The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 1 - The Visit

Bukavu, The Zone
Summer, 2046



The town of Bukavu interrupted their local activities to bear witness to an unusual sight. The town was visited by an armored technical, two trucks and a bus that could best be described as the poor man’s limousine. The emblem of the Global Liberation Army was emblazoned on the doors and hoods of the vehicles, and one could see a bearded man looking out the window of the bus – but they didn’t. The locals knew that if you eyed the wrong man he’d burn down your house, kidnap your children and teach you not to do that mistake again, but not kill you. No, the GLA rarely if ever kill citizens without reason, instead preferring to instruct them on how to be a proper man in the Zone. Such happened to the city of Goma on the other side of Lake Kivu, as they refused to submit to the GLA. Instead of burning them down, the GLA respected their valor and allowed them to live on as a free city-state of sorts, as long as they don’t ally themselves with one of the superpowers controlling Africa.

In fact, the Zone could best be described as neo-feudalist: Sulaymaan is the king, and the local warlords and leaders under his command are the nobles. Each overlord has their own personal army that they are free to do as they wish with, but never to betray their own. Interestingly, Sulaymaan’s closest commanders, Abdul bin Yusuuf and Tahar Ibrahiim, are not nobles. They are effectively part of Sulaymaan’s own army, known as the ‘classic GLA’, while the nobles are part of the ‘new GLA’. This command structure has laid the basis for Sulaymaan’s dream of a ‘GLA nation’, a sovereign state free of laws, corruption, and those snide snakes calling themselves the East and the West.

Quite ironically, before the GLA arrived the Central Africans would fear them as they listened to news reporting on their conquests across the Middle East, their bloody revolutions in North Africa and their invasion of Europe, but when they actually came down to the Congo just seven years ago those pillaging marauders they had heard about where nowhere to be seen. Now they were led by another man named Sulaymaan, who imposed his own order on the rainforest. His philosophy was a strange mix of fanaticism and anarchism, allowing you to live as you like but always regard him as your supreme overlord, never submitting to anyone else. Some would say the GLA actually improved on life in Central Africa, as before they arrived their governments were ripe with corruption, terrorists (unaligned with the GLA) rampaged around and the living conditions were absolutely awful. Sulaymaan and his army tried to improve on infrastructure and civilian services on the basis that the population would stay instead of fleeing. Now of course there is the savage mercenary having his way with a woman or a technical gunner opening fire because he’s drunk, but those things don’t happen as often as outsiders think. If you’re strong enough, or simply look strong enough, the GLA would leave your family be, maybe even recruit you.

Such a thing would come to happen with Baji Akinwe, an engineer and mechanic living in Bukavu. Baji had lived in the Democratic Republic of the Congo his entire life, and earned himself a Master’s Degree in Engineering at the University of Kinshasa twenty years ago. He moved to Bukavu to take care of his elderly mother, who died several months later. Baji has come to respect the GLA, not the new GLA or the fanatics calling themselves the GLA, but the old GLA under Mohmar Deathstrike. They had the courage to stand up to tyranny, oppression and imperialism that the United States, Europe and China were spreading around the world – although that might be his idealized vision of a good world talking. But that doesn’t mean he likes them, quite contrary: He respects the GLA, but also loathes their actions, believing they would do much better as a political movement rather than terrorist organization. But he would never admit that, because if you do, well…

The armored caravan carried none other than the top man himself, Anwar Sulaymaan. For several months now he had been traveling around eastern Congo actually looking for intelligent people, not brutes. He was smart, that one: He knew that sooner or later the GLA would be destroyed either from the inside or the outside, and the savage army of brutes that aligned themselves with Sulaymaan wasn’t enough to survive. He needed brains, much more so than brawns, and as such recruited the most intelligent people he could locate according to ID files taken from the former capital of the Congo. Rolling down the cobblestone streets until they reached the garage of Baji. The technical parked in the middle of the street, while the two trucks unloaded professionally-geared warfighters – Sulaymaan’s personal bodyguards. The bus rolled onto the dirt driveway, and Baji peered out the window of his little abode.

“Eli, stay inside, I’ll see to this.” Baji said to his little brother, Eli Akinwe, before he stepped outside to greet the visitors. The armored side door of the bus slid open and out stepped two additional warfighters and a man with a big beard, Sulaymaan. Realizing who it is, Baji stopped in his path and immediately dropped to the ground, kneeling like a medieval knight meeting the king. But Sulaymaan just laughed.

“O rise, my brave knight of the round table, thy valor is honored,” he said while making a rising motion with his hand.

“You… you’re General Sulaymaan, the one! The only!” Baji said with astonishment.

“Now, now, just because I happen to lead the GLA doesn’t make me a general. I am better than that rank. I am an emperor.”

“Of course, my emperor, of course.” Baji clenched his right fist and put it over his heart, like he’s heard the ancient Roman generals did when they met Caesar.

“I have been told you are the most competent mechanical and electrical engineer in the region, and I do have use of any engineers I can find.” Sulaymaan stretched out his arms. “I welcome you into the fold of the Global Liberation Army, the just ones, as we create a truly independent nation in central Africa.”

Baji was out of words. He knew the GLA needed weapons developers but he had no idea they would come for him, not in a million years. At that moment a thousand things went through his head. Should he accept their offer? What if he refuses? Will they kill him then? Could he live with serving the most notorious terrorist in the world? What should he have for dinner? Did he check is car’s tires yesterday like he planned? Baji was caught in a storm of thoughts before he subconsciously blurted out “Ok.”

“Excellent! My empire is in dire need of new and better combat vehicles, I mean, look what I ride around in: An old bus! Does that even compare to the armored war machines of the Americans or the Chinese?”

“But, sir, the GLA is known for the extensive collection of homemade tanks and APCs – aren’t those powerful enough?”

“Those mechanical monstrosities? We had plenty of them during the reign of Mohmar, but the few that are left are under my command. They may look tough but comparing them with the vehicles of our enemies is like comparing a sports car to a bicycle. You are a master engineer! You and many others will be the backbone of our new military-industrial complex! Another building block for our nation. I believe, with the resources at our disposal and already large industrial base of the former Republic, we can field an army that will make those imperialist dogs run like the cowards they are!”

“Could we really become a true nation? Powerful enough to challenge our enemies? My own city, we are led by the former mayor – he erected a statue in your honor, but he is incompetent. My leader, I would gladly serve as your master engineer.” Baji didn’t know what he was saying. He was really swearing loyalty to the biggest mass murdered this side of… well, anywhere! Was it out of fear of getting killed right then and there, protection of his little brother, who was peering out the window in curiosity, or did he really want to help the terrorists in his subconscious? Either way, Baji couldn’t say another word before Sulaymaan clapped him on his shoulder and was off again, leaving behind a guard to watch over him until the armored truck that would take him away arrived.

“Oh sweet Mary… what have I gotten myself into?”

*****
Just a little story of mine I was thinking about during a boring class in school. Hope you like it, part two will come some time next week, month, year, I don't know. Okay, hopefully not next year...

The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 2 - Of Wolves and Warlords

Bukavu, The Zone
Summer, 2046



Baji slowly moseyed into his home. His curious fourteen-year old little brother asked him straight away “Who was that, Baji?”

The words couldn’t leave his mouth for the first few seconds before he said “Sulaymaan. A bad guy.”

“What did the bad guy want?”

“Me.”

“Why did they want you?”

“My skills are valuable to them.”

“Will we leave Bukavu?”

“I believe so.”

Baji had to sit down. He needed to go over the decision he’s made. Outside the window he could see the balaclava-wearing Arab watching over the street, but also them, keeping a close eye on Baji and his brother. Baji frowned. These mongrels act so innocent in front of you but as soon as you look the other way they reveal their true nature, he thought. Maybe… just maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. Sulaymaan really did seem like he was serious in building his nation. God, what did I say? ‘My emperor’? What was going through my head? I must’ve been too shocked to say anything else, like ‘Go to hell you pathetic barbarian’. What if he takes me to his capital, what was it called? ‘Pandemonium’? Funny name for a capital. Was it somewhere in the jungle? I do ever wonder what happened with Kinshasa. Did they burn the city to the ground? Sounds like something they would do anyway.

“Will the GLA come and take us away? Where?” his brother suddenly interrupted his train of thought.

“I… I don’t know, Eli. Maybe somewhere in the jungle, to a factory of some kind.”

“Will we live there?”

“Possibly. I believe they will take good care of us since Sulaymaan I was a great asset to them. I guess anything is better than getting abducted, right?”

Meanwhile in former Rwanda

Sulaymaan was looking at his clipboard. On there stood the names of every man with a PhD from Gabon to Mozambique. He gently tapped his pencil on Baji Akinwe and thought: Another engineer, another battalion. At this rate we’ll have our very own science division within the summer. Sulaymaan was a smart man, but not smart the usual sense of the term. He knew how to handle himself in sticky situations, something he learned from his father fighting in the insurgencies of the old Iraq wars. But as smart as he was he wasn’t very physically strong. He could barely fight the recoil of an AK-47 – but that’s nothing he would ever admit. Yes, his subordinates mostly believe he has only rose through the ranks of the GLA thanks to his wits alone, which allowed him to become the right-hand man of Warlord Mohmar himself. He could strike a deal with the devil and double-cross him the very next moment, completely unharmed. He was also very good at inspiring, not as much as Yusuuf or Ibrahiim perhaps but he has his moments. While Mohmar would use religious fervor to inspire the minds of his followers, Sulaymaan took a more direct approach, showing them what life could be like if they pledged allegiance to him.

Sulaymaan wasn’t very religious himself, which is one of the reasons the new GLA is a rather secular entity. If anything, he would be a deist; god created the universe but then just forgot about it, leaving humanity to itself. He believes he is the master of his own fate, he is the master of his destiny and no-one can dictate it but himself. Survival of the fittest, that’s what he believed in, and to survive you need to be strong – but strong is such a loose term. It could mean a lot of things; strength in physical fitness of course, but also strength in the mind. That is how Sulaymaan survives – he is smarter than everyone else. And right now, he needed more smarts than strengths.

“Sir,” his driver said, “we are coming up on Kigali.”

The former capital of Rwanda, now a city-state ruled by an estranged oligarchy thanks to the brutal conquests of Abdul bin Yusuuf, would be the industrial capital of Sulaymaan’s empire. It is not the biggest, richest or most important city in the Zone, but it is the biggest city closest to the East African Federation. And he knew that if they spied on his new industrial city, they would lose their shit.

“All right, thanks Mosé,” Sulaymaan replied, still fixating on his clipboard.

The armored caravan entered the city, decorated with green flags, graffiti praising the GLA and people cheering in the streets. They feared if they did not have this, the GLA would destroy them. But Sulaymaan ignored them, instead checking over his documents stolen from Kinshasa. He didn’t really care if people ignored him, just as long as they didn’t turn to someone else for help. This close to the border, you might think the East African Federation would do something, but they would not risk fighting a guerilla war in the jungle against the most relentless enemy they would ever encounter, instead opting to securing their own borders and hope the misplaced terrorists would leave them be. And Sulaymaan did. He practically admired the EAF, since they would stand up against the other superpowers and deny their assistance, preferring to do things on their own. He liked that. At least one country has some dignity left.

Sulaymaan’s caravan rolled into a large industrial facility, parking amongst hundreds of other armored civilian vehicles. Stepping out into the dusk, Sulaymaan was unexpectedly greeted by the Frenchman himself, Tahar Ibrahiim.

“Tahar!” he said, “Surprised to see you here, old friend.”

“Didn’t I tell you I was going down to Kigali last week?”

“No, I thought you were up in Juba for the next three months. But ah, come here Tahar, let us greet properly!” The two figures shook hands and hugged. “I assume you are here to kick start these old factories up into action?” Sulaymaan asked before they walked inside.

“I am indeed; if we are to bring up a major production line we are going to need everything in working condition before the scientists arrive. I have already made some preliminary tests so that the security system, every door, lamp and such works fine, and it did – after some minor tinkering. I was surprised to see the Rwandans left these factories in such a good shape after the majority of their people fled. If I were them, I’d bomb them to destruction.”

“Ah, do not give them any ideas now!”

“I think it would be too late for that!”

The two commanders continued to chat while their escort was carefully watching every nook and cranny of the ironclad structure. The personal guard of the top 3, as they were known, were all elite fighters from the days of the original GLA… the original, original GLA that is – the militia Mohmar joined all the way back in 1993. It was collectively known as the inner circle, although Mohmar would detest that term. It made them seem like an underground, western resistance movement inspired by old Bond movies and conspiracy fiction, when in truth the GLA was an army, an actual organization and not some afternoon youth club. Surprisingly, the thing Mohmar disliked about his enemies the most was how they called him and his followers; “rebels”. Sure, they did rebel against authority on multiple occasions, but the popular image of a rebel movement is unorganized rabble whose single unifying trait is their common foe. The GLA were much more than that. They were an idea, a network, and an empire – their borders stretched from Kazakhstan to Iraq, and now from Mozambique to Cameroon. It took the combined force of three- no, four superpowers to bring them down. If that’s what the media call a “rebel movement” then the media is nothing more than a high school newsletter.

Several days later

It was early in the morning and Baji and his brother were awoken by a loud banging on their door.

“Come on, wake up!” the knocker said, “It’s time to go!”

With haste, Baji got dressed and grabbed his already-prepared traveling case, but he was stopped at the door.

“What is that?” the guard asked, pointing at the case.

“It… it is my suitcase, why?”

“Can’t have that.” The guard took the case from Baji and tossed it away without batting an eye.

“Hey, I had all my books, my gear, my clothes in there!”

“And we are supposed to believe that? No, no, even if we searched it thoroughly you wouldn’t get to take it with you. You are part of Sulaymaan’s finest now, and we tell you what to do: What to eat, what to read, what to wear – that’s the life for those serving him directly. Just because you’ve got a fancy degree doesn’t mean we should treat you any better. Now get in the damn truck, both of you!”

Baji and Eli didn’t waste time and quickly hopped into the back of the old Ural truck waiting out on the street. With haste it drove away, an armored technical following closely behind. The machine gunner noticeably had its gun pointed at the back of the truck all the time, rather than to the sides or back. The trip to Kigali was short, but bumpy. The roads hadn’t seen much maintenance since all the construction crews split seven years ago, but the majority of cross-city travel happen with the GLA and their off-road vehicles now anyway. Regular cars keep it to the cities, who are being maintained by freelancers. Or slaves. Or both.

Slavery is an interesting topic. Remember those friends and loved ones taken away if you didn’t comply? That’s what happens with them. They remain slaves until you either comply or submit yourself, and even then there is no guarantee they will be returned. The GLA are able to maintain their empire through a large slave trafficking ring, where people are sold as basically everything: Workers, concubines, pleasurable company, entertainment – you name it. The slave population is actually rather small in comparison to prisoners and detainees of the United States and China. There are millions of people still living in the Zone, but only a couple of hundred thousand slaves, most of which are the fabled GLA workers, ever-begging for their shoes. Sulaymaan believes slavery is flawed; you could get things done faster by threatening workers with death if they refuse to work, rather than force them to work in chains. Of course that would be pretty much synonymous with slavery, but the GLA usually lets people go once their done instead of throwing them in the pits again. But do not, ever, beg for your life if you are a slave: They will deem you weak and execute you on the spot. Just get through with it and then go home.

Baji and Eli weren’t alone in the truck; they were joined by five other people, only two of which seemed to be native Africans. The other three had pale skins, likely European or American scientists that had been left behind when the governments turned tail, or are here willingly for… some inexplicable reason. One of them also had a kid with him, and there was an armed guard standing in the front who’d shut someone up if they started talking. The trip lasted for about an hour before the bumpiness transitioned into smoothness. The truck never slowed down; it spearheaded through traffic, pushing anyone off the street that didn’t yield. Such was the custom of GLA vehicles; yield or die. After about ten more minutes the truck stopped.

“All right, everybody out!” the guard shouted, waving his rifle around.

Wasting no time everybody hopped out, one by one, and were greeted by even more armed guards outside. They were all searched thoroughly, even the two kids, before being led into the old industrial facility. Once inside, they were greeted by Sulaymaan and Ibrahiim.

“Welcome to the thunderdome, people!”

I like it. (There are a few grammatical errors, I forgot to mark where ) But it's a smooth easygoing read overall.
Haven't been around for a while, but I definitely miss these fanfics.

Are we going to get how it is inside the facility ? That is, is there still more to it ?

Thanks, Bee! Yeah of course - the next part will be up in a couple of days.

The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 3 - Pumping Iron

Kigali, The Zone
Summer, 2046



The facility oozed of old junk, kerosene, rusted metals and alcohol. It almost made Baji dizzy in the head, but he knew Eli couldn’t stand it. As much as he wanted too he couldn’t ask to move Eli to a more hospitable environment, since he wanted Eli in his sight at all times. Who knows what those dogs would do to him if they’d take him away? Sulaymaan raised his arms and began to speak.

“Gentlemen! You are standing on the edge of the future! With facilities like these, all around our empire, we could amass a superpower-level army in a year! With enough dedication and hard work, we shall be feared like no one has been feared before!”

One of the scientists slowly raised his hand and quietly asked: “Um, sir- Warlord, sir, if I may ask… Where would we get the resources? Armored combat vehicles need more than just metal, and even simple metal wouldn’t stand a chance against modern vehicle armor. I just don’t think-“

Before he could finish his sentence a guard knocked him cold with the butt of his rifle. Sulaymaan slowly paced over to him.

“Don’t take me for a fool. I know what constitutes a proper combat vehicle, and I have the resources for it. Never doubt my resolve; when I want something done, I get it done. Several years ago, the oh-so democratic Russian Federation had a presence in Sudan, Egypt and the territory once called South Sudan. There they had a base, known as Outpost Molotok, run by one of their most esteemed generals named Orlov. We assaulted that base, and we proved to the Russians how they had severely underestimated us. Unfortunately, one of Orlov’s friends arrived just several hours after our victory and slaughtered our fighters. But, before that we managed to salvage what remained of their weapons, and we brought them down here. Our weapons experts have conducted thorough analyses of Russian armor; we know its components, we know its alloys, we know everything we need to know to replicate it. That’s your task. You will replicate this armor, because we will need it. If there are any other resources required, all you need to do is ask. That’s not difficult, is it?”

Baji dared to open his mouth: “So, my leader, you want us to create a prototype combat vehicle, using salvaged Russian components, and bring it into mass production?”

“Yes.”

“Well that should be easy.”

Say what you want about Baji, but he is always up for a challenge. Back in Kinshasa, he and his engineering class had to create a robot that would be displayed at a local sports event as their college’s mascot. They were faced with several difficulties, mainly resources. The school was improperly funded and overestimated their students’ capabilities, but Baji and his class did it anyway. They repurposed parts from old vehicles, computers, tools and more, building a patchwork robot made from parts cannibalized from other technology. Sure it didn’t look pretty but it got the job done – one of Baji’s friends even programmed a simple AI that would respond to photographs and make a pose. Baji wondered whatever happened to that robot. ‘Gil’ they called it. Maybe it was destroyed. Baji had come to hear that the Global Liberation Army did a similar thing with most of their equipment, cannibalizing parts from foreign war machines and sticking them to their own. But it seemed Sulaymaan was expecting a proper combat vehicle this time, one that would make best use of the resources at hand.

“What will I do?” Eli suddenly asked.

“Don’t speak like that, Eli!” Baji responded. Sulaymaan laughed a bit and walked over to them.

“Now, now, little one, you are strong and capable, right?” Sulaymaan asked as he kneeled in front of Eli, “You can help your father. Or is it your brother? You share the same face, but with almost fifteen years between them of course. In this world, there is one thing you need to know: Good work makes good men. If you work hard, stay hard – in here – and you could wind up a commander one day!”

Baji frowned. He knew Sulaymaan was good at indoctrinating people, but Baji be damned if he was going to indoctrinate his brother. “Sulaymaan, sir – Eli can stay with me here at the factory. He can be my assistant.”

“Very well,” Sulaymaan rose, “I want full productivity out of you!”

“And you shall have it.”

Sulaymaan nodded in agreement. He walked over to Ibrahiim and spoke to him about something Baji couldn’t discern. Anyhow, they were now prisoners of the Global Liberation Army, even if it seemed they had a lot of freedom. Baji wondered why the other scientists were hear, what their stories wore. One of them also had a kid. Baji didn’t dare ask anyone about anything in fear of getting clubbed again. When the GLA made it down to the Congo after their disastrous defeat in North Africa, most of the natives turned tail and ran. Most spread across the borders into American-allied states such as South Africa, the East African Federation and even the PLA military dictatorships on the Horn of Africa. Any place was better than the GLA’s empire. Most of the wealthy elite were able to flee to South America or Asia, while the ones left behind were those incapable of fleeing, such as the old and weak, and sympathizers. The governments did put up a fight though, but most simply accepted defeat and fled simply in fear of the GLA. Most military cadres were assimilated into their army on the promise of a better future, but that might not have turned out in their favor. Now, larger cities not ruled by terrorist governors stand empty, such as Bangui, occasionally picked by scavengers and used as test ranges by the GLA.

Ingenious really, instead of using the larger cities as headquarters the GLA spread into the vast jungle, setting up hideouts and bases in widespread tunnel networks and caves. The jungle would protect them, because no superpower would dare face the wrath of environmentalists if they bombed or torched the precious rainforest to oblivion. Many animal species previously endangered managed to regain population numbers after the GLA arrived, and Sulaymaan has ordered the immediate execution of anyone harming the wilderness. The superpowers know the GLA is somewhere in there, but where exactly – no-one knows. One day a spy satellite spots an enemy camp, the next day it’s gone. Permanent mobility ensures victory.

Sulaymaan came back to the small group of scientists. “Very well – You will all be given personal rooms here in the factory, and I expect production to begin within this week. Before winter this year I want a fully working prototype of the best combat vehicle you can invent. Do not fail me. And, you may talk now.”

The scientists immediately began talking, first about what they were going to do then what they were going to invent. It was not like they had world-class resources at hand, but that could be solved with some ingenuity and creativity. After all, if some desert-dwelling terrorists could stand up against the combined forces of multiple superpowers for years, then anything would be possible.

You Sir, Deserve "The King Of Fanfiction" medal.

There are some strong contenders I'd consider are more worthy
Like Crusher and DerKrieger, for starters

I guess I love your writing style. Can't wait for the next part.

"And the new Marauder Tank must have a turret!"

Fantastic reads. I quite enjoyed it.

Why thank you!

Next part will be up in the coming days. Hopefully. Been too distracted playing Rise of the Reds.

very interesting read. I know Euro English and American English have some slight grammatical differences. But here it is perfectly fine.

Thanks, z741! I mostly use American english because... well Word says the British spelling is incorrect But hey here is the next part! I apologize for the rather unfitting image, I couldn't find anything better.

The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 4 - Tools for the Cause

Nyanga province, Gabon - United States FRO 'Parakeet'
Summer, 2046



Lieutenant-Colonel Andreas Markland stood atop the watchtower gazing out over the tropical rainforest with his binoculars, mouth half-open. He wasn’t really searching for something, he could just clear his mind easier by prying out over the horizon. For almost two years now Markland’s been in Africa. He was first relocated there after the rise in GLA incursion activity in ’44, and ever since they’ve kept a watchful eye on the border. It was in America’s best interests to keep the border safe and secure, because otherwise their client states will force them out. After staring meticulously for several minutes, he sighed and climbed back down. The forward reconnaissance outpost, call sign Parakeet, was set up as one of the many observation outposts on the border in Gabon.

Outpost Parakeet had been instructed to open fire on any people emerging from the jungle not flying American – or otherwise identifiable – flags. There had already been three incidents where civilians had been gunned down, but with the GLA, you never know if they might be terrorists in disguise. Markland’s train of thought would have continued if it wasn’t interrupted by a 7.62mm caliber bullet penetrating his skull and going through his brain, killing him in an instant. At that moment, a band of GLA guerillas rushed out of the thick forest and let all loose on the lone outpost.

“Everybody kill anyone you see!” the GLA commander, one Gabriel Boutet, shouted to his fighters. “These American dogs must learn not to take our lands any longer!”

Gabriel Boutet was one of the few military leaders in the ranks of the GLA hailing from the western world. He was from Belgium originally, and his upbringing was not the prettiest to say the least. You know the usual story: Childhood trauma coupled with tyrannical governments pushed him in the wrong direction and as the GLA appeared in Hamburg in 2028 he took the liberty to hitch a ride with them, following them to North Africa and joining their ranks. Since then he had served under General Tahar Ibrahiim, the Frenchman, since he was more tolerant of westerners, especially those rejecting their native governments and joining the ranks of the liberators.

The bullets whizzed by as the American garrisoned scrambled to defend their outpost. Within minutes the chain-link fence was broken and GLA fighters were storming in, machetes in hand. Despite their best efforts the American soldiers were cut down by the dozens, and even an up-armored Humvee failed to stop the terrorists’ advance. Gabriel spearheaded the charge, wielding a trusty AK-74 rifle; not the new plastic crap, but old and true wood and steel. He burned through three whole magazines in under a minute, but didn’t stop. As far as the GLA fighters knew they were just attacking yet another imperialist colony in their chosen land, but Gabriel had another mission, one from Warlord Sulaymaan himself. He was to acquire special technology linking to America’s widespread particle cannon network, as all outposts were connected to one so they quickly and easily burn the forest should an enemy force gather. But right now they had no time; the GLA was already there. They had to reach the uplink and disable it before the Americans got the idea to burn their own base.

“Go forth my warriors, don’t stop!” Gabriel shouted while raising a machete into the air. An American soldier managed to hit him straight in the shoulder, throwing him to the ground. Despite that, Gabriel shrugged it off and pushed forward. Outpost Parakeet had a Blackhawk, which tried to escape with the local commander. But out of nowhere a rocket-propelled grenade flew from the trees, hitting the helicopter right in its cockpit and sending it to the ground in a ball of fire as the GLA fighters cheered. After nothing more than twenty minutes, the Americans were in retreat, and the outpost was theirs. That’s how the GLA operated; swift and brutal strikes. “Everybody! We are victorious! The Americans are in retreat! The camp is ours!”

Gabriel and his second-in-command, a rather dim-witted mercenary assigned to him by Ibrahiim, entered the largest tent they could find, which was packed to the brim with computers and all sorts of fancy technology. The other fighters scavenged the American weapons and tested them out, but Gabriel wanted none of that. He may be fighting for the GLA, but that doesn’t make him one of them. The two carefully inspected every apparatus in the tent, and put yellow stickers on those that seemed worth scavenging. It turned out to be quite a lot, but every one of them was hauled out to a flatbed truck. The rest of the camp was doused with petroleum and set ablaze, after which the bandits disappeared into the jungle again.

Several hours later

Gabriel and the caravan arrived at a small GLA outpost deep in the Congo Jungle. These outposts were connected to the vast tunnel network that spread throughout the entire region. The original GLA under Mohmar had made limited use of tunnels, mostly natural caves often ending up supply caches across the mountains of Central Asia. Tunneling tactics has long been used by various guerilla armies such as the Viet Cong and Taliban, and it took American forces months if not years to scour all of the tunnels. It was an ingenious tactics, and some tunnels even proved impenetrable to the infamous ‘bunker buster’ bombs. When the GLA came to Central Africa, Sulaymaan took the tunneling idea and turned it up to eleven; using heavy machinery and a large slave work force, he dug tunnels all across the Congo, some miles in length. The tunnel network is divided into several districts of sorts with their own smaller systems, and are all connected by larger ‘transit-tunnels’. Sulaymaan also dug several additional tunnels that are empty to confuse foreign spies.

The truck packed with the American computers drove into a large storage tunnel while Gabriel disembarked to meet with his superior; General Ibrahiim.

“Ibrahiim!” Gabriel said in his native French as the toxic general stepped out of his camouflaged tent. “I’d say this week’s catch was a big one, we got several computers and technology I don’t even recognize, but the biggest victory was this.” Gabriel guided Ibrahiim to another truck with only one apparatus on its flatbed; a particle cannon uplink. “This small computer can connect to the entire American superweapon system! They have probably locked us out of the loop already, but that’s nothing we can’t crack right?”

“Very excellent, Gabriel,” Ibrahiim said as he inspected the super-computer, “Sulaymaan will be pleased with this for his new project.”

“New project?”

“You haven’t been informed? Sulaymaan wants to build his nation, and one requirement for nations is a stable industry and production facilities. He wants to kick-start these production facilities by building a fully functioning armored tank, right here in the Zone. Not some hunk of scrap or repurposed civilian truck, an actual tank with electronics and everything. They are working on it right now in the east.”

“Sounds interesting. So that’s why you wanted me to only take electronics? Because there were a lot of good firearms in that outpost.”

“Right now technology is more important than firepower. I would rather live here than any other nation where the Man looks down on you, but even I have to admit it could be better. Look around you! We live in the mud! Sulaymaan wants a proper nation without restrictions, and I believe he will make it. But for that, we need the technology to help us make it.”

“I always thought the GLA were for old traditions? Respecting the labor of a man’s own hands, pulling his own weight and surviving like warriors? When did Sulaymaan get corrupted by these western ideals? The GLA doesn’t need technology to thrive! If this is what Su-“

Gabriel was cut short by Ibrahiim’s hand clenching his throat. “Listen here, Boutet! Sulaymaan may have moved away from the old traditions of the people, and even the order that was Deathstrike, but we must accept these new standards if we are to survive! Without the tools necessary to build a nation, we will devolve into cavemen within a few years. Plus, when the Russians conquer Europe they are going to turn their attention back to us, seeking revenge. We need to be able to defend against that! The jungle may have protected us for now but that will only last so long before the bombs drop regardless of whatever animals stand in their way. So either you get back out there and grab us some more modern technology, or you grab the blindfold and stand in the firing line. Your choice.”

“Yes, sir. I will take another party out tomorrow. There’s a European outpost not far from Yaoundé. We should be able to take some technology from there.”

Loved it. Now I eagerly wait for the next part.

I loved the 4th part. The new tank is probably the new marauder. Just my hunch.

Thanks mate. No, the Marauder is too crude to satisfy Sulaymaan. This will be something different.

very good read here. Maybe Mars will incorporate your stories into the lore

Thanks, and hopefully

not trying to rehash but still waiting on part 5

I'm working on eet

The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 5 - A Mistrust of Words

Katanga, The Zone
Summer, 2046



Back and forth in the concrete room, the bearded man was pacing. At the far end there was a metal door guarded by two conspicuous soldiers dressed in what appeared to be a formal outfit tailored from different pieces of cloth strung together. Their hands gripped their Kalashnikovs tight, worried about the presence of a foreigner in the room – even if he was tied up.

“So,” the man spoke, “You think that you can come here, to our nation, infiltrate our ranks, deceive our brethren and believe you could get away with it? You take me for a fool, don’t you?” He kneeled in front of the bound man, hands on his knees. The bound man spat in his face, but he did not react, simply wiping it away nonchalantly with a napkin – almost as if he got spat in his face daily.

“You really think this shithole could constitute for a country? You truly are a madman.”

“You misheard me, Mr. Gilson – if that is your true name. I said, ‘You would dare come to our nation’, not country. There is a difference between a nation and a country, as written down in the… Oxford English Dictionary, correct? It says that a nation is any piece of land with a recognizable government, while a country is simply everything else, eh, culture, history, demographics, that sort of thing. Even if your bobble-heads in America or Europe classify our nation as nothing more than a hellhole where every last scum of the Earth has holed up, we are still a nation.”

The bound man, Gilson, simply laughed at his words. “You people are so amusing. Vicious terrorists, true, but still… amusing. I am simply amazed that the great Abdul bin Yusuuf, the White Cleric, who evaded authorities for over two decades would come in here, waste his time with me and know I wouldn’t tell you a damn thing.”

Yusuuf ignored him, and went over to a toolshed. Searching around for a while, throwing aside screwdrivers and nails on the floor, he reached for a peculiar item; a hook, from a fishing trawler. Must have been hard to come by in Katanga… Yusuuf gently walked back to Gilson, who gazed up at the bearded man with an unimpressed expression on his face, before Yusuuf violently stabbed him in his left wrist with the hook. Gilson cried out in agony, but kept his face cool, pretending to ignore the pain.

“Pleasantries aside, Mr. Gilson, I do have a mission to undertake.” Yusuuf gestured toward the two guards and ordered them to fetch him a rope in Arabic. “I have profound evidence that our ranks have been infiltrated by your western spies ever since we first came here. What I need from you is simply; you tell me their names, and I will let you walk.”

“Tough chance,” Gilson replied, pain arcing through his words, “If I don’t tell you, you kill me. If I do tell you, you kill me anyway. That’s how it always works; false promises. I should know, I’ve tortured hundreds of your lapdogs over the years.”

Yusuuf threw a hard punch on his chin, causing Gilson to spit out blood on the concrete floor. The two guards returned, rope in hand, that stretched out through the door and into the blinding light. Gilson could hear the faint noise of a truck engine running. Yusuuf took the rope and tied it to the hook, pierced through Gilson’s wrist.

“Do you hear that? That’s the sound of a powerful Honda truck engine, which is connected to this rope. Say what you want about the Japanese, but they do make efficient cars. I’m going to ask you nicely, and if you answer truthfully, you will get to keep your arm.”

“Go to hell,” Gilson truthfully replied.

Yusuuf sighed, untied Gilson’s wrist from the chair, and then signaled with his hand. The guards shouted some African language, and the truck drove off. The rope tightened, and with a single pull ripped Gilson’s arm straight out of his socket. Blood gushed from the big wound, forming a red pool on the floor. Yusuuf ordered the two guards to quickly get the local doctor and make him patch it up, so he doesn’t bleed to death.

Gilson didn’t scream. He was in too much shock to even open his mouth. In all his years as a CIA agent, he had performed all kinds of nasty torture methods – enhanced interrogation techniques, they called them. But nothing this brutal. Gilson almost passed out if Yusuuf hadn’t kept him awake with a couple of hard slaps on his face. The doctor arrived, slightly horrified at the sight, slightly happy he had a challenging job ahead of him.

While the doctor worked, Yusuuf stepped outside in the harsh sun of Central Africa. He leaned back in a lawn chair under a tent, where a soldier was listening away on old radio equipment. Yusuuf has had a tough day: First he had to wake up at four in the morning because of some ruckus outside his makeshift palace, where his loyal warriors had discovered the identity of their fake brother. Then he had to go through the trouble of calming his warriors down so they don’t just kill him on sight. And then he faced an entire afternoon of tiresome torture and interrogation to get information about other moles hiding amongst the GLA. Boy what a busy day, one Yusuuf would have planned to take a vacation on. Maybe visit Sulaymaan a bit, see what he’s up to. A tank, was it? Something he’s building up in Kigali, anyway.

Out from the shadows stepped none other than Yusuuf’s old mercenary friend, Jarmen Kell. He dragged over another lawn chair and sat down next to him.

“Ah, Jarmen, what a wonderful day we are having,” Yusuuf said, gesturing his hand toward the sun.

“Yes, it is… adventurous. I just finished a contract for Kun; there was an American squad patrolling several miles south, and I took them out from afar with no difficulties. Quite a mediocre job, but a job nonetheless.”

Yusuuf had a grudge against soldiers that fight for money – he deemed them corrupt soldiers from the western capitalist empire, who had no souls, no fighting spirit, and no brotherhood. But he had a soft spot for Kell; the contract assassin had gone on many adventures with Yusuuf over the years in Arabia, the Sahara, southern Africa and even a tour out to Somalia, and had grown a trusting relationship with him. Even though he was only in it for the money, be it diamonds, drugs or otherwise, Yusuuf considered him just as much a brother as any other fighter in his ranks.

“Well, Kun was always the cautious fellow: Even if there was just two demons skulking about a minefield he would order an artillery barrage. You know, just to be safe,” they laughed, “He is Chinese after all. Those people are so twitchy.”

“So what are you up to, Blackbeard? Thought you were going to take this day off, visit Sulaymaan, maybe tour the savannahs to the south-west? Lots of things to see there, believe me.”

“Well,” Yusuuf sighed, “early this morning we caught a traitor in our midst, one who had pretended to be a loyal fighter for who knows how long.”

“Yeah those are a real pain in the ass.”

“So now I try to get some information out of him, see if there are any other moles out there.”

“Can’t you have an underling take care of that? Torture is not that hard; you just hit them until they tell you what you want to hear. Sometimes staring really hard does the trick. My record is eighteen seconds.”

“I like to take care of these things on my own, even if they clog up my schedule. I am quite proficient in the art of information extraction; I can easily tell if someone is lying or not, a trait not many of our friends share. To be honest, I believe most people here would just shoot him and be done with it.”

“Yes, that is a concern. Maybe I should go in there a bit, see if I can’t rattle the truth out his mouth?”

“Oh, Jarmen,” Yusuuf chuckled as he stood up, “I can’t ask you that; it is much too wasteful of someone of your talents.”

“Oh come now, I haven’t had a good torture victim in years. I feel like I need to recharge the old punching fists!”

“Hrm… very well then,” Yusuuf pointed at the building with an open hand, “Please step inside my humble abode.”

Jarmen stepped inside and took a long look at the bound man and is missing hand. He looked around the room, noticing all kinds of torture equipment hanging on walls, laying on the ground and tucked away on shelves. Yusuuf ordered the doctor out and he quickly scuttled away without batting an eye, while Jarmen slowly paced forward to the barely breathing Gilson. Gilson raised his head and stared Jarmen dead in the eyes.

“I see you’ve got a wounded hand as well,” Gilson managed before spitting out some blood. Jarmen raised and looked at his right hand, which had lost half its fingers after he accidentally set off an improvised explosive device too early several years back. But he still had two hands.

“Well, it is a pain in the ass, but I can manage it. Question is, how many limbs are you willing to sacrifice to keep your allies’ identities a secret?”

“As many as it god damn takes.”

Jarmen and Gilson stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. It was like a staring contest, except the one who’d lose would walk away without his life. But Jarmen had done this before; all he needed to was stare long and hard enough, and soon every man would reveal their secrets. Yusuuf had stepped outside to let Jarmen do his work alone. He leaned on the wall outside and waited for what felt like ten minutes before Jarmen joined him.
“He’s got nothing,” Jarmen said.

“Really?” Yusuuf asked surprised, “He knows nothing useful?”

“No, if he did I would’ve found out. I always find out by looking at their eyes. If the pupils expand back and forth, it shows that they are nervous and actually knows something they can spill. But, this man held them steady at all times. Not a single contraction. Either he is damn good at resisting torture or he really does know nothing. Either way you’ll get nothing out of him.”

“Hmm.” Yusuuf pondered for a little but before he signaled at two nearby guards. They walked inside, and soon a gunshot could be heard. “Well that was disappointing. But we must exercise caution, Jarmen! There might be hundreds, thousands of other spies out there!”

“We must inform Sulaymaan at once!”

“No!” Yusuuf stopped him with his arm, “Let’s keep this to my cell only. I… I don’t really trust Sulaymaan.”

Jarmen’s eyes widened. “What? You know how he feels about untrustworthy subordinates.”

“It’s just that…” Yusuuf struggled with the words, “He is too damn soft! Don’t you know what he is doing right now? Smearing up some scientists just so they can build him a tank! Like we need that to conquer the world. We need fighting spirit and I say Sulaymaan has lost his. He has taken no action to sway the superpowers for years and all we do is hole up here, cowering while we should be taking the fight to the enemy, establishing a new caliphate in the Middle East, bringing the imperialist scums to their knees!”

“But we already did that over fifteen years ago. Right now, Anwar wants a place to live.”

“And we shall build it, on the ruins of the western world! But… Sulaymaan doesn’t seem to want that. Let’s just keep it between ourselves for the time being. I will send out some informants to gather intelligence at the other cells and observe their behavior, maybe we can root out these moles on our own.”

“As you wish, Warlord Yusuuf.”

Meanwhile in Kigali

Baji was sitting in his small yet comfortable room. It had a single bed which he let Eli sleep in when he wanted, and a work desk for his blueprints and design drawings. The GLA really knew how to accommodate for prisoners it seemed, as long as they were useful to them. Eli was asleep in Baji’s bed, and the two guards posted outside were chatting in Arabic. They presumably didn’t understand English, which was good because then the scientists could talk without spilling any secrets. Baji rolled up his sleeve, and pinched his wrist. There was a small beep and a faint blue light appearing underneath his skin. Baji leaned in and spoke:

“This is Agent Ackers. Progress is going smoothly. Expect completion within the year. Awaiting orders on Operation Headshot. Over.”

“Copy that, Agent Ackers. Instructions will be relayed through contact zero-alpha-bravo, in 43rd street, Kigali in three days. Remain vigilant. Command, out.”

The Twist.... holy shit I did not see that twist coming.

Ouch for poor Gilson. Man, where do you get all of this? I'll never be nearly as good as you, when it comes to fan-fic.

There'll be more coming. If I come up with more... I'm really just writing this as I go along.



With practice comes... better results? I've read your recent fics and they are way better than the ones I wrote in my beginning; I predict you'll become a great writer.

Oh and I got the idea of the torture from watching Zero Dark Thirty.

I suppose it's more humane than reading twilight to him.

Not even the GLA would dare venture near that book.

haha. Rike, you oughta become an author. This is an excellent read.

Coming from a guy who writes these things. What can I say? Thank you. I'm honoured.

I must say Svea, I have enjoyed the story the whole way.
Your stories had inspired me to write a few about my fan-faction Echelon, however given the current state of flux of the faction and the fact that it doesn't fit the lore I've shelved the idea. Instead I've looked at our style of writing and I'm currently working on a story series set in my Directorate vs Remant world, focusing on several Remnant characters.

Anyway, looking back at the story, I have a feeling the CIA (maybe with the help of the ECIN) is aiming to assassinate Sulaymann, and then have a combined thrust against GLA targets. Perhaps its an exfil mission. or perhaps its something more sinister.

I can't wait for the next part.

The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 7 - Nightlife

Kigali, The Zone
Summer, 2046



Baji and his scientist accomplices have been working steadily for the past months. Say what you want about the GLA, but they sure can get their equipment. Whatever Baji required, they would deliver. The prototype was coming along nicely; the chassis was complete, constructed out of metal pieces salvaged from Russian vehicles, the turret was taking form, the scientists were still working on the hydraulics and suspension so the cannon caliber would have to wait, while Baji was working on electronic components.

Eli had made friends with some of the other children the scientists had, but most of the time the GLA rebels forced them to help with the build. Despite his protests Eli was pushed to the brink; every night his back hurt and his arms ached. Baji tried to comfort him by saying he would grow big, strong muscles, but Eli didn’t believe it. The GLA didn’t care for him. A waste of good space, according to them.

Nonetheless, Baji sat down at his desk and looked over his documents. Rows of calculations and numbers, Sulaymaan wanted this tank to be perfect in every way. All the numbers had to make sense, it wasn’t just supposed to be some piece of scrap held together with duct tape. They’ve made custom armor pieces from melted down metal, with the Russian armor added on top for extra protection – all painted in the GLA camouflage scheme; bright, vibrant beige with patches of green.

What was it with that green, anyway? All GLA vehicles from technicals to tanks had desert camouflage, understandable, but also patches of green here and there. Baji suspected they were some form of identification system, like terrorist chevron stripes, but they had no consistency. Every new vehicle would have green paint painted on random parts for seemingly no reason. But there was one; the green paint was used during the Global War on Terror to indicate armor that hid explosive ordnances. The GLA knew this; the Americans did not, because as soon as a makeshift tank was about to be captured, a rebel armed with a high-powered sniper rifle would shoot the green armor, causing a huge explosion. Granted, this did add to the tanks’ vulnerability but the GLA weren’t famous for saving lives. If the situation called for it, the tank would just ram the enemy and detonate the explosives, like a suicide tank.

Suicide bombing was a tactic favored by the GLA as well. Ever heard of one of those infamous ‘bomb trucks’? Regular transport trucks or dump trucks whose back carriages were packed to the brim with all sorts of explosive or flammable materials. Anything from matchsticks to nitroglycerin was just dumped in it, and a single spark would be enough to set the whole thing aflame. Suicide cars have been used by terrorists for ages, but nothing like bomb trucks. These things had enough explosive force to bring down an armored building in a single strike, and the GLA operated thousands of them. What was it an American tanker feared the most? RPGs? IEDs? Maybe a hidden stinger nest? No; it was trucks loaded with explosives. They appeared out of nowhere, running down the street at top speed and before that Crusader got it turret around the license plate was slamming into the armor, leaving behind a smoking crater.

Baji neatly folded his documents and put them in a drawer. Just like every night, he pressed his ear against his room’s door and listened; the guards outside were paying no attention, as usual. Baji activated his hidden communicator, and spoke:

“This is Agent Ackers. Development of the armored combat vehicle has gone by faster than anticipated. Expect completion within the year. Is zero-alpha-bravo in position?”

“Yes, Agent Ackers, contact zero-alpha-bravo has arrived in Kigali and is awaiting your arrival. Meet him at the café, Silver Rose on 43rd street, at 1145 hours. Zero-alpha-bravo will be wearing a black hat and brown coat. When meeting him, state this: The doves have all flown away, son.”

“Copy that, command. Agent Ackers, out.”

Baji turned off his communicator and checked if Eli was asleep. He was. Now the trick was sneaking out of his room without the guards noticing. Baji had a skylight in his room; it appeared to be unlocked. He stood on his chair and opened the skylight. Outside, he was still in the factory: His room was just a repurposed container, but now he could escape without the guards knowing. They still stood there, leaning over the railing, chatting in some African language. Baji quietly sneaked out on top of the container and climbed down. Now, he had to escape the heavily guarded research facility.

Baji was on a catwalk overlooking the compound. Below, there were many guards – probably over twenty – guarding the covered-up prototype. Wouldn’t want the simple guards to know what’s going on. Baji figured he could escape through one of the windows, but then it would be a long drop down. It was either that or fight through a horde of angry rebels. Baji sneaked away in the darkness and approached the window, only to be caught in the act by a curious guard.

“What are you doing Baji?” he asked.

Baji blurted out: “Just getting some fresh air, I was on my way out.” The guard looked suspiciously at Baji and gripped his Kalashnikov tight. Baji felt the sweat drip down on his forehead, his stomach started twisting and he began shaking. Oh no, now it’s all over, he thought.

“Okay then”, the guard said, then walked off.

Baji was confused, but then shook it out of his head and continued down. He walked down a flight of stairs, and the guards below were completely unfazed. Some looked at Baji for a couple of seconds then continued with their things. Without trouble he walked out of the factory and into the darkened street. Okay… now I’ve got to make it to 43rd street, wherever that is. He wandered down and into downtown Kigali.

Kigali’s nightlife had not been interrupted by the presence of the Global Liberation Army. In fact, it seemed a bit lively. There were lights everywhere, restaurants and cafés were open, and people were singing and laughing. Like if the world’s most dangerous terrorist organization didn’t even exist. But here they were; partying. Kigali was ruled by an estranged oligarchy, rather dim-witted types. A former priest, industrialist and football pro formed a triumvirate that was given power by Sulaymaan in exchange for workers. Every year, several hundred people were selected to work for Sulaymaan, and they did not protest: They knew the risks of disobeying the GLA, and wanted their city intact. Servitude for a year, then it’s over. That’s it! No strings attached! Foreign intelligence agencies have spied on cities in the Zone for years yet are still confounded on why people seem so happy. Maybe it’s because of the duty-free liquor the GLA brings in every month, or the fact that if you own a gun you don’t have to do anything. Or maybe because the crime rate is lower than it has ever been.

Okay, now the GLA does commit crimes against humanity on a regular basis, but amongst the people there is virtually no criminality. Shop owners get supplies from the GLA who raid supply convoys, who then distribute it to the people for free. There is no need to steal! And even then, criminals are executed on the spot. Steal a car? Execution. Jaywalking? Execution. Insulting the wrong guy? Execution. Of course, not everyone has it fine and dandy in the cities. The triumvirate in Kigali exploit their power all the time; they harem of slave girls in their makeshift palace, a personal guard issued with professional gear that does nothing, and ride around in an up-armored Cadillac not even a redneck would drive. But even with the GLA and the triumvirate, the people still went on with their daily lives. If you worked; you got supplies. If you didn’t, they forced you to work until you learnt a lesson. During the night; people got places to be and friends to see.

Making his way downtown Baji slowly noticed he was being tailed. Nonchalantly looking back he saw it was three armed thugs. He tried to chase them away by leaning in and out of the streets and taking different routes, but they kept on his tail. So he picked up his pace. And they started running. Baji legged it, pushing away people to get down the street, and the three thugs shouted something in Arabic. These guys are pros, Baji thought, Arabic is only spoken by the… personal guards. A warlord must have discovered his secret. They were out to get him, skin him, and flay him alive! Shame on you if you betray the GLA, but god forbid you’ve never been loyal from the start. Then, one of them opened fire. A bullet whizzed by, barely missing Baji’s head. Baji jumped to the side into an alleyway, and hopped in a dumpster. The three thugs arrived shortly.

At first they ran down the alley, but then stopped. “Come out, come out, wherever you are”, they creepily said, “We promise we won’t hurt you.”

Yeah right.

“We just want to talk man, nothing too serious.” The thugs slowly creeped up to the dumpster. “We know you’re here… Come out, come out…”

The thugs quickly opened the dumpster and pointed their guns straight at Baji’s face. But then someone shouted something, and the thugs froze. They immediately backed away and kneeled down.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?!” Ibrahiim demanded, “What possible reason could you have for chasing one of our lead scientists? Explain yourself!” Ibrahiim helped Baji out of the dumpster, his heart beating rapidly. They were going to expose him right in front of General Ibrahiim!

“My warlord, sir… We wanted to know what you were working on, sir. You have not informed us, and we were just curious. Then he started running, and it seemed like-“

“Enough! What we are developing is none of your concern, soldier! And if you really needed to know, the way to do it is by asking, not shooting you incompetent fool!”

Baji felt a thousand pounds lighter. They didn’t know.

“Now get out of here! Go back where you came from!” Ibrahiim turned to Baji, “Are you alright, Akinwe?”

“Yes,” Baji breathed, “Yes I was not hurt.”

“Good. Listen, if you need an escort, you tell us. Despite what it may look like, the streets are not safe. There are secrets and lies everywhere. Don’t trust anyone. This tank is a closely guarded secret, not something the irresponsible grunts should know of. Imagine if the west got word of this. They would bomb our factory without a second thought. Now go on; have some fun.”

“What?”

“Well the nightlife is swinging by. Just grab some booze; free of charge! What other reason could you have for going downtown, huh? Don’t worry; Eli is safe.”

“Alright, yes sir, I will.” With that, Ibrahiim entered a technical emblazoned with the Black Mamba cell logo, and drove off.

Baji arrived at 43rd street, and walked into the Silver Rose café. It was a small café; just a couple of tables, a sleepy barista, fan blowing on a shelf and quiet music playing. In the corner was a man dressed in a black hat and brown coat. Baji sat down in front of him.

“The doves have all flown away, son.”

“Agent Ackers,” he replied with a smirk, “The name’s Boutet. Agent Gabriel Boutet.”

I loved the explanation of the green paint that GLA uses. I myself wondered why they would use such a vibrant color which exposed camaflouge attempts.

To be honest it's more of a half-assed attempt. I just wanted to explain something more about the GLA. But thanks!

I figured there was a different reason for green being the GLA color. Having inward exploding panels on tanks defeats the purpose of armor!

Green is technically islam-related.

I think.

Oh nuts why didn't I think of that?! Oh well.

Rebel Voice: Anything for the cause!

you and mars should collaborate on the ROTR lore.

I think MARS would not want that

Quick update: The computer I normally have these fan-fics on, my school laptop, is not available to me right now so I probably won't be able to post the next part until after summer. Or at least August when I get it again. For those wondering. I could write the next part on my own computer but I have all my notes on my school laptop so...

so stupid question:

Why didnt you copy your stuff to a USB drive?

...I never thought of that. Oh well, I might as well try to remember as best I can and recreate it from there.

Cloud docs are your friend.

Or those, I prefer USBs. Im old school like that. I remember the days of those floppy drives haha

Question to MARS; does My vision of The Zone fot in with canon?

The Nation of Sulaymaan

Part 8 - A Change of Plans

Kigali, The Zone
Autumn, 2046

Some revelations are in order. Gabriel Boutet is a special agent with the Dutch AIVD (General Intelligence and Security Service), now part of the larger European Continental Intelligence. The AIVD took part in the Global War on Terror like so many other intelligence agencies, and when the GLA showed up in Hamburg in 2028, they were quick to form a plan. Gabriel Boutet was one of several agents planted among GLA fighters, and when the time came for them to retreat, he followed them to North Africa, and further south to their new home in the Zone. Every intelligence agency had their own plans, which were gradually merged into a single, multinational plot with a single goal: The assassination of Anwar Sulaymaan.

The person with the most attempts at their life was Fidel Castro, former President of Cuba. When Castro finally passed away in 2018, the CIA had tried to kill him over 600 times, every single one of which failed. When the Global Liberation Army made the headlines, Mohmar ‘Deathstrike’ became the target of multiple assassinations, one of which succeeded (albeit in 2032, five years after the war ended). Even then, no-one is quite sure who killed him. Interestingly, one of the most suspected perpetrator is Abdul bin Yusuuf, one of Mohmar’s allies. Sources claim Yusuuf disagreed with Mohmar on many accounts, and even disobeyed orders, and reportedly wanted to focus the GLA’s strength on the Middle East and unify it under a single religious leader, whereas Mohmar wanted to spend their resources invading and destroying Europe.

Since then, the world’s most wanted has become the three top dogs of the GLA; Sulaymaan, Yusuuf and Ibrahiim. Sulaymaan’s closest henchmen even says he keeps a dossier, mockingly documenting each attempt at his life. Now, in 2046, the European Continental Intelligence Service wants to hurry and get the job done as soon as possible so they can focus their attention on their Russian aggressors. They contacted their co-belligerents in the CIA and Chinese MSS and coordinated their operations to form Operation ‘Headshot’; the definitive assassination plot.

“So you’re the CIA agent I’ve been told to meet?” Boutet asked Baji from under the brim of his hat.

“I believe so,” he replied, “Which must mean you are ECI.”

“Indeed. I’ve been here in this dreadful jungle for over a decade now. Many times I could have taken out Ibrahiim, but damn home command wants me to focus my attention on Sulaymaan.”

“He is the prime target. I’ve been told to wait with my plan as well. What exactly is it you’re going to inform me about?”

“Ah yes,” Gabriel said as he reached into his jacket’s inner pocket. He pulled out an envelope and gave it to Baji. “That’s your new mission parameters. This vehicle you’ve been forced to build – how’s it coming along?”

“That thing? The way Sulaymaan sees it it’s going smoothly; he has no idea I’ve been deliberately sabotaging it. I make small alterations that can’t be noticed by the dim-witted thugs he’s got as guards, and the other scientists are in on it with me. Really, it’s even a miracle we’ve managed to come this far; Sulaymaan basically gives us junk to work with, and he expects it to form a next-generation battle tank! What an idiot.”

“We’d best move soon then,” Gabriel replied. Just then, two heavily-armed soldiers entered the café. The sleepy clerk’s expression shot into action, and he nervously asked the two what they’d like. One of them stepped forward to the counter, leaned in over nice and close to the clerk who was sweating a fountain. Menacingly, he said “An espresso orange, large.”

The other soldier said ditto, and the two sat down at a table on the other end of the café. One of them looked at Gabriel and Baji for a second, then casually kept talking with his companion while the clerk hurried to get their order done.

“You should head back,” Gabriel said, “Your overseers might get suspicious if you’re away for a longer period of time. Read the instructions carefully, and I’ll see you in a couple of days. I’ve got some business to take care of first.”

With that, the two left the café and headed in opposite directions. After walking for a while, a technical parked alongside Baji. The door opened, and inside sat Ibrahiim behind the wheel.

“Akinwe! Need a lift?”

Baji acted confused. “Sir? You don’t have to waste time driving me around.”

“Nonsense! Hop inside, I’ll take you home.”

Baji didn’t dare disobey an order, so he entered the vehicle and it drove off. Ibrahiim sat silent for around a minute before he began speaking.

“Listen, Akinwe,” he said, “this tank that you and the other scientists are working on… I find it a waste of time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We should focus our attention on more important matters. I think Sulaymaan has been too obsessed with that thing. It distracts him from other operations, especially those in the south. Did you know, in the past three weeks alone we’ve seen over twenty American recon teams near the jungle border. Our security is getting looser. Why are we even building it? We have combat vehicles, and if the need be we can just hijack more proper tanks from the enemy. Nothing more satisfying than seeing those imperialist bastards be destroyed by their own creations, huh?”
Baji pretended to chuckle.

“Now I know it’s more than just building a tank; it’s symbolic too. Sulaymaan wants to demonstrate his newfound power to the world by showing he has a successful line of production. With it he’ll kick start our new, modern nation, and soon we will become powerful enough to face our enemies in open warfare yet again!”

“Yes, sir, but,” Baji said, “Our nation is already located on a stable industrial base. The former republics; the Congo, Rwanda, Cameroon; don’t they have an industry already? Why don’t we use that?”

“I think Sulaymaan is too paranoid about that; if we restart those facilities the Americans air fleet will bomb them to destruction. I think Sulaymaan wants to move the entire industry underground, and prove it works by building this tank in an old, abandoned warehouse. After that, we’ll move our factories into the tunnels, and build them where the flying demons cannot reach them.”

Within minutes Baji was soon home at the factory. It looked exactly like he left it. Ibrahiim gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Remember; if you ever need anything, and I mean anything, you just contact me, okay? I can’t promise you’ll actually get it, but it’s the thought that counts? Have a good night, Baji.”

Ibrahiim drove off as Baji entered the factory. The same smell of kerosene and oil was still present at large, although now mixed in with the musky odor of unwashed guards. At least Ali had air conditioning. Baji entered his small container home, and went to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

Ibrahiim meanwhile drove into the jungle. He was going to one of his many chemical facilities hidden in the vast tunnel network. The GLA made widespread use of chemical and biological weapons in the Global War on Terror, but it had taken a different course now in the Zone. Dr. Thrax, one of Mohmar’s most important contacts, developed hundreds of different strains of anthrax for the GLA. The different strains meant that any antidote their enemy would develop would be useless against other strains. The most infamous is perhaps “Anthrax Beta”. Anthrax beta was powerful enough to penetrate chemical suits, and was the bane of both American and Chinese forces for many years. The USMC even deployed special containment units for the sole purpose of combating the spread of anthrax. But beta was not the worst. No, what a soldier facing the personal army of Dr. Thrax feared the most was undoubtedly “Anthrax Gamma”. A strain of anthrax so deadly not even Lawrence Livermore could replicate it; gamma could burn through an NBC-protected tank in minutes and kill the crew in no-time. No known antidote could destroy it. And worst of all, entire swathes of land would become so contaminated that one can’t set foot in there until at least 2100 and survive. Saudi Arabia, Oman, Persia and other nations have built massive quarantine walls to prevent stragglers and animals from wandering into the death-zones.

But now, chemical warfare has changed. Ibrahiim was no slouch when it came to toxins. He poisoned many Parisian politicians during the French Civil War, and knew exactly what kind of chemicals would pollute the Rhine River the worst. But now, the GLA’s use of chemical weapons had died down because of their location: Sulaymaan wants to keep the rainforest alive, but chemical weapons kill anything organic. So, Ibrahiim has his own team of scientists working day and night developing a new form of anthrax that kills only humans. No animals, no plants. He also experiments with thermite bombs, weaponized diseases, and even mind control drugs.

After driving for several minutes, it became pitch dark outside, only the technical’s headlights illuminating the dirt path. His gunner kept a close watch on the tree line. Suddenly, a truck burst from the forest and onto the road, forcing Ibrahiim to slam the breaks. The gunner lost his grip of the machine gun, but a burst of gunfire is what killed him. Ibrahiim exited the vehicle and crossly slammed the door behind him.

“What the HELL is the meaning of this?!” he demanded, “Have you no idea who I am? What are you doing?”

Two men armed with Kalashnikov rifles stepped forward. “We are indeed aware of who you are, General. If you’d be willing to come with us, we-“

“Like hell I am – move your damn truck and let me pass!”

Then suddenly, darkness.

*****
Long time no see. The next part will hopefully be up sometime next week, but I've got a lot of school work I need doing, and I only now quickly finished this part so you could get some continuation of the story. Sorry I couldn't find an image that fit. If you have one, could you please link it, and I can add it? Thanks.

Fuck yeah! Nation of Sulaymaan is alive. IT'S ALIVE!!! IT'S ALIVE!!! It was about time, Swede. Keep 'em coming.

Not trying to necro this, but I am curious as to how this plays out

As am I: I haven't been able to continue the story for some time - heck, I've been barely able to write for Rise of the Reds! - because of reality catching up to me. Come April, and perhaps March, I will return to writing.

Awesome, don't forget to back your stuff up

This is such an amazing read. I have enjoyed reading every update to this series! Thank you so much for taking the time to write this.