Republica's Desert

1. What Will Today Bring?

“Those in pain get used to pain. This is a difficulty of war. One of many paradoxical difficulties we face on a daily basis. A gentle touch is needed. Especially when re-introducing peace.”—The Leader of Free Nations

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It is cold in the desert on this empty night. Winds whistle across the dunes in a vortex crossing more miles than one can imagine. But oh does it visit every corner of these lands without discrimination, corruption or the perverse lust for blood. The same surely can’t be said for the countless men and machines, covered in dust and rust, who maneuver their way from target to target. Only to be greeted again, and again, by the wind who grows ever more disappointed in their actions. 

That is the life out here. And has been at least since the year 1972 if you ask the average scholar living as far away from here as humanly possible. Ask a local and you would hear a vastly different number—not that anyone does. At least no one who is busy enough travelling with or against the wind from objective to objective, called out to them from across the skies through the correctly assigned frequency. Visitors of the Afri Proxica, or Africa which most seem to conveniently forget, are the latest form of international neo-colonialism.

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On these lands with dunes and mountains stretching across and beyond the horizon, the wealth seekers from even further beyond have gathered for one common goal: claiming what’s to claim. And claiming what’s not to claim while they’re at it. 

When we look at these monolithic piles of sand softly morphing in the wind we tend to, for a moment, forget about the incentives present on these lands. But rest assured, government officials of the Free Nations and the One State sure haven’t. 

Diamonds, sugar, salt, gold, iron, cobalt, uranium, copper, bauxite, silver, petroleum, natural gas, cocoa beans, and tropical fruit all make up the geopolitical grocery-list that fuels each and every conflict on these lands. With the last one, tropical fruit, being the it-item for the civilised nations pointing the guns and caressing the button that makes things go boom. But the wind can make us forget that, for a moment. Looking out across the dunes it becomes apparent that mankind in all their efforts of destruction, only make up a negligible pinch of what’s out there. 

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With pockets of moonlight so strong that they are shining through the clouds, a moving pattern illuminates the landscape. Not a single body to be found. Not a single destroyed humvee, crashed stealth aircraft or carpet bombed military facility in sight. At least not for another unimaginable stretch of land until we’re back to the horrors of contemporary warfare. The natural gradient of destruction can be visualized quite effectively. One gradually progresses from nature that is left at bay, to small glimpses of war such as few oddly left out bodies. Usually oscillating between a state of being covered with sand and a state of being revealed by the winds. Assumingly in an attempt to remind those unfortunate enough to witness what shameful practices are staining the continent. 

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But just as surely as garbage accumulates across the surface of the ocean, death accumulates across the Afri Proxica in a continuously higher concentration. From the singular scattered bodies we start seeing the mechanical wastelands of military equipment imported from across the seas, often ironically abandoned by bodies as infrastructure to relocate them is plentiful in these parts. 

The gradient darkens once the first active zones of conflict are reached, progressively concentrating from outskirts to settlements, to cities and back down until it reaches unstained nature again. Each of these zones will be visited numerous times by the soldiers, refugees and occasional unfortunate journalists. 

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With time as fleeting as it is, it’s important to appreciate whatever there is to appreciate. Even if that simply is the whistling song of the wind across unstained dunes accompanied by a dance of moonlight without a sign of death to be seen. 

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One enjoys what can be enjoyed, as the reality of things is sometimes so complex and wrapped in a sitcom unravelling of consequences that undoing the somber present that has become is as much an intellectual exercise of the highest order, as it requires execution of the lowest banality and common sense man can get. 

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All this while, the greatest armed robbery continues. With the talent of a diplomatic negotiator and the attitude of a motivated stick-up kid, the Afri Proxica has quite literally been held at gunpoint. By whom exactly requires an extensive history lesson that is as never-ending as this conflict feels to those living the raw reality in the flesh. Nevertheless, the Free Nations and the One State are quick to blame one another for the atrocities happening around these lands. What has happened before is always used to justify the present. And there is always before. Before I did this, you did that. But before I did that, you did this. 

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At least both parties agree with one thing. Conflict is expensive. So perversely expensive that to express it in Talent is virtually impossible. 3.64 Trillion Talent however is the number that has been estimated to work its way through the economy simply from the trade of natural resources extracted from Afri Proxica. The greatest armed robbery in the history of contemporary consciousness. Something to think about. 

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In the meantime it seems brighter outside. The night in the Sudanese desert is making way for a new day. The darkness of the dunes is leaving us. A mechanical hum is heard clashing with the peaceful whistles of the wind. Distant, but getting louder. Man-made and recognisable by anyone living in the Afri Proxica. It’s the sound of metal sheets slashing through the air at 220 meters per second. It happens every morning around the same time. 

The approach of a Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk is the deflowering of a new day of conflict. No lights turned on inside, other than small security LEDs spread throughout the aircraft. From here the sounds of the 4-core titanium rotors are borderline deafening. As if two jet-engines were having a continuous conversation above your head. 

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That is what bothered him most about these daily helicopter rides. Noise and vibrations beyond what should be experienced by the average human would surely wake him up. But trying to concentrate on the soft hum coming from the ceiling fan and dissecting it from the sound of the rotors was a true exercise in hearing precision. With every minute that passes, the night outside makes its way and reveals more of the quickly passing desert dunes. 

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He is rubbing his palms on his knees, getting in some friction between his gloves and pants. A slight nervousness coming from months of hindsight. Him and his FNPF squad know the bullets whizzing by so well they might be considered extended family. When, and most definitely not if, a rocket-propelled grenade strikes near you mere inches away from its lethal radius—its shockwave will shake your internal organs as if being centrifuged. None of what makes up his job is particularly pleasant. Nothing other than seeing the glimpses of hope in the faces of civilians freed from a zone of conflict. One zone at a time. But the real work of peace-bringing is not his privilege. A special regiment within the FNPF which includes medics, negotiators, enablers and a much more soft-spoken approach is responsible for that. No, he is much better equipped at clearing house. Too good for his job so to speak. Most days he wishes he was helping out in a different manner, but the front-lines are his home for now. And so it is for each and every member of his squad. Grown into brothers to him, they would all protect each other to their final drop of blood in their bodies. 

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Next to him sits Staff Sergeant Thierry Ngassa, who joined the FNPF from Cameroon after seeing no end to the conflicts in Afri Proxica. This man is held dear by all in the squad and takes great pride in being Crew Chief of the Black Hawk. When anything is off with the helicopter, this is the man who will take care of it. And for that reason one can always see the crew chief sitting straighter than each and every one of them, staring straight to the front cock-pit, glancing from left to right and back again, ensuring everything is going smoothly. 

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In the relatively spacious cockpit are the pilot and co-pilot. Both wearing a PNVS integrated helmet and looking deep into the bright night. The two joyous men, as seen conversing on a separate channel over their headsets, are often in a mood so light that they may be the only ones truly with their heads in the sky. With so many years of experience flying, nobody really remembers how many, it is easy to imagine their relative confidence and light heartedness. The pilot is captain Azman Rahim, 37 years old while most would give him mid 20s, a man from Malaysia who has seen his fair share of international conflict. A captain with trust in the Moral Code and who will be sure to get his squad in and out of the hairiest situations. The co-pilot is Lieutenant Marco Fiore, a true Italian born and raised in Sirmione, or as he would say “close to Milano”. 

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Outside the cockpit, in the somewhat different configuration of seats from usual are three more men, all sitting across from him. From left to right they are Specialist Arif Hasan, a grenadier from Bangladesh wearing thick spectacles and flipping through his field notebook, one thing you can always catch Arif doing in the early hours of the morning. Next to our grenadier sits Specialist Musa Okello, who is an Automatic Rifleman that joined the cause from Uganda earlier last year. A man of few words and many smiles. Softly gripping the bottom of the metal seats, Musa has never gotten over altitude sickness in the morning helicopter journeys. But once boots touch the sand, one can always count on this AR SPC. 

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Finally, sitting right in front of him is a man with his eyes closed, Daan Korhonen, a Private First Class rifleman who is joining from Finland. The youngest man or recent graduate from teenage academy, Daan is a 20 years old Free Nations Peace Force operative who has left everything behind in the Free Nations for creating a better future for those in Afri Proxica. What exactly has he left behind? Everything. What that everything is, continues to be a mystery amongst the squad. But everything, we’ll leave it at that. 

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“Sergeant.” He heard as a radio-static voice pierced through the jet-engine conversation and the soft ceiling fan. “We’re approaching fire, to our right side.” 

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He is Sergeant Lloyd Griffiths and has been with the FNPF for 4 months. Tasked to keep an eye out on the boys, he is the Squad Leader of FNPF C8, going towards important zones of conflict in the Sudanese desert by helicopter and jumping head first into fiery combat with the Militia Brava de Companie to secure and conquer back zones for rehabilitation. 

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The General Council of the Free Nations stated that they are there to aid the Afri Proxica through a gradual transition into peace while infusing the new generation with the Moral Code. To Griffiths that all sounded nice and dandy, except for this so-called gradual transition. “Who was in charge of deciding how gradual peace should come?” He often thought, mostly to himself, and honestly to any member of the C8 that was willing to give him the room for thought. 

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Griffiths looked up to see Captain Rahim’s silhouette against the cockpit pointing his finger towards the right. Specialist Okello leans over Karhonen, pushing both him and his rifle that is comfortably parked in between his legs out of the way, to get a better look at what’s to come outside the window. Sergeant Griffiths knows what’s to come, no need to look out of the window. It is all too common in Afri Proxica. Small factories for the production of bullets, explosives and directly required supply to the local Militia Brava de Compagnie pop up about as fast as they are destroyed. Sometimes even destroyed by the militias themselves as the front of conflict is moving elsewhere… 

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