A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

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Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.
(Oscar Wilde)

Hanne had advanced. She was the regional AFV party secretary now. The Dortmund market hall was a thing of the past. One was living in a toff first floor downtown flat. The downside was that she was frequently on the road, leaving Egon alone – to get into mischief. And Egon’s idea of a nice evening – if no Hanne was around – was to get drunk and into a scuffle. The problem was, though, that he wasn’t the only hefty steelworker in Dortmund.

It was a thoroughly battered Egon Schagalla, who had come to visit Joseph Grzeskiewicz at the almshouse. Joseph was wheelchair-bound since summer – and generally marantic. His long life was drawing to a close, evidently. But his mind was still alert – most of the time… Today, however, Egon was looking worse than Joseph. But it had been a great night…

Hanne had gone to Berlin, where the AFV was holding a party conference. They were no longer strongest party, neither in the Reichstag, nor in Prussia; nevertheless, they were well entrenched – and participating in political life on all levels. Egon was ambiguous; he liked the plush life he and Hanne were leading, but he was deeply distrustful of all these party dealings. It was too much for his simple soul.

Well, Hanne was in love, deeply in love – with Herbert Weller. That was a fact. But she couldn’t get him; hence, she was tolerating Egon in bed. Egon, for his part, was irritated by her newly acquired social status. Should he really continue this relation? With a highbrow? Or should he move out from the posh flat – and find himself an ordinary working class chick?

Joseph could see the problem, had always seen it. Hanne was intelligent and ambitious. Egon was a decent fellow – but a simpleton. Hanne’s advancement had come quite naturally; she was good at what she did. Egon couldn’t match that performance. The two had always consorted well physically, but not intellectually. And, to cap it all, Hanne had been enchanted by Herbert Weller, had fallen for him.

So, yes, his counsel for Egon was to leave Hanne Zülch alone. She was going to have a bright career in politics, might even move to Berlin permanently. Egon was better off in his natural social background. It was a pity, but wasn’t it better to make a painful break than end in agony?
 

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It is not children only that one feeds with fairy tales.
(Gotthold Ephraim Lessing)

He was no minister anymore, only an ordinary assemblyman – and perhaps a committee chairman in future, if affairs should proceed as planned. That afforded him a lot of time to deal with other matters. After all, he was a very successful businessman, one of Middle Africa’s top rainmakers. SEM was booming; SIRAB was achieving progress; and his various investments were paying off nicely. Even the Caribbean adventure seemed to run well.

So, what should he do? Where should he invest? Max Sikuku was racking his brains. He was a man of the manufacturing industry; that was where he was best: surmising what people might want to buy next year. He had no clue of media, arts or social stuff. But Adele thought he should buy a newspaper. The public had to be massaged. That was what the leftists had done, agitating against the Somalian intervention from the start.

MALU had no dedicated press organ. One had trusted that several renowned newspapers were reporting favourably about liberal ideas. That had worked well for many years – until the military adventure had poisoned the posture of the journalists. Hadn’t he noticed the shift? In the end, almost the complete media landscape had worked for the leftists, because they had been promising an end to intervention.

A newspaper? Really? Wasn’t a radio station better – and more modern? – No, not at all. The groundwork was done by the writing journalists. Radio and TV were only parroting what the newspaper guys had found out. A good, solid newspaper was what MALU needed. Radio and TV stations had no investigators of their own. – Okay, but how should that project pay off? The newspaper market was saturated, as far as he knew. – The Ukongo Kurier might be for sale shortly, if the wife of the current publisher could be trusted.

A newspaper then… Max was uneasy still. He was out of his depth. He needed someone competent to manage that business. Anton Mbwesi was an investigator, not a manager. But he knew the managers… So, Max grabbed the telephone – and started to hunt down Mbwesi.
 

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Mankind, when left to themselves, are unfit for their own government.
(George Washington)

The course of events in Norway was… shambolic – or eerie, depending on point of view. The initial dash to the Shetlands and Orkneys had almost satisfied the jingoists. An action at last! – But then, under Danish and German pressure, the government had backed off. – That Norwegian seizure of the Shetlands remained uncontested did not matter. The traitors had surrendered the Orkneys! And they had extradited the nuclear warheads!

But then, before the forces of revolt could strike, the German blockade of the British Isles had been restored. That had changed the situation, as the Orkneys were now entirely inaccessible, but it hadn’t smothered the rage of the jingoists. – After a month of toing and froing, the jingoists had finally struck. The government had been arrested by insurgent forces – and Vidkun Quisling had proclaimed himself national leader.

However, the King, Olav V, had fled to Sweden, together with his family. And the unions had evoked a national strike, while the leadership ranks of the Arbeiderpartiet had gone into hiding. Several vessels of the Sjøforsvaret, the navy, had not recognised the Quisling government – and had deserted. In all, the putsch had thus been far from triumphant.

The national strike, on the other hand, also had not been an outright success. The countryside had hardly at all taken notice of it, and in several urban centres, many workers and clerks had refused to comply. – The end result was rampant anarchy. Christiania was firmly in the hands of the Quislings, as were Stavanger and Trondheim. But in Bergen, the country’s second largest city, Arbeiderpartiet and Venstre had established a government of their own, which claimed to be the legitimate one.

Quisling was supported by Hoyre, Bondepartiet and – of course – Nasjonal Union. He claimed the majority of Norwegians was supporting him. But with the King in exile, this claim was kind of untenable. Internationally, nobody was recognising his government, not even the Russians. So far, bloodshed had been avoided. Nevertheless, it was a muddled affair – and no clear way ahead seemed apparent.
 

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I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself and falls on the other.
(William Shakespeare)

Big Chief Amagasfano was looking ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, but nobody had the backbone to tell him. There were amused glances, covertly, and malicious laughter, behind his back, when he and his Queen were sufficiently far away. Who might have told him to don that parade uniform? Vera? Well, most probably…

Anne Robbins thought her Makambo in his worn combat fatigues was quite aptly dressed, like all the other chiefs. Only Amagasfano in his stiff red coat was sticking out – like a lighthouse. King Amagasfano, that appeared to be the intended message. But from those present here, nobody seemed to understand it. Amagasfano is dressing funnily, must be the London syndrome…

Anne, however, was more interested in taxing the other women present. Who might be reckoning like she did? Who else might want to put her ‘husband’ in the first place? – There was Vera, the Queen. Her stance was clear. The other ‘wives’, though, were difficult to fathom. Except perhaps Monica, who was the blonde bimbo incarnate.

But the rest – was like Anne: stranded here under now obsolete premises – and keen to make the best of it. You didn’t become bedfellow of a chief because you were weak or stupid. None of them was drunk, except Vera, who was always drunk, but dangerous nevertheless. Their eyes were taxing, like Anne’s. It was a snake pit today, this Buckingham Palace.

Fifteen; there were fifteen chiefs and fifteen doxies, plus Amagasfano and Vera. It was the top level. Amagasfano was the Big Chief, because he commanded the largest force – and because he had Vera. But he couldn’t order around the other chiefs. It was a matter of consultation and consensus.

That was why one had gathered here. The ‘wives’ had been ‘invited’ for the first time. Obviously, to see and marvel at Amagasfano in his royal attire. After the dinner, the chiefs would go into conclave. And the ladies would join Queen Vera in the games room. Perhaps that would provide opportunity to sound some of them out…
 

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To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must improvise as well.
(Isaak Ozimov)

The mood prevailing at Achinsk couldn’t be called bright. To have been beaten by the Nyemtsi wasn’t nice. Yet, it was an opportunity to learn – and to improve one’s own techniques and procedures. There was no use in complaining; one had to carry on. In early January 1959, Lunobegún-9 would perform another lunar circumnavigation. Then, finally, in February, Lunobegùn-10 was to execute NASA’s first manned landing – in Mare Tranquillitatis.

The near-disaster of Raumkobold-32 was discussed intensively. The Nyemtsi had been lucky. – There had been no provision for sending a rescue mission. And the air supply of the landers had been way too small to sit tight until a rescue mission could arrive. – Here, the Kikimora was superior to the Hüpfer: its supply of oxygen – for three kosmonauts – lasted for four days. That was sufficient to move in a rescue mission, which was held in readiness in Earth’s orbit.

That a rescue – or emergency – mission should be held in readiness, had been decided early on. As NASA’s main objective was lunar exploration – and, hopefully, a permanent settlement on the Moon, one had to have a fire brigade in readiness. It was going to be deployed to NSÓ. There were some bugs still that had to be ironed out. Making sure that the rescue-Kikimora landed close enough to the stranded craft wasn’t possible yet, but anything beyond five verst was considered inacceptable.

Well, one was working on the problem. Fortunately, Lunobegún and Kikimora had been designed well-spaced. And learning to navigate to a given point on the ground was necessary anyway, if one intended to found a permanent settlement. NASA’s lead in automation was helpful here.
 

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Who waits until circumstances completely favour his undertaking, will never accomplish anything.
(Martin Luther)

Hard luck! The ship that had been sent out to fetch women from Nigeria had been caught by the Germans – and eventually been tugged back into Portsmouth harbour – without gold, silver and gemstones, but with a broken shaft. – A naval blockade had been imposed. Nobody was admitted in, and nobody was allowed to leave. That – for the time being – ended the dream of getting a decent Nigerian girl. Hence, Ohawadi Anuforo was back to Elli, whom he was sharing with five other guys.

Elli wasn’t bright – and she wasn’t pretty, but she was a woman – at least. She said she was pregnant, since two months or so… That raised another question: who was the father? Could one ever know? Ohawadi was almost sure he wasn’t eligible, because he had been travelling most of time. A pity again! – Would he ever have a chance to procreate? It didn’t look like so…

Now, there were rumours of people living furtively in the wilderness, white people. Immunes, most probably, folks that had survived the pest – and were extremely dangerous carriers of the NED pathogen. Well, one had the antidote; it could cure them – or kill them… There should be women among them. It was a fascinating notion. Ohawadi was a scout; he was perpetually on the move. Shouldn’t it be possible to find one of them, a girl preferably?

It was a hope, which he must not share with the rest of the band. It was his private project. His people were in the south, so the immunes had – presumably – sidestepped to the north, to the area to which he usually was sent to scout. So, he should perhaps stop monitoring the coastlines – and rather look into the dark corners inland. Finding a girl – or a woman, that would be cute…
 

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The role of the scholar is to destroy chimeras, that of the statesman is to make use of them.
(Gustave le Bon)

It was an annoying development, thought Dmitri Trofimovich Shepilov. How had it begun? – Well, the conception had never been dead, had always lurked beneath the surface. Matutin had coldly ignored it; Savinkov had sidetracked it; Kalinin and Vatutin had tried to allay its perilousness. What should he do now? And what could he do at all?

There was no open movement with representatives one could frame. It rather was a general shift into the same direction. It was in the communities, in the churches, in the media, everywhere. The Ukraine – the Kievan Rus – had been the cradle of Holy Russia; the Ukraine had to be brought home. It was that simple – and that dangerous…

It meant war with the Germans. That at least seemed to be evident to all. But it didn’t stop the commotion. It only made sure the drive kept diffuse. – The Pest had fuelled it, as for some weeks it had looked as if Germany was about to perish. But then, the clinical way the Germans had dealt with it, had discouraged it again.

Now, it was back – and back in force. The Germans were unfair; they had beaten NASA on the way to the Moon. And their chief rocket scientist was – a Ukrainian… This triumph ought to have been a Russian one, really. The Ukraine had to come home.

Well, Vatutin had attempted his ‘ex-oriente-luxus’ strategy – to no avail. The Ukrainians – in their vast majority – didn’t want to become Russians. A peaceful change wasn’t going to happen. – But he couldn’t start another war with China, like Savinkov had done. And a war with Germany would utterly destroy Russia. So, what the hell should he do?
 

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To succeed in the world, it is much more necessary to possess the penetration to discern who is a fool, than to discover who is a clever man.
(Charles Maurice de Talleyrand)

A palpable change had occurred: freight from Middle Africa was arriving en masse. Huge blue-and-white coated cargo vessels of the shipping company UMS – Ulugewe & Mwabi & Sikuku – were discharging aircraft, tanks, trucks, artillery pieces and wooden boxes galore. The new leftist government in Daressalam had decided that their old friend and ally Comrade Emilio deserved all the help they could give him. And because they had a big military operation opportunely ending right at the moment, a lot of surplus material was becoming available just in time.

And instructors were being sent. Captain Haikā Nobutoshi had seen some of them. Negroes in plain sand-coloured uniforms, who were behaving like true upper class Japanese; it was incredible. – The Kame Kiiro was paling in comparison with those UMS vessels, as she was much smaller – and hence could carry only a fraction of what they were transporting. Not that it was cheap stuff; the chaebōl were known to supply first class quality to their customers.

Yes, the Aguinaldo faction seemed to be in train of running down the opposition. Haikā had heard – in Mokpo – that the Chinese were scaling down their support for Aguinaldo’s enemies, because their American allies had become busy at home – and the Great Qing Empire was forced to take over manifold functions from the leaving US forces. So, the conflict on the Philippines was – most probably – about to end.

Haikā wasn’t happy about this prospect. He had made a decent living from supplying the conflicting parties. Peace did not pay for a poor tramp freighter captain. The chaebōl would still want foodstuffs, but in times of peace, they could send regular cargo vessels. Haikā and his Kame Kiiro would no longer be needed. – Was there another conflict, where he could play a part in? Not that he knew… A pity…
 

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One should, when overwhelmed by the shadow of a giant, move aside and see if the colossal shadow isn’t merely that of a pygmy blocking out the sun.
(Novalis)

New security personnel had arrived, tough types, who looked like gunmen and were behaving like war heroes. The bosses back home, the investors, had hired them. Otto Falabeke had tried to learn more about them. The personnel office geezers had been as reluctant as ever, but the New Year festivities had provided a good opportunity to pump their chief for information. It had been hard work; the scoundrel was drinking like a fish. But Otto knew now…

They were war heroes indeed; commandos who had served in Somalia. Max Sikuku, one of the investors, had hired a whole battalion of them – and distributed them among his companies and investments, it seemed. Now that the Muramba government was shutting down the Somalian intervention and reducing the armed forces, war heroes were coming reasonably priced. – Okay, so one had a bunch of disgruntled war veterans running around in the refinery now…

Willemstad – and the ABC Islands as a whole – had not been depopulated by the pest, as they were sufficiently far away from the Lesser and Greater Antilles, where island hopping had spread the disease rather quickly. Only the Durch had gone home lately, leaving behind a sizeable coloured population that was running the show quite competently. Almost all workers in the refinery were indigenes; the Middle Africans had only replaced the Dutch engineers and specialists.

That, however, gave ample room for security fanatics to work their fingers to the bone. The Venezuelans were new here; the Middle Africans were even newer; the Dutch – who should have known – were all gone. So, the staff had to be screened, monitored, questioned… It was pesky, to say the least. But the security types were not only harassing the workforce; they actually were preparing the island for defence.

Well, Otto had been on board the Annemarie, when that US destroyer had stopped and searched the sailing yacht. That had only been the first incident… The Venezuelans, who were responsible for external security, were often reporting incursions by submerged submarines. And there were flyovers as well, at very high altitude. Yes, the Amis were edging closer…
 

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Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.
(Jack London)

Winter in Cascadia wasn’t nice, not at all. That nasty glacier on the other side of Hudson Bay was messing up the weather, was making winters worse than ever. Choe Kyung–jae was glad to turn his back on the freezing cold plains and to return to Vancouver. It wasn’t possible to perpetuate operations east of the Pacific Cordillera over the winter, a pity. – The workers had asked him to be sent home from December to April, as there was nothing they could do hereabouts, except sit and wait. He had transmitted this proposal to Seoul, but the bosses hadn’t agreed.

So, he had to supervise these camps, where the workers were sojourning over the winter. Of course, the lads were proud Koreans – and didn’t let their hair down, at least as long as he was around… It was bunk, but the men were paid for doing nothing – and Choe knew there were girls and other amenities. Anyway, he was happy to leave again. – He knew why the bosses hadn’t agreed: President MacInnis had asked them to keep the men in country. Cascadia would reimburse the expenses. Yeah, the dude was keen that no folks were seen leaving his country…

It was a big problem for MacInnis, Choe had realised lately. The Koreans weren’t relevant, of course, because they were here to stay as long as they were paid for it. But the real Cascadians were voting with their feet; there was a steady stream wandering across the border – and not coming back. Cascadia was suffering from emaciation. And Angus MacInnis was in peril to become a president without people. He had done everything to pamper his Cascadians, but, evidently, the US was much more attractive for many of them.

In fact, MacInnis was deeply in debt. – His country was mortgaged to the chaebōl. And Choe’s bosses seemed to be firmly determined to hold MacInnis. Should Cascadia fall to the US, their future profits would be gone. – At the same time, settlement of Koreans had been ruled out by mutual consent. It would infallibly provoke US intervention. So, the good president had to manage with the few Cascadians he had. And with the US citizens he was able to win around… Those Yankees Choe had met were… well, obscure – or queer?
 

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I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space.
(William Shakespeare)

It was Saturday, January 10th, 1959. For the Lunobegún-9 mission, the final countdown had begun. The kosmonauts had just come through Russian Christmas – and were now hoping to celebrate Russian New Year in lunar orbit. The mission was ambitious: the Kikimora was to be undocked – and the Lunobegún had to turn by 180 degrees – and then to swing back into the old position – and the Kikimora had to dock again. It was the final test – before the Lunobegún-10 mission executed the manned landing.

While the controllers were still counting down, the flash news arrived that the Indians had started another space mission. This time, Bhaee, the SUS’s single Brüderchen, had transported a Große Schwester, called Mā'usa, to the upper stratosphere, from where the shuttle had made it into orbit. – At Achinsk, moderate agitation and a certain frustration erupted. The countdown was interrupted. One needed more data about those frigging Indians in space.

As it turned out, Puri was quite cooperative. Mā'usa’s orbital data were duly transmitted – and the countdown could continue. It was, however, Monday already, when the Titán rocket finally lifted off. The kosmonauts would have to celebrate Russian Christmas on the way to the Moon. In the meanwhile, Mā'usa had successfully completed its mission and was back at Puri.
 

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I’m telling you that India is that way, now set my course.
(Christopher Columbus)

Was the Old Man suffering from dementia? After all, he was going to celebrate his ninetieth birthday on January 31st; old age might tell. It was difficult to assess. Most of the time, he was sitting on his porch and staring dead ahead. Once a day, however, he was taking a short walk, limping along slowly. But he wouldn’t talk. He was still performing his personal hygiene without help. But he wouldn’t talk. And he wouldn’t answer questions. It was strange.

Field Marshal G’Norebbe was directing the affairs of the WAU. He seemed to have recovered completely from his illness. Yet, he was an old man too, distinctly approaching the seventies. – Was the WAU a gerontocracy? Well, the field marshal’s principal assistants were the comrades-in-arms and associates of times past. They were representing the younger generation – under the Old Man.

Indeed, the young talents were working in subordinated positions. None of them was prominent. They hadn’t participated, at least not as leaders, in the struggles that had led to the formation of the WAU; hence, they were considered light-weights. It was a precarious approach, but just what could be expected in an aging military establishment.

The Old Man was the undisputed leader, had always been. And G’Norebbe was his chosen chief assistant and heir. There was no idea to have their legitimacy checked by parliament. The legislators could vote on financial issues; but deciding about the leadership was not their job. This had worked perfectly thus far; the WAU was thriving. In time, the field marshal would name his chosen successor. There was no reason for worry.
 

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Freedom and whores are the most cosmopolitan items under the sun.
(Georg Büchner)

He was considered eligible to attend the general staff academy, Karl Sikuku had been told. His conduct during crash and hostage-taking had amply demonstrated his ability to perform purposefully in a crisis. That was important. General staff officers were not picked for their military genius, but for their ability to work hard and consistently under extreme stress. – First of all, though, he had to qualify as a leader of men. This was the premise for being admitted to the academy.

Now, he was a naval aviator. Naval aviators weren’t known for as great leaders of men. They were technical specialists. – Yes, that was true. Hence, he had been promised promotion to Kapitänleutnant and transferred to the navy’s basic training camp at Lindi – and was now commanding a company of the local training detachment. That meant he had become the superior of two lieutenants, forty-six NCOs – and two hundred and forty recruits.

Good grief! It was something else entirely than dealing with a helicopter and a bunch of mechanics. Okay, he had gone through basic training himself, some years ago. So, he knew what it was all about. But… being responsible for almost three hundred dudes was… tremendous. The lieutenants and the NCOs were doing the practical work, sure, but he was the boss of this crowd.

His boss was Korvettenkapitän Jupangora, the detachment commander, the textbook example of a bean counter – in Karl’s perception. But okay, the staff was used to it; one was getting along. Autonomy was not in demand; you had to abide by the training manuals. It wasn’t thrilling: marching, shooting, swimming, rowing, sailing, signalling, knotting, splicing; just what navy recruits were being taught during basic training.

Lindi was not affected by the reductions enforced by the Muramba government – and also not by the disgraceful retreat from Somalia. But the subject was – of course – discussed any time, anywhere, as soon as the recruits were out of earshot. It was… – utterly dishonourable. The armed forces had been sent to Somalia – by the politicians; in order to accomplish what said politicians wanted to be done. And just because, willy-nilly, another bunch of politicians had ordered the soldiers out, without that victory had been achieved.

That was the point: the wretches in Daressalam had absolutely no respect for the sacrifices and losses the military had suffered in Somalia and Kenya. Military intervention didn’t fit their conception of the world; so, the intervention was cancelled, stop, full stop, finish! – But you couldn’t do that. Soldiers were no automatons, to be switched on and off at whim. Hell, he himself had almost died in Kenya, had only escaped death by hairbreadth.

But now, everything had been in vain… It wasn’t fair. One ought to teach these politicos a lesson… really. Damn socialists and commies, red pack! – Even Jupangora, that picture-book soldier, was peeved. There was a meeting at Kilwa-Kiwindje, where the HQ of the training division was located. Was he inclined to come along – and reminisce about his adventures in Kenya? The comrades might be interested…
 

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There are some with brains and some without. It makes for a better division of labour.
(Bertolt Brecht)

Being rich did have its advantages: with money, even a lost place like Los Alamitos could be turned into a palatial abode. Dad had been right. Wheat was worth a mint indeed. Some months ago, heavy agricultural machinery had arrived, sophisticated stuff made in the US. It meant the Kellers, Tom Senior and Tom Junior, could till the fields alone. And the fields were large, really large, because the Kellers had bought all real estate suitable for growing wheat.

Los Alamitos still was at the back of beyond. There was no TV, not even radio. And newspapers were arriving with a delay of one day, if they were running fast. But one had a generator farm, was producing electric light and electric current – and was operating fans, fridges, a deep freeze, phonographs, everything that ran with power. It wasn’t bad, really. – Jimena was busy with Tom III and little Clara; and she was pregnant once more. Tom was enjoying the trips to the city, Torreón that was. One was delivering the grain to Torreón, because that was the next rail station. And one was buying stuff over there.

Well, and one, Tom Senior and Tom Junior alike, was visiting the whorehouse, when in Torreón. It was a nice a relaxing side effect, because Jimena had grown into a fat matron – and because Mom was old, as far as Dad was concerned. One was riding to Torreón in a mighty road train, a lorry with four trailers, filled with grain. On the way back, the load beds were full with stuff one had bought. It was great; Tom Junior liked it very much. – Finding contractors for work one couldn’t perform oneself was difficult, as people were lacking everywhere. But money was telling in this respect as well.

He was a veritable land baron now, Tom Junior was flattering himself. It was a pity one couldn’t hire personnel, because that would be too expensive still. Perhaps later… A butler would be nice, and two or three young and sexy maids…
 
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