sebastian embraces DeBuitléir. This is what they’ve spent nearly two years fighting to accomplish. They’ve finally dragged in the Eagle and the Bear. They finally have Talleyrand  surrounded.

“The Maccoute are finished. Their scattered rank and file fear for their lives and have gone into hiding or fled the country. Suffice to say we are in the last stages of the national struggle, but we have not won yet,” explains General  DeBuitléir.

“The Haitian Military is preparing to mobilize a thousand Han tanks and half its remaining 80,000 troops against us. Despite our superior numbers these are the hardcore of the enemy forces. They are better armed and better trained and they are fighting with their backs to the edge of total oblivion. President al-Talleyrand  has pledged to burn the entire country into the sands before the Americans can capture Port Au Prince,” announces Commander O’Domhnaill.

“In just two day’s time the last of serious forces will arrive at Rabak cross the White Nile into Kusti before they Germinal on the gates of Al Ubayyid,” states Commander  DeBuitléir.


“We must destroy them in the dunes before they reach those gates,” he coldly states.


Children are playing in the green fields of the south land and pointing to the sky. Thousands of red and blue parachutes are descending carrying men and crates. These men possess medical training. They are also skilled in nation re-biding having to have had recently rebuild their own countries from scratch.


The people cheer, “It is the Cuban and Breuklyn Soviet reinforcements!”


A vast wave of foreign volunteers takes a real leap of faith out of a fleet of Sea Stallion Cargo planes in the skies over Jacmel and the Southland. There haven’t been this many Caribes & internationals in Haiti since the blood lettings of the Earthquake, the first and last colony. Thousands of Cuban and Haitian paramedics, nurses, surgeons, teachers, engineers and development practitioners shoring up the rebel zone on the eve of the final battle. Jumping with them are elite teams of Israeli combat medics, civil engineers and parastate specialists, also members of the Black Cats, otherwise known as Unit 669. They land near Jacmel City, Mirabelais, Gonaives, Nyala, Al Umayyad and proceed to erect many blue tents. Nine 4,000 bed hospitals sprout out of the ground just beyond the two lines anticipating the coming clash of wills and destinies.

GAI medics and PIH-ZL MD are supervising physicals and psyche exams on the men in the trenches. Behind the lines they are fighting mass illiteracy and rebuilding homes.

Dr. Yelizaveta spends much of the week in a cell. It is widely believed that without some divine intervention of massive and unexpected Han air support then the allies in the Haitian-Emergency-Front and the FANMI LAVALAS will overrun the capital before the American, Ethiopian, or Egyptian reinforcements can be put to use to secure their claims.


The Haitian military is executing any person who flees the capital.


The 1st Division of the Haitian Military has dug in around the capital. The first division is also called the Black Hand all from the house of Al- Talleyrand  and the oligarchy. What’s left of the 4th and 5th Divisions batter Al Umayyad, Nyala, Bor and Jacmel with drones and rockets, but the Banners of the Combined Rebel Forces are united under the leaders Avinadav DeBuitléir and General Salva and vow to hold these cities against the aggression of the usurper, “his name be cursed and a black death upon him.”

On the ninth day of the offensive, 9 Floréal, the four captured cities are still in rebel hands. There flags still fly and President al-Talleyrand , his name be forever cursed he hides in his capital, and an international arms embargo has prevented the Han from getting him more fire power.

He has kept the Ruus doctor as a hostage for a week. But is aware that she is perhaps a bargaining chip. She has said nothing and he has asked nothing. As the Chief Physician to the insurgency she must have quite a message.

Still he leaves her in the dungeons below the Imperial Palace in isolation.

The beleaguered remnants of the 4th and 5th Armies are again ordered to attack the major rebel formations garrisoned at Al Umayyad.

And soon after they are broken.


The New York Times runs a full page spread on the cover:

“The Battle on the Dunes of Al Umayyad: the latest serious Haitian government defeat in the war. No air support to cover tanks.” Burnt out hulls litter the badlands. Cheering rebel armies are advancing now from the South and West. In the days that follow the Armies of the Haitian-Emergency-Front capture the Cities of Kusti and Jeremie. While less than 100 men of the original invasion forces are alive each now leads newly trained Haitian-Emergency-Front Battalions in Emiley after bloody victory against the Army of Haiti.

Closing in day after day on Port Au Prince.


In a letter written by Sebastian Adon:


“This week brought the closing in on the Northern fortress built about the capital. To the West the Liberation Legion of Haile Selassie led by Commanders Jerome Marcus, Magnus Allamby Melvin Clarke is now 85,000 strong. A much smaller St. Pats Battalion is along with it with several dozen Fenian staff sergeants now made Captains. The Alpha Brigade of U.A.S. 82nd has fortified Port Haiti. Along with an army of refugee Volunteers from Chad they are a mighty albeit irregular force. To the South two divisions of the FANMI LAVALAS, CEF, and the small hundred man Z.O.B.-Dublin Column amount about 130,000 men. They are supported medically and logistically by thousands of volunteers from Cuba and Palmares Island. To the East the D R Armored Division exploits this disorder and digs in ready to shell Port Au Prince. They have roughly 700 Merkava tanks, the only true armored section supporting the rebellion. To the North, the full the forces of Dominican President Ayman Nour are gathered some 100,000 Mujahedeen light infantry and the second company of the 82nd Airborne called the Bravo Brigade.

That is a mighty force assembled. All eying each other suspiciously with very loaded ready weapons.


A meeting of the factions is again called. A mighty war tent is erected.


“We must secure the capital before another government can,” said  DeBuitléir on the field phone to Commander Adon, called by many a man between towns.

“I fear that we must secure also it before he burns the country to the ground.”

“And how might he accomplish that?” laughs Salva, “We control almost the totality of Haiti. Before the end of the month we’ll be turning our concerns from Talleyrand  to each other and all these foreigners in our midst. I jest, but let’s be realistic. Many promises have been made and not all will be honored.”

Maya speaks up.

“He has atomics. Possible a dozens of them purchased from the North Koreans. And he certainly has enough drones to fly them toward us, toward everyone who’s been working to make his regime fall,” says Maya Solomon.

“Why hasn’t he utilized them before?” demands Salva.

“Because he didn’t think all was hopeless until Al Umayyad fell and all the foreigners invaded. It has always been understood that Egypt is a Ruus Client, Haiti a Han one and Israel a U.A.S. client. But now Han whispers will be less influential. He is desperate. We are on his very doorstep and he’s down to his last men. He’s killing his own people now just keep them in his lost city.”

“The creation of a recognized DMZ in southern Haiti has been a boon to the humanitarian endeavors as well as the war effort. But about us vicious vipers set to section off the people’s victory if we don’t act and act fast. The U.A.S. troops safe guard Port Haiti because from out it flows the oil. The Ethiopians and everyone else wish to see the war end and the spoils divided with minimum engagement.”


Watson Entwissle bursts into the room, “The capital is now completely surrounded. We must prepare at once to attack.


“It has been taken care of already my brother. Dr. Kay has requested an audience with President Talleyrand  to deliver our terms of his surrender. She is in Port Au Prince about to be granted audience with Talleyrand ,” states Solomon.


“She will tell him there are to be no terms for surrender.”

But women sometimes lie.


Mr. Adon has grown despondent and prone to flashes and floods of anger most directed against their nemeses but also himself. He is often alone and without Yelizaveta to instill him with a lost humanity he is gone for hours on walks about the ridges swooning as a lover does, although never in front of the men. They were odd in public toward one another, but it was of course obvious whose tent she shared. He has lost the two things closest to him after Nikh’s execution and her disappearance. Little to restrain him now.

There was much talk about the commander’s love life, as if the rumors of it make good yarns. In between meetings of administration and command or killing runs against the enemies of his latest adopted people he might be seen upon the ridge composing letters to his lover, making sketches of the forces arrayed and towns liberated as if to impress her. Increasingly, below his raven nappy hair tucked below his brown skally cap beret, the men might look upon his eyes and see a dimming fire. As if by each step, each battle that brought these motley forces toward the capital he calculates how soon until he might finally spend peace time alive with his love.

“If she is alive,” says Watson.

But Adon sees things others don’t always see.

But, was his love a tangible one? Was it based on dreams of progeny, of retirement from war and political machinations into the arms of soft and lasting embrace? There was only one man who might have adequately answered that, and that man they had buried. Separated by the theatres of war from Mr. Dbrisk and Mr. O’Domhnaill, the men Adon leads know him not as who he once was but by zeal he exhibits at present.

Yelizaveta knows him. At least she thinks she does. And she swears that one day she’ll cry for him, because when this is all done, if he is destined to survive, there might not be much left of him to love if she isn’t alive too.

“I know your eyes Sebastian when something you are seeing troubles you,” says Watson.


“We are at the crossroads mon ami. I see a good many possibilities, but they are all quite bloody before the dawn breaks.”


“That’s’s not what Im referring to.”




“She;s gone.”





“Bring her to me,” says President Talleyrand .

Dr. Yelizaveta Kay is still wearing her black burka. She has been unmolested not because of this piety but because she is a messenger and evil a brutal tyrant wishes to hear a message. She is lead into the Imperial War Palace in leg and arm irons and locked to the floor before his desk throne. Forced on her knees.

“Speak,” he says to her.

“I speak on behalf of the rebel armies assembled at your gates. I bear a message from the allied rebel supreme military council. DeBuitléir, Salva and the foreign insurgent commanders Adon, O’Domhnaill, Allamby and Dbrisk AND Solomnan. I speak with their authority.”

“If what you say lacks merit I’ll feed you to the men.”

“I fear none, but the wrath of my Generals should this message not be delivered to you in full.”

“Your grey eyes reveal you are a voodoo witch. Speak witch before the flames consume you after my men do their worst.”

“Your capital is completely surrounded. Your army is in total shambles. There are no less than thirteen insurgent armies composed of your own abused countrymen. There are no less than four world powers with boots on your soil. Your air force is in shambles. Your drone fleet is exhausted. Your one mighty army has been decimated. Even in your dungeons I can easily buy the information I require. The oil has been cut off now for a month and even your Han handlers are making deals with the rebels and the U.A.S. to get the pipes flowing again. The only thing keeping the nine million hostage civilians in the capital is the butchery of the first division.”

“These facts are not unknown to me. You might have purchased them with your mouth witch doctor,” he sneers.

“There are many men who want you dead. Others who want you arrested and put on some international stage for the human rights trial of the century.  DeBuitléir wants your skin for what you did to his whole family. Salva for what you did to his four sons. The JEM wants you to be put to death as a kafr. The Breukland Otriad wants to make an example out of you. The Egyptn, Han, Rus, Persians, Ethiopians, Israeli, and what’s left of the U.A.S. just want your black gold.”

“I will burn you all, and the capital and the twin cities and the Nile itself and the oil below the ground if I must. I will never allow you victory. I will light the world ablaze.”

“I know you have atomics. I don’t know how many but I know you have enough to scorch the region. I know you are planning to incinerate Israel, Egypt, Ethiopia and Iran. I believe you have the cruel will to do it.”

“Quite a mouth you must have.”

“It’s my eyes I am known for President.”

“Grey like the soulless demon Yid God you serve.”

“What time is there now for talk of piety? You have been made no offers by the rebels because they aim to kill you or if they are kind humiliate you on the world stage and use your former republic as a springboard for world war against despots and tyrants and so-called people’s republics. I speak for the intentions of the rebels, but I have a master as we all so. We all answer to someone, especially when we do not answer to God.”

The fat President is astounded at her audacity and gaul.

“Leave us alone!” he commands the black uniformed imperial guards out of the room. The doctor in in manacles and he has a pistol on hip. He rips off her shawl and draws and cocks his weapon. He levels it to her face.

“What offer can you make me that I could tolerate? And on whose behalf!?”

She stares up at this dictator in full defiance.

“The Perchevney Bratva.”

There is no a man alive who deals in sin and violence who has not at one time made a deal with that brotherhood.

“Tell me your name.”

“I am Yelizaveta Kay Perchevney Adon. My mother is Marina Kay a former hotel maid. My father is Alexandr Perchevney head of the Perchevney Bratva. And we require a man that you trust be delivered to us to pay for his treachery. A ruinous treachery against my mother’s honor and my father’s sanity. You harbor him in this very citadel. And my father will ensure you safe passage from Haiti, along with your family and your fortune to any place you desire if you turn this man over to us.”

“You are also the wife of the Pale Officer who brings with him death.”

“Yes, but only you and I know that President. It is a marriage of vast convenience.”

“What if instead I make you my hostage and trade you for my passage.”

“That would gain you nothing. Adon has sacrificed me before and I am not my father’s only daughter.”

“You are very brave.”

“I would like you to spare millions of lives including your own. I would like you to yield not to the god of pride, but the gods of profit and self-interest.”

“You think I have no honor? I can reduce this country to a land of ash. I would sooner do that than give your father my only friend and ally as a sacrifice. I ought to give Dominick you instead as a bound present. He’s still very feisty although advanced in years. He’d make quite a sport out of the daughter of Alexandr Perchevney. That would get his blood pumping in the final hours we have.”

“He is not such a martyr as you. I would suspect that he’ll flee you like a rat on a sinking ship the minute the rebels distract you enough.”

“Do you have any idea what they will do to you tonight? Have you any notion?”

“Do you have any idea what my husband will do to you if a hair on my head is misaligned?”

“I have atomics. I will incinerate the black fields and reign death on my enemies! They will know the wrath of Haiti. You will serve you last hours as the whore of my old dear friend Kahn and then we will burn together.”

“Do it from Kingdom Saud. Burn these rebel scum and your own land if you must, but survive. I am the only one who can offer you that. I know you can fire the atomics from the air. I also know that Kahn is fleeing you as you speak.”

“How do you know so much witch?”

“I either have a great tongue, or grey eyes and deep, deep pockets. And only a captain goes down with a ship, not a French Yid opportunist. Besides, you and he both are unbelievers so the whores in Saud Kingdom are more real than whores in the world to come.”

He yells for the guards.

“Find my Dominick Straus-Kahn. Find him now!”



The Black House of Chicago is very structurally similar to the now long destroyed White House of now long evacuated Washington District of Columbia. Except that it has a better ER and deeper fallout shelter on premise, which is important when right before the beginning of your sixth term someone shoots you in the face.


The couple that managed to execute U.A.S. President elect Barak Obama with two plastic snub nosed Calvary Zip guns made in Utah did so because they believed their Mormon God had wanted them to do so. They believed that by murdering the President they were carrying out an act of great faith. Ushering in the end times. He died from his wounds less than an hour later in the ER below the Black House. The Mormon’s that executed him, Mr. and Mrs. O’Domhnaill are a young, good looking couple from a small polygamist town near Salt Lake City, in the Mormon Free Zone. They were not on the guest list for the Passover State Dinner for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. They simply crashed the party by being young, white, well dressed and reasonably attractive.


The State dinner was to have been a pretext to quietly and informally negotiate a peaceful settlement in Haiti. Israeli involvement in the raging and internationally divisive Haiti-War is making it hard for the U.A.S. to sell this as “Peace Keeping Operation” and not a “Resource Grab”. Obama was hoping that the War in Haiti might result in a deal sealing for the separation and economic development plan he’d been long arranging along the Israeli-Canaanite Green Line which was believed to be imminent. And the paving of the way to peace with Iran.

Mrs. O’Domhnaill cuddled right up to the President while Mr. O’Domhnaill took a photo. They then took out two guns and shot him in the heart and the head. They then swallowed cyanide and died soon after.


They died believing they had the man Christ in their hearts even if they were controlled on remote by the Church of Scientology.


American public opinion in the hours to come stymies much of the now murdered President Obama’s Haitian Intervention Initiative. Most Americans have absolutely no idea where Haiti eve is on a map.  Hilary Clinton briefly becomes President but is toppled in a coup led by the rightest Giuliani-Palin-Romney triumvirate which cancels the Détente with the Confederacy and vows to crush the newly independent Eastern Seaboard Soviets with force to restore the Union. Martial Law is declared in the U.AS. Both the U.A.S. and Confederacy ready themselves for war and round ups begin on both sides.

There is very clear evidence that everyone with power in the post-coup government of the United American States wants this intervention in war torn Haiti to end. The rhetoric of the new oligarchy is “Union by Force!” No more foreign adventures, no more wars of conscience, not while America is divided.

“Focus on the family and focus on the home front,” proclaims Palin. And an American public which has an ongoing taste for bread and circuses applauds loudly.




A man like Perchevney has for years learned how play vicious games of cost benefit analysis with the lives of whomever he must. And when comes the call so close to the end game that informs him so viscerally of a certain ransom he has long prepared himself for, he prepares to pay because it will facilitate the vengeance that so much blood and dollars can buy. He thinks back to days long past before the war and remembers a certain pact.

It was very cold that winter. The blizzard and a Sanitation strike made the city impassible. Adon was ten years younger, fewer scars from the trials of Palmares Island. He was still reckless and in love though. That never seemed to leave him.

Perchevney was living then in a two bed room apartment in Fort Washington and so was his wife Marina and his daughter Yelizaveta Kay. And Marina was a hotel maid and Alexandr was an underground unlicensed physician and the incident hadn’t happened yet and this young dashing EMT in a beige-gold protective suit had just crossed that blizzard twice to retrieve their daughter who’d broken her leg and was stranded in the storm. And Adon went to get her, and bring her to a hospital and they loved him, loved him like only Soviets truly can for doing reckless heroic things to rescue people they love. And the night was dark, and the city was impassible and the lights were out and Marina and Yelizaveta were asleep and Adon and Alexandr were sitting smoking Noblisse cigarettes in the narrow kitchen passageway and they had a bottle going.

“What-did was very-strong.”

Alexandr barely spoke English then. And he was a former Soviet unlicensed physician not a king of pins, not a vory-v-zakone, not a boss not an engineer of serfdom, not a black business man.

And Adon wasn’t yet a zealot, not a yet a killer, not yet a person myopically driven toward his own self destruction.

And they drank as a young blond shivering, Yelizaveta slept doped up on her pain killers, her left leg cast, slept under quilts and covers. And Marina took the next week off from the Benjamin Hotel, proud her daughter had a good man now and a rich one too, an Ameikanski that was shaped like a Soviet and was at least tough like one, and rich which was important too.

And Adon and Alexandr embrace.


“You-love-daughter?” He asks, heavier then. Thick black glasses. Sly eyes with the bipolar grey flash.

“I will do anything for her.”

“I will have you prove this.”

And that is why so many years later, as Yelizaveta lies in a prison cell far behind enemy lines of the fortified citadel and Alexandr receives a cash figure from a Haitian middle man, how much he must pay for Mr. Strauss-Kahn and his daughter, he feels still like haggling. Because he knows that Adon will do absolutely anything to free his daughter.


He’s seen Adon do it many times before.



Tense times for the world at large.

Everyone everywhere has their eyes on “the Crisis in Haiti”.


The United American State pulls out of country just one week after assassinated President Barak Obama ordered them in. A new political regime is taking power in the United American States one which looks forever inward and has no time for ‘wars of conscience.’


The daily shelling of Port Au Prince and skirmishes at the gates are told in the world’s papers that the end of the al-Talleyrand  regime in only days away.


Vast piles of sandbags are now gone up around the twin cities of Port Au Prince and Petionville  where the Vile River forks. The enemy forces are massed just five clicks outside its gates. They’ve set up artillery, heavy machine guns, the dead sand around its suburbs a death maze of mines and booby traps. This is the citadel, the largest city on earth home to some 4, many NGO affiliated million souls who benefited generously from these twenty years of internal war. Finally as the rebellion hardens its lines all have moved their forces to the evil center of this dark place.


An estimated 80,000 Haitian soldiers, the hard core, the elite.

Holding hostage over over 3 million privileged citizens and their salves and dependents. Armed with Atomics that can hit as far away as anywhere but East Asian, Eurasia or Oceania.


100,000 lightly armed Muhammadian Brothers to the North. Two Divisions of Ethiopian Armor and light infantry to the East. Over two million irregular fighters in the Haitian Defense Forces and rebel Alliance; a million under General Salva west of Port Au Prince, and million under  DeBuitléir to the south.

This is not to mention the 10,000 Israeli, Cuban, and Haitian medical contingents and “engineers”. The 40,000 Han support staff still in Port Au Prince. The Persian navy blocking oil flow from the Straight of Tiran.


And U.A.S. and Chinese Atomic saber rattling.

And enhanced proxy arming.

Calls for calm coming out of Europe.

And the Russian Federation too is wondering just how to get in on the game this late I the blood bath. Perchevney tells Putin to wait it out.


The President al-Talleyrand  sits in the Imperial Palace, his last city under total blockade, he sits at a computer screen reading that the world has largely abandoned him. The blond witch is in one cell, his former financial advisor who his men caught fleeing in another. Bodies lie rotting in the heat as his army guns down thousands trying to flee.

“We cannot have a situation where foreign armies of any kind remain in capital after it falls. If they seize the city first then they will remain after to claim the oil as their prize,” notes Avinadav DeBuitléir to the assembled staff and leadership within the command tent.

“Well then we’d better make sure that all factions bleed equally in the capture of Port Au Prince,” says Salva.

“This is a bloody mess no matter how you run the war game,” states Father O’Sullivan.



Everyone stands except for General Salva and Avinadav DeBuitléir as Adon and Solomon enter the room. Then both Generals rise to salute Solomon.


“We are requesting you delay the final offensive by four hours,” she says.

“We are certain that as soon as we breach the gates, that that vile beast will fire off his atomics and order his army to assist the population in collective suicide,” says Adon.

“We would like four hours to attempt to secure the Imperial Palace with an airborne assault of the Z.O.B.-Dublin Company. We’d like to fly in tonight, real-real high, paratroop about a hundred men right down on top of them at the Palace while a crack team flies four 747s  loaded with explosives into the Ministry of Peace, Ministry of Love, and Ministry of Truth as well as the Trade Tower,” says Solomon.

“We think we can pull this off with just 99 fighters,” Adon remarks.

“Which is actually all the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club has left alive or combat functional in country,” Maya notes.

“We can wipe out the government administration centers for war, torture, propaganda and trade, storm the palace, capture Al-Talleyrand  and Strauss-Kahn, halt a potential nuclear inferno, and maybe even save his girlfriend.”

“Wife,” Adon corrects her.

“In your mind alone sweetness,” says Maya playfully.

“So you’re basically going to pull a Condoleezza Rice-Paul Wolfowitz circa 2001?” asks       General Salva.

“I think we can give you four hours,” smiles DeBuitléir.

“You’re going too, warrior woman?” asks Salva to Solomon.

“Of course Gentlemen, I wrote the blue print for the whole fucking plan.”

“You sure are one surely Messiah commander Solomon,” says DeBuitléir in Hebrew.

Black cat’s out the bag,” echo’s General Salva in Aramaic.

“What’s the word of a Messiah to her cousin the Mahdi,” she replies.

“Touche mon Cherie,” says Avinidav, the 14th generation descendant of the Prophet Muhamaed hidden until now in occlusion.



Across the country the Haiti Defense Forces under the banner of DeBuitléir’s Haitian-Emergency-Front are rebuilding the nation in the wake of the war, rebuilding infrastructure and villages the Maccoute once wiped out. This is nation where not an inch of earth or a single centimeter even is not pocked with a bullet mark or liberated with the cost of much blood.

After two whole years of total war, the Dar Haitian region knows some peace.

Every woman and man above the age of 13 who is not a coward has packed their bags and headed to the outskirts of Port Au Prince. A sprawling encampment of tents and artillery, barricades and civilian patriots with arm are growing daily ringing the line of siege.

There will be one last battle to end this war and it may be fought block to block, house to house. Across this land the people of Haiti realize that the massacre of their brutal government is near.

There are many things in abundance that there were only some of before. Spiruleena is as if a national dish. Where two years before Haiti, as per the policies of President al-Talleyrand  over 82 % of the population was illiterate, now there are schools in abundance, where before only the madrassas taught. There are arms in the hands of the minorities whereas before only the Muhammadians had arms. All in the liberated zones have healthcare.

There is a vast and epic array of battle works and war weapons to be found in the blue tent city erected in but three week on the Western edge of Port Au Prince, just four clicks for the Citadel. The total liberation is in its last few hours and the factions have assembled to lay the final plans. There will be no quarter asked or given. It has been like this since the first day of the war. As Haitian and Dinka and two thousand other tribes oil and load their weapons; as Israeli technicians set up field hospitals and communications arrays; As Persian handlers drill up until V day itself; as JEM fighters trade war stories with young boys from the Eastern Front; as Ethiopians and Muhammadians tell jokes and compare notes on who’s god is on who’s side and if this is prophesy.

These forces have pledged to defeat the army inside Port Au Prince and topple the Haitian Government once and for all in a war that began so long ago in 1956.

The rebel troops will begin storming the gates at sunrise.

On a landing strip prepared for “Operation Project for a New American Century” 150 Z.O.B.-Dublin brigade fighters take supper together after wiring four 747’s with enough ordinances to vaporize three metal pyramids and on high tower. There are no speeches. There isn’t anything left to say. All of them are experienced paratroopers.

At 2300 eight grey Givati-Tulsa airships carrying 142 fighters will take off and climb high until they get way above the SAM grid and drop the fighters en mass over Port Au Prince around midnight. Using a tracking signal from the GPS inside Ms. Kay left tibia, they will lock the position of the Imperial Palace.

With five minute lag, the eight Z.O.B.-Dublin pilots will utilize 747’s are missiles above attempt to   get out of the vessel’s before impact.

“Many of us will soon be joining our brothers tonight in the world to come,” says Moishe Cohen.

“See you all on the other side,” says Maya Solomon.

She rips off the Velcro of her patch cover. It is a six sided star of life with a snake around a staff, blue, black and grey. Its writing is Hebrew. Once side says “Paramedic”, the other side says “Breukland Bath and Rifle Club.”



Darkness falls on a bad man place. The Flickering Flame 2 and seven other Givati-Tulsa airships are lined up on the secret runway. Behind them are four 747s acquired in the last 48 hours via Polidoro-Ferraris International Development Firm, written off for tax purposes via the newly formed NGO “Foreign Friends of Haiti”. Miles and miles, kilometers even of distance to the East one can see through the wastelands and dunes to the millions encamped outside Port Au Prince, a people’s army of two million CDF fighters, 100,000 DR Haitian Fedayeen and 160,000 Dominicans with armor from the days of the Great War on Terror which caused only much more terror.

“This is a suicide mission friend?” asks Mickhi Dbrisk to Hugh O’Domhnaill as they prepare to join 25 Scarborough and St. Pat’s fighters in the hull of the Flickering Flame.

“I suspect only if the shoot doesn’t open,” Dbrisk responds.

As each fighter double checks his partners shoot, each one rips off the Velcro of the left arm patch to die, if it is their fate to die true colors exposed.

“You find yourself praying the longer the war goes on,” says O’Domhnaill.

“1,001 fighters went in, and now there are 125 left including Maya Solomon. And we’re going to fly three miles right above Port Au Prince and say a quick prayer and jump out the belly of these planes. And we’re going use our jump training, and our kill training, and our 4d powers and the rest of everything Mikhail Mastrovich taught us. And the fuck it, yer right, we might all get killed, but we been knowing that for years,” says Dbrisk. Stubs his Noblisse cigarette rips off the cover patch.

“You know this isn’t gonna be the last jump” says O’Domhnaill as he rips off his covering too.

“Ya know, you just keep saying that until the world to come comes.”

“Remember serving under Bolivar?” asks Dbrisk.

“That’s what he was calling himself then? Yeah those were some jumps.”

“Remember serving under Collins?” asks Dbrisk, his eyes flash grey.

“And Gandhi?”

“Or Nelson Mandela?”

“These humans are getting closer and closer.”

“The trouble with the humans is that they have been enslaved for so long they know longer remember their initial potential,” notes Dbrisk as they head up the ramp and hydraulics begin raising the hatch.

“Don’t lose hope old soul; I suspect the world to come is finally coming.”



The plate in Yelizaveta Kay’s left leg, affixed to the tibia has a tracking device, a neural transmitter, and a tephlon dagger. These are all gifts her father gave her. Fear or anger produce neurotramitters, pressure points and osteopathic activators do the rest. And there’s also the ESP, all guiding 125 Z.O.B. fighters on eight small planes over the city, right to the palace. Helping guide her boys and Maya to the choicest targets.


She knows her father has paid off Al-Talleyrand , knows the President will take her, and Kahn and some of the haram, and his family, and a platoon of his Imperial Guards and take a long tunnel from the palace to an airfield just outside the city where he thinks he will be escaping to Kingdom Saud.

She’s cuffed and dragged from the cell, stood against the wall with Kahn, sees him old and shriveled and vicious and thinks of triggering the blade right then and there. They arrested him the day before attempting to flee. The deal is safe passage to Kingdom Saud in exchange for Kahn and her being turned over to Perchevney after safety is achieved.


His yellow rat bastard, rapist French stink is appalling. Her quarry is close and he has no idea. She’s nothing to him.

Another girl in the harem.

Not long now to the kill.

The big-fat kill of listed target 105.



The moon is full but the planes fly very high and death from above strikes quick as gravity will allow. The Givati Tusla pilots are all Haitian airmen. They will transmit the second the Z.O.B.-Dublin Column jumps and the 747’s will take of shortly after. If the Lwa are riding with us and the Good Lord allows the jumpers will be crawling over the palace just five minutes before the 747’s obliterate the three ministries and the trade tower.

And as soon as the rebel armies see the tower go up in flames a four hour clock will tick down. The Z.O.B.-Dublin Column will either report the kill or capture of the enemy leadership and the negotiated surrender of Port Au Prince and the Twin Cities, or at 4am the rebel alliance and the armies of Egypt and Ethiopia will storm the city, at a very high cost in blood.


The Givati-Tulsa squadron takes off at 23:00 as planned.


Other than a few Haitian technicians and the Persian ordinance experts that are running a final check on the rigged up commercial airliners, of the rebels its only 8 left on the runway partners doing final checks on the shoots. This is a complicated jump, as the airliners will be making a high angle nose dive it is often tricky to clear the jet. But all the best pilots are Yids and the Yid god says suicide is a huge thankless sin, so no one plans to die except for Adon who always hopes to. So he never has any more duty to act, never has to worry about is she alright, worry about does she love him really truly. The others though, they want to live. They’re drilled for this maneuver hundreds of times.

Adon checks Maya’s shoot. And Watson checks Moishe Cohen’s. No dirty jokes at this 11th hour. And Dashiell Duffy checks the shoot of Father O’Sulliven. And Thomas Ansu checks that of Scott Sevastra.

“You’ve all done this drill numerous times,” says Solomon.

“Lock the clutch, secure the throttle, activate the extrication rip cord, blow the side door, clear the plane at mid altitude, and glide toward to tracker in Dr. Kay’s heel. Don’t get killed,” states Adon.

“A wrist tracker lights up on each of them.”

“Luck,” says Solomon to all.

“Luck!” they all say back.

“Have anything to add Father?” Adon asks O’Sulliven.

“Good Lord Bon Dye, Ha Shem, Allah, Mother love and Jesus Christ also, and Papa Legba and the Virgin Mother, Erzuli Danto all the other spirits too. Bless us in the completion of this most dirty work. Allow us to strike most finally at evil men, and retire promptly and alive to a warm beach in the Caribbean.”

“Amen,” they all say.

“We are equal opportunity miracle employers,” says Raphael Ernesto Contreras.



Once Mickhi Dbrisk stepped out into the sky above Port Au Prince the ground races toward him.

Mickhi hates swimming but learned to do it for the sake of the survival. He hates jumping even more. It’s not natural to tempt god and physics so. There could be little else as dangerous as a 3 mile high jump.

Perhaps moto racing in the Breukland Soviet, or being the best friend of anarchist revolutionaries.

But they had practice in the jumps. They were near effortless. But she still always crossed himself and prayed to the man Jesus and also Legba the Guardian of the Crossroads, and often by the time he could begin to see the lights below, he might even ask Bon Dye directly to help him survive.

The jump is like dying, each time the rush the prayers the total exfiltration of loss of control. A three mile jump utilizes the atmospheric disturbances caused by global warming which make anything flying that high untraceable even via satellite. And an upper atmosphere jump also puts all the fighters high enough above target that landing where you need too gets easier.

The lights explode out of the clouds. Port Au Prince’s sky scrapers and search lights and spot lights and the lights of the rebel army encircled in siege and the thick blue vein of the Vile River, the crosshair of the landing where the White Vile and the Blue Vile split south into Sub Saharan Acadia. The lights are blinding.

Mickhi Dbrisk deep, deep in prayer, in drop formation with 117 other Otriad fighters glances at this altitude clocker, and he prepares to rip the cord. This is the most dangerous part because although these shoots are designed for death from above raids, for the next five minutes the 117 paratrooping guerillas will be snipable floating ducks. And then five minutes as soon as they land the others are going to light the city up.

The rush the Epi hitting the Alpha 1,2 Beta 1,2,3 receptors taking fighting and flighting to the next goddam level. Jamaica never had a great bob sled team and neither had Erin or Israel, but they took skydiving to new dare devilish heights that night.

Rip chords. Back flash. Swooping impending doom. Stabilized descent. 117 Blue and Red circles with a symbol at the center ot a tree and six cannons, and six flags in the shape of star. A snake wrapped around the tree. Haitian Parachutes. The Vile Crossroad’s speeding towards us. Bright, white tight light and prayers not to die, not to die. Five minute on the clock until the diversion the flaming jet fuel, light up like 2001 plus one diversion hits. The ground looks close. Blasters and burners are now out. Touch, touch, touch down. Thump thump thump,  one hundred fighters whisper prayers, landing all over the tennis courts and gardens of the Imperial Palace. They each kiss the ground, cock the rifles. Rush across the grounds and get in position.

Hugh O’Domhnaill using hand sign directs one group up the marble stairs. No shot fired yet.

No resistance. No guards.

Everything is lit up, the whole palace.

“Place is a graveyard,” says Dbrisk with grey eyes in ESP to O’Domhnaill.

Empty sentry points.

Dbrisk and sixty fighters gain entry the Breukland way. O’Domhnaill leads his detachment through the maze of well furnished rooms. The palace is empty. There aren’t even any guards.

Beep. Beep. Goes Dbrisk’s watch.

That means two minutes to the secondary strike. And he knows something is wrong. No one is home.

The blue print to the Imperial Palace paves the way. One detachment moving up on side of the palace, one securing room after empty, suspicious room. Not even one shot fired.

“WTF guys,” says O’Domhnaill in grey flashes.

117 fighters arrive at the big wooden doors to the Presidential Office of Talleyrand  in two prongs.

Hugh says with hand-sign “take the door?”

“Door is open B,” says Mickhi Dbrisk breaking the silence, “there ain’t no one home.”

The room is filled with maps, its filled with books, It stinks of cigar smoke even though the ceilings are fifty feet tall. And a balcony opens up on a vista of the whole city. Which is all lit up in military strobe and for a city of 14 million is suspiciously quiet.

“Where is everyone?” asks Rand.

Dbrisk is going through papers on the desk. They are in Arabic, but he can read Arabic.

The vast palace officer and its thick onyx throne were all abandoned hastily.

“So he’s fled?” asks O’Domhnaill.

Mickhi Dbrisk puts his Sten Gun on the long mahogany desk covered in scattered war papers.

“Everyone’s dead,” he utters.

“What are you fucking saying?” says O’Domhnaill.

“They’re poisoned all the water. Everyone in the city is dead. And if we kill Talleyrand  it’s going to make things go from real fucking bad to pretty much a lot worse.”

The wretched veneer of modernity which encases this city was built with oil money and Han expertise in a gold rush and genocide that’s nearly a hundred years old. And everyone living in Port Au Prince was living well and they knew what was happening in Haiti and the Southlands, but they had a near European life expectancy and creature comforts and so they let it slide. The city of glass and steel was so bright and so quiet and you could almost hear the rush of the mighty Vile River.

Mickhi looks highly concerned.

“Where the fuck is Talleyrand ?” he asks.

“How should I know,” says O’Domhnaill.

“He’s rigged his neurals. If he dies it’s gonna trigger a few dozen atomic happy endings for the whole damn region.”


Goes everyone’s trackers.

Having a good and epic view of a terror attack is really the specialty of Philistines and Israelis. But its only terror when you kill indiscriminately. Or kill the innocent. Or so they write it off rhetorically.

A 747 is not unlike a very, very large fast Molotov cocktail.  The Ministry of Peace was where they planned war against their own people. It explodes first lighting up the whole skyline. And then like a ripple seconds later KABOOM and there is no more ministry of Truth where they for a hundred years made so many lies. And BLAM a third pyramid erupts as the empty airline loaded with ordinance incinerates the Ministry of Love where all the worst brutal tortures occurred. Last went the Trade Tower build by the Han. And the 117 fighters gathered on the balcony of an empty Imperial Palace, stood witness to a smoldering four structure fire where no one died. Because everyone was already dead. Everyone smoked um if they had um.

“Do we have anyway to raise Solomon?” asks O’Domhnaill.


“Hmm. Fuck life.”




Hardest part when you light up a mostly dead city with four 747’s is you have to be careful to not land in the smoldering jet fuel which burns for days and blackens the sky. They all have oxytanks and respirators because although they’d jettisoned half a mile ahead of impact, the smoke would be quite thick.

It was a pretty, well lit although mostly dead city below.

Mostly dead city because there were about forty thieves and Ms. Kay still alive. Not everyone drank the Kool-Aid called the city water supply with Polonium 402 for flavoring. But twelve million did. And most of the remaining troops too.

The forty thieves include President Al-Talleyrand , his three wives, his nine children, and an assortment of  choice concubines and bodyguards, an oil minister, Dr. Kay and of course Strauss Kahn. The tunnel they are driving through in a small convoy of jeeps heads out from below the Vile River to small landing strip where a fueled Han jet awaits.

But this plan was very well conceived.

And when the convoy reaches the hanger all the technicians are dead and there are eight rebels seated in the wings of the evacuation plane.

“Don’t do anything rash Zamni, he’s wired to blow,” says Maya Solomon.

“Slick-Ha?” Adon says excuse me in Hebrew.

The convoy slows to a halt.

“She said don’t do anything rash,” says Watson.

“What’s rash to you?” Adon asks. His heart is lighter seeing his wife alive.

“Don’t, I mean by any means necessary Do not let Al-Talleyrand  die. He flat lines and his neurals trigger drones strapped with atomics to take off toward, well everywhere else fun around here,” says Solomon calmly.

There about twenty black uniformed Imperia Guardsmen yelling in Arabic brandishing fearsome Aramalite blasters.

Kahn, Kay and Al-Talleyrand  and the Oil Minister are in the rear most car.

Moishe Cohen cocks his rifle, adjusts his kippa. Scott Sevastra and Thomas Ansu keep their burners trained on the enemy. They’ve spent their save a long time ago. Father O’Sullivan and Dashiell Duffy drop off the wing and get some cover on the tarmac. Watson Entwissle sights the highest ranking guardsman.

Maya Solomon lowers her burner and yells, “ENOUGH!”

She then drops into flawless Arabic.

“President Al-Talleyrand , order your men to put down their weapons. We are not here for you and your family, or your guards or whores or certainly your oil minister. We want the Frenchman and the Doctor. And you can then get on your way to Kingdom Saud.”

No one lowers anything. It’s a standoff on the tarmac and each is either a Mexi-can or a Mexi-can’t.

“You know the terms. I know how much Perchevney paid you. And I will double it if you get on that plane. All I’ve wanted for nearly three years is to see you dragged in front of the Hague. Now that you’ve poisoned 12 million of your own mostly loyalist citizens something tells me that we won’t be the only ones after you. ”

“You my friend are the definition of a war criminal. But you know what? Giving us our friend and your sniveling bourgeoisie rapist Frenchman is going to probably secure you financially in exile and let you live out your natural life on some Sand Gypsy Oil Sheik’s pleasure compound. If you don’t let her go, if you don’t give us the man who raped the wife of one of the world’s most ruthless and connected Voorhees well then, it’s anything goes.”

Talleyrand  stutters. “She is my collateral, so is the Frenchman. Once in Saudi you can reacquire them.”

“We all know that what goes into Saudi is often hard to get out of Saudi,” states Adon.

“We know your black heart is a nuclear ticking time bomb. That in itself kept our bullets from piercing your flesh before you even saw us. That in itself is quite a lot of collateral.”

“Let us on the airship or we will eviscerate this Ruus whore right in front of you!” yells Talleyrand .

“You aren’t taking them with you to Saudi. We’d rather just unload on you and slaughter your whole family right here,” says Solomon calmly, “that’s what I meant by ‘anything goes’ in case that didn’t translate.”

Watson Entwissle lines up a second target slowly with his sure shot revolver. He counts out twenty Imperial Guards each likely a damn good shot. They all have Carmelites which means they can light off a pretty full clip in under thirty seconds. He glances at Maya who hasn’t even drawn her burner. Ansu, Sevastra, Duffy, Adon, and Cohen all have Macro-Uzis which you can barely even aim. Father O’Sulliven has a Sten Gun. Even with all their Voodoo magic and powers of the fourth dimension they are still a bit out gunned.

You can feel the building dynamic tension, the catecholamines racing within these vaguely scared, poorly rested and heavily armed men.


“Give us our lady doctor and you keep the dirty old pervert Frenchman,” suggests Solomon.


“Those are not acceptable terms!” yells Yelizaveta.

“We can triple your money,” suggests Solomon.

“There are too many Maccoute,” whispers Watson to Adon.


The black shirts are looking increasingly twitchy. So does Talleyrand  who is sweating like a pig profusely.


“I do not negotiate with terrorists!” yells Talleyrand .

“Fair enough,” mutters Maya Solomon, “Kill everyone with a gun folks.”

She quick draws her 8mm shooter and puts down three black shirts before diving toward the floor. And a fire fight erupts on and across the tarmac.

Macro-Uzi’s have no aim. You point and spray and hit everybody you can. And it all happens damn fast. Scott Sevastra gets his right knee blown apart and falls to the ground bleeding while lighting up a jeep load of black shirts in his bellowing back fall. He keeps firing from the ground. And Dashiell Duffy is shot multiple times in the chest and he gets off a round or two then dies quickly.


And Dr. Kay is in cuffs but gives Dominick Strauss Kahn a good kick sending him sprawling out the vehicle. She head butts the Oil Minister and makes him bleed all over his suit. And she drags Talleyrand with chains around his neck down on to the ground, under the jeep and out of the line of fire.


Adon glances left and sees Father O’Sulliven picking off blacks shirts one by one with lightning fast wild-west Belfast speed. And then he looks back and priest is slumped over dead. Bullets ran him through him and he topples resting in a bloody pool.

Ansu drops and rolls and fires his macro-Uzi until all the bullets are done. And takes cover behind a baggage truck and reloads. And then he gets shot in the shoulder and cries out.

Moishe gets clipped and he loses his yarmulke as he falls backwards on his ass. But he’s wearing a vest so maybe he isn’t dead.

And there are dead black shirts and empty shells and blood everywhere.

And Adon and Solomon move like they are dancing. They cover each other and advance on the remaining survivors rolling and ducking and unleashing fire. Firing 8mm parabellums and macro-Uzis until everyone’s dead except Talleyrand , Kay and Kahn.

And Watson Entwissle can’t help but be a little sentimental that he’s standing over the dictator’s dead family. A few of the children were rather young. But Jean-Claude Duvalier was rather young once and keeping him alive and enriched in exile once cost many-many Haitians their lives.

Everyone’s panting and smeared in various red and clear fluids. Everyone who’s left alive. Shattered windows in the cross fire.

“On your fucking knees,” says Cohen.

Maya frees Yelizaveta from her manacles. Kahn and Talleyrand  are placed on their knees.

The Fenian priest is dead. As well as Duffy and Ansu. Sevastra is dying. Watson attends to him best he can with what he’s carrying.

“There are no words of magic that I can say that will make the world freer, but perhaps your trial will open some eyes. Though ultimately this was a harm reduction mission above all other things. You and your bloody hordes have done great harm. And now you are finished.”

“Hold him for me,” Yelizaveta commands Adon. And he does. Adon lifts Kahn up from the ground and grips him by the biceps bracing himself for what’s coming.

“You don’t have to_,” Maya begins.

Yelizaveta has a dagger out of her leg before the sentence bears completion.

She stabs Kahn again, and again and again. Jams the knife in his chest over and over until he wretches up blood. Then she cut his throat and Adon lets him drop to the floor.

“Well that’s all she wrote,” mutters Watson Entwissle. He gives Sevastra some morphine sulfate IV and lays him down likely soon dead.


And then Al-Talleyrand  drops to the tarmac.

And that isn’t good because neurals link the firing of his neurons to a wireless signal which activates a launch code. And that is all he wrote.


“Fuck he’s warm and very dead,” shouts Maya checking his carotid.

“What!?” exclaims Watson.

“He’s infarcted. He has no pulse.” And Adon gets Al-Talleyrand ’s cuffs off and begins CPR.”    “GET THE FUCKING JUMP BAG!” Maya yells to Lt. Cohen.

And if there ever was a mega code this was it. But they’re all medical professionals. Though other than Dr. Kay all they’ve done for two years was kill, and kill some more.

And Solomon intubates him, and Cohen gets the monitor on him, and Entwissle takes over CPR, and Adon gets a 16 gauge line in the right AC, and Kay sets up the Vasopressin, and the monitor says ventricular fibrillation, and they shock him at 200 joules, and more CPR, and they shock him at 200 joules, and more CPR, and 40 units of Vaso go in; and then 300 mg of Amiodarone go in, and the CPR and ventilations continue, and they hit him with EPI 1:10,000, and shock a third time at 200 joules. And holy shit. He’s got a pulse. Thank god. Nuclear holocaust adverted, and they get cold fluids in him and they raise Commander DeBuitléir on the radio.


And they package Talleyrand  and hold tight. And Adon has blood all over his uniform, and Moishe Cohen can’t find his kippa. And Maya is on the radio. Watson fires off the blue and red flares to signal the helicopters for medevac.


And Yelizaveta takes Sebastian’s hand wrapped in blood bandages.


The dawn is breaking. And they’ve won. The battle is finally over. But all around them is black smoke and smoldering rubble and piles of bodies and the ghosts of friends that perished along the road to Zion.





Interim acting President of the Haitian Free State, Avinadav DeBuitléir looks into the broken eyes of his old friend and comrade, the pale officer Sebastian Adon.


These are eyes of a war torn tribe. It is unclear still when the rebel leader will eventually go to sleep. His eyes are pure green.


There are millions of bodies that have to be buried in mass graves outside of Port Au Prince. Before plague sets in. General Salva has moved the Second Army North in case the Egyptians decide not to fully remove their forces off Haitian soil.


Al-Talleyrand  is being held in Port Au Prince General Hospital under heavy guard.


Port-Au-Prince has finally been liberated. The revolutionary war in Haiti has been won.


The full extents of Al-Talleyrand ’s crimes are now clear to the world at large. News has arrived via the People’s Television Network and the Fire Station that thousands of arrests are being made in the U.A.S. They are rounding up our sympathizers across the nation real and imagined. We all watch the telescreen as they announce that the Breukland Soviet may be attacked any day now.


Many members of the club’s families have been seized and detained. Many of our friends and lover fell in the Battle’s for the Bronx and Goddess Soviet.


Again Adon’s head is shaved morning his scores of lost friends and comrades. Also the millions of lives the revolt has claimed so far. He has become quieter. At least for now.


Sebastian salutes President Avinadav DeBuitléir as he enters the chamber where the man has established his command just four hours into 22nd of Nivôse, just three hours after news of the collateral obliteration of the city’s population at the hands of the deposed regime.


“Completely unnecessary, old soul blood brother,” DeBuitléir tells him.

“Tomorrow you and what’s left of your detachment leave for Madeira Island?”

“Such is our plan.”

“Do you have any new news of your families’ locations?”

“Not yet. Thousands have been put into detention camps. The only free states left standing on the East coast are Breuklyn and Atlanta.”


“There is a very high price on your head old friend. And no one, not anyone wants you taken alive.”


“My skin has been made thick here Avinadav, but we are not short of friends as you know. They’ve arrested our families to punish us for what we organized. The U.A.S. Federals have attacked our city and burned our homes twice this year unsuccessfully.”


“Tell me anything you require and I will get it to you. Don’t be rash. Let the smoke clear and we can send you back with men and arms and the support of a new nation.”


“I am no longer sure I am welcomed by this club you speak of. I think all of us will have to answer to our own community on what has transpired here. We must now expedite our return. To secure our city. And rescue our families. ”


“We welcome you here forever. You and your club will be hunted when you leave Haiti. You will be hunted, captured and handed over to your government to face charges as master terrorists. The world calls now for still more blood, you and your Otriad are marked.”

“Still, tomorrow we leave indirectly for home turf.”

“You will sleep here tonight?”

“No sleep ‘til Breukland Avinadav, it’s kind of the survivor’s song these days. Our warriors must not abandon our kin to that alien land.”

“I expected no different reply from you Sebastian. My generals want me to impart that if you decide to remain here in Haiti we will grant you all full pensions and positions in the Provisional government. But I have told them you are zealots and will return to Breukland.”

“You understand why of course?”

“I know of what cloth you and your columns are cut, yes. We will await your return.”

“The Rabbinate in Breukland has called us the bringers of catastrophe. Most global media outlets call us the Abu Nidal Cult of Adon. My parents are in hiding. My brother is under arrest in the Russian Federation,” he doesn’t go on.

“Your god, our god I should say, will not abandon you Mr. Adon. And my people will never, ever forget what you and your Otriad have done here.”

“I hope you are correct. Fidel Castro said history would absolve him. It didn’t and I have ten thousand times the blood on my hands.”

The two men sit across from each other. Sebastian in normal tradition would fire up a Noblisse cigarette, but he’s run out.

He finally just quit.

“When you bring your people up out of bondage you will be welcomed here like conquering kings. My people will learn to survive as your people have, by embracing your faith in humanity, your endless well of hadar and your fascinating ability to uphold unity,” he utters.

“I have lost much of my faith my dear comrade.”

“But, you still carry fire.”

“Much to my woman’s chagrin.”

“Which woman,” he laughs, “I was surprised to hear she permits you to head so flagrantly toward certain death or capture.”

“I am surprised I do so little to act like a man in more love.”


“You believe in the struggle as if it were love,” notes Avinadav DeBuitléir, “that doesn’t make it love.”


The now 35 year old Sebastian Adon and the hundred-handful of surviving fighters prepare to re-enter the now highly militarized post-coup United American States to rescue their families as the newly elected President Avinadav DeBuitléir, a survivor of the genocide adopts the UN Declaration of Human Rights as the charter for Dar Zion the new name of what was once called Haiti. He separates religion from state and opens the doors of his newly un-recognized country to Iraqis, Persians, Afghanis, Sand Gypsy, Philistinians and Israeli fleeing the wastelands and war zones that are now their respective countries.


The world’s governments are moving toward full containment.


Night falls and it is Rosh Hashanah, the dawn of a New Hebrew year. The surviving members of the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club cross the Atlantic from Madeira Island on a Polidoro Industries container ship crashing through black waters for the coast of Breukland. The ship has a naughty black mermaid on its side. Hugh O’Domhnaill looks out into nothing, the black blue stormy abyss. Mickhi Dbrisk is smoking a cigar on the deck with his cousin the Bajan General Magnus Allamby and Watson Entwissle contented that Sebastian is finally asleep in the cabins below. The four commanders are joined by Moishe Cohen who everyone has nicknamed “the bad rabbi” who was once a Lt. in the F.D.N.Y. before he joined the rebels. He passes them two small loaves of bread, and they remember what to do because they did it once in Brighton Beach with Sebastian what seemed like a life time ago.

The five men toss crumbs into the water for sins which each committed in the war. They make their tashlik together as perhaps some Hebrew god codifies the things to come and amends which must now be made as the book of life cracks open yet again.

The waves crash against the hull. It is a lullaby to these weary men made violent.

Yelizaveta is not with them. She has been asked to serve as an attending Physician of Hadar Hospital, what was once the Port Au Prince General Hospital. Maya Solomon is not with them either. She is leading the armies in the North against the armies of Egypt who have treacherously invaded to claim oil they didn’t bleed for.

Sebastian had asked Yelizaveta to stay there and attempt to wait for him. She promised nothing. Maya doesn’t ask anyone anything. But she has seen the world to come.


That evening as their remaining men; the survivors of the Fighting 99th bordered the aircraft to the rebel base on Madeira Island Dr. Kay wept just a little.


She cries with a measure of cruel nobility over a letter Sebastian wrote her long ago on the 6th of Brumaire, a year before that most terrible blizzard.




I believe only strangers can present to each other honest opinions or accomplish together great works. In my line of work which is to say ambulancing, art making, and war, to parlay Palahniuk, ‘life is one of single serving friends’. That is to say the incredible honesty of strangers is routine. Your friends will tell you what is in your interest, but not always what you need to hear. I think friend too is a term misused. I may know of you and you of me, but about each other we know precious little. I say all this as a preface. We are not always what we appear. I do not like phone calls. I like to work with my hands to form ideas even. It is old soul what I propose, but I have an old soul. If I wrote you where you sleep would this offend? I would like us to write to each other the slow way, because it has more character. More hadar. You gave me your address once, but I have lost it about my houses. I will write you eloquent letters on large things if you will promise to attack them or critique them or put a stranger in his place. I dream one night the strangest dream my Yelizaveta dear. I dreamt from out a deep abyss, an endless mine and cave I crept towards the light and light soon found me. Squinting I heard whispers, which said that for me nothing is written. Indeed? I asked these whispers in a dreamy haze.


Ain Davar I respond, it is good to die for your people’s final freedom. With nothing apparently written I seek to write for you my open soul and sincere convictions.”


She finishes yet another letter to him, seals it with blue wax and the seal of Dar Zion and goes to sleep in her suite at the Imperial Palace. Her father had called earlier from Switzerland to chastise her for dispatching Kahn so quickly. Her husband, a funny word as there’s was something of a desert marriage, had lay in her arms the night before. It didn’t need to be said, but she said it “don’t tempt god.” She was not much of a true believer.

But after all this war, she doubts he can know peace.

“God grant him all the fucking luck he ever needs,” she whispers.

And God says she will.

A man like him could never quit, never retire, a man like him was almost impossible to love. If Maya was the promised messiah she’d gambled high with the lives of the Haitians. If Adon was a soldier; well most of his original army was dead and buried.

And what of Dr. Kay young Ms. Yelizaveta Kotlyarova, the third candidate from Sde Boker who also refused to die. Well she’d treat the patient and hold out while step by step her classmates moved to eradicate the disease.


That old epidemic called Raspizdia.


She finally, finally after all this fog and fire of war she cries. For her brave partisans and the terror unleashed now by what they’ve done and the future still being written by what the viewer and reader at home chose to do.


“Fight night to day and day to night, the burden of survival is that one must continue to pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living,” and that was all she wrote.







“We really have to separate them completely. They do that every single drill,” notes Tiputti Capois in Haitian Creole.


The steam from the bathes rolls throughout the cavernous bunker of the Sde Boker Medical Outpost, “the third temple” deep in the mountains of southern Haiti. Flashing LED lights and the clamor of heart monitors alerts the medical support staff and doctors on call that the candidates are coming out of hibernation.


“She’s so angry. He’s too caught in foolish unquestioning love. It’s a terrible look for a candidate either way,” says Nikholai Trikhovitch groggily overcoming the prolonged sedation of his parasimmualtion. He is handed a smoked Baboncourt on the rocks.


He’d tipped 4,000 Goude to make that happen expediently upon awakening against all medical advice.


Maya Solomon nods in relative agreement as she helps Nikh climb out of the chemical bath and into a soft grey robe. They’ve been in stasis for three long months. Even with the neurostimulants and calcium aggregators their muscles are very weak.


“You all set some new records in there,” notes Dr. Michelle Kaku sweetly in her best Haitian Creole.


The caverns of “the third temple”, as the villagers above call it are massive. There is a veritable honey comb of medical stasis bathes installed in long rows. The set up allows parasimulations with up to 1,200 participants, although this round was only run with just eighty four candidates due to its projected mental toll and extended duration.


The Haitian Emergency Medical Corps paramedics and nurses are running physical exams across the floor, helping the eighty eight candidates into recovery pods. Taking vitals, offering encouragement and passing out robes, and protein-mango smoothies. In the case of Nikholai Trikhovitch, getting himself another drink.


Standing before them is Instructor Coordinators Mikhail Mastrovitch and Abner Kreminizer as well as Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir himself. All men who never waste any time.


Avinadav addresses all assembled in the Third Temple.


“Everyone, everyone! Much congratulation is in order. This was one of the best simulation runs so far. We all fought like hell and it has made quite an impression on President Aristede, Defense Minister DeBuitléirs (his wife) and the Eighteenth Congress most generally. You gave us three months in real time, but I know to most of you it felt like ten whole vile years! We were going to cut it shorter, but the data was just too goddamn real, you’ve given us names, logistical hubs, bank out account numbers, predicative movements nuclear launch codes even digging into the minds of the enemy. So we’re all off, soon as you all are vetted to Port-Salud right after 48 hours of medical evaluation. You friends are going to get six months of R & R, right in time for Karnival Season. You performed very well this round brothers and sisters, we believe that now we have the elements in place to assure victory over the Oligarchy. The President himself thanks you for your trying and terrible commitment yet again to the people of Haiti and surely the world at large. We’re going to put you up in some swanky safe houses and give you six whole months to get fat, tantric, tan and sated before we throw you back in the bathes again. The Command Orders have been issued by the Eighteenth Congress. Based on the data from this simulation, we are officially moving into Phase Four. If you agree to it and sign the new contracts you will be lithiated after your break and sent under again. To run the same scenario from the top. This time with no guns. No bullets. No weapons of any kind.”


Everyone in the bunker clamors with excitement and the room erupts in cheering and embrace. Phase Four is what they’ve been drilling and training for all this time, for nearly 300 years. The end of the world system and the defeat of the oligarchy.


“We’re going to let you play hard then we take it again from the top. After the successful completion of the Fourth Phase Trials the simulations are over and you will be carrying out the blue print of the New Social Gospel on the African Continent in real time. Real stakes. Real Victory. The Nation is rooting for you and so is the world.”


“It’s time to bring the revolution of 1804 to its final fruition. L’union fait la force!” bellows Avinadav DeBuitléir the founder of the Z.O.B. and a major leader of the militant human right movement.

Emma Solomon lights up a Noblisse Standard, knowing that the flesh is finite but her old soul is infinite.


L’ Union fait la force!” she yells and salutes the candidate fighters emerging from the bathes. A grand orgasmic battle cheer. And all jump to casual attention.


The end is pretty goddamn nigh.


Everyone is waiting for what Emma Solomon the Messiah is about to say.


“Death to the Oligarchy and long live humanity free,” she proclaims.


L’union fait la force!” we all bellow together.


“This is not a war to the death,” she declares, “and we are not prepared to die without our children being brought forth into first into Zion. The Oligarchs are scared, they know that we have magic, and weapons and outnumber them a seven billion to one. They know that the people are now awake. They know we have operating bases in every city, every village every plantation. They have brutalized our people, they have hit our families to defeat our will. What began on this island will soon be at the gates of London, Washington, Beijing and Moscow. The Vietnamese said they would fight generation by generation. Every effort on earth to genocide the Haitians has failed. You my sisters and brothers will not have to wait a generation to see the liberation times. Its 5 minutes to nation time, their age is over. We have survived the night and will now hit them with everything we have in the morning.”


And such were the words of our G-ds chosen candidate to deliver us from the evil and greed of man.

And all in the bunker we break into Partisan song.





















Ⱥdon to Natasha.



[1] A company typically has 100 to 200 soldiers, and a battalion is a combat unit of 500 to 800 soldiers. Three to five battalions, approximately 1,500 to 4,000 soldiers, comprise a brigade. A division is a large military unit or formation, usually consisting of between 10,000 and 20,000 soldiers. In most armies, a division is composed of several regiments or brigades; in turn, several divisions typically make up a corps.

[2] What is Sodium Phophate…

[3] Grozny is the Capital of Chechnya, the southernmost state of the Russian Federation which attempted to separate in 1994. Between 1994-2010, over 270,000 people lost their lives and Grozny was twice raised to the ground.

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