Chapter 25 Landing Point

The war room hummed with electricity beneath the recessed lights.

President Wang and President Pushkin faced each other across the rounded slab of the table, their words carrying the weight of history.

On walnut-paneled walls, a Russian flag hung proudly. While on the other, a Chinese flag mirrored its majesty, with its dragon emblem soaring.

Beyond large panorama windows, there was a viewing deck that accessed views of the swelling ocean stretched out into a vast expanse.

Pushkin had stonewalled some of Wang's proposals, while taking others on board, always calculating costs as they weighed each other's concessions. Wang inclined his head in agreement.

The frosted glass surface of the table displayed a three-dimensional holographic world – a sprawling digital landscape that vibrated with the hum of binary code.

Fleets of armies flowed across oceans and continents within glacial vessels, orchestrating invasions through shifting troop movements.

Missile drones armed with warheads that could incinerate entire cities poised on screens, ready to light up the night with white fireballs.

Communications officers commanded several stations, their voices muffled by encrypted headsets.

Generals and advisors from command centers abroad flickered across screens, their holographic projections conferencing as strategies were dissected.

When Gulag entered, six heavy-set guards dressed in matte black tactical gear shadowed and weapon-checked him before allowing him to proceed.

A sense of power and ruthless ambition pervaded the air like the ozone tang before a thunderstorm.

It was an atmosphere that Gulag thrived in as Wang directed his attention to the holographic world.

Wang's finger traced a path towards a fleet headed for the coast of the United States.

It would land at the Strait of Hormuz, a strategic chokepoint that controlled the flow of oil through the Persian Gulf.

Gulag became overwhelmed by the sensory overload as Pushkin Pointed toward the borders of Europe.

"We can see the entire continent at our fingertips, with all its military bases, airfields, and other strategic installations," Pushkin said

"The boundaries and political divisions between each nation are clear, as is the topography and terrain of the most advantageous positions."

Both leaders were confirmed and ready. They knew this was the beginning of a new world war, one that would be fought with very little resistance.

Wang crunched down on a handful of Brazil nuts, his jaws working like shark teeth.

He poured whiskey for the table, which Gulag accepted politely, his eyes reflecting the amber glow.

"A famous martial artist from my country once said. That the highest art is to subdue the enemy without fighting."

“Bruce Lee. The art of fighting without fighting,” said Gulag, feeling the warmth of brown nectar loosening his nerves.

Wang went from a languid standing position into a horse stance and then into a kung fu pose. Proceeding to chain punch in mid-air.

"Careful, Wang," Pushkin teased playfully. "Your joints are not as loose as they used to be."

"My kung fu could still beat your judo, my shorter Russian counterpart," Wang countered.

“I have a mat in my office if you want to do the man dance,” Pushkin Goaded.

"I will make space in my schedule," Wang replied with a smirk.

Pushkin downed his whiskey and poured himself another.

"Wang, could you please get to the point so we can continue?"

Wang gestured to a detailed 3D rendering of Taiwan. Glaciers, aircraft, and drones circled the island in a threatening formation.

"When Uncle presented to us your virus. We saw an opportunity to fight unconventionally."

"My virus enables China to fight outside the traditional rules of engagement without even firing a bullet first. The art of fighting without fighting."

Wang smiled, impressed by Gulag's razor-sharp intellect.

"Precisely. And With Russia as our most important ally.

Two hundred thousand troops will storm the beaches here, here and here."

Wang's finger darted across the projection, indicating diverse landing sites along Taiwan's coastline."

Pushkin swirled his whiskey watching the icecubes crash into each other.

"Hmm, a bold opening gambit to be sure. But sufficient force, considering the country no longer has a strong tradition of democracy and tolerance it has fallen on hard times."

All major population centers will be secured within three days," Wang stated flatly.

"Our armored divisions will then cut across the island. We expect capitulation within a week."

"Taiwan would be a nice addition to China's trophy cabinet, Mr. President,” Gulag said, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully.

“Especially with its natural resources and superconductor heart.

And a stepping stone to even greater things. I'm a strategist myself, a specialist if you like."

Wang and Pushkin looked at Gulag impressed. He had certainly earned his place at the table.

President Pushkin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a golden passport. He held it up to the light, admiring its luster.

"This is for you, Gulag," he said, handing it over.

"A token of our appreciation for your services."

Gulag took the passport and examined it carefully.

It was indeed a beautiful object, with his face embossed on the cover in gold leaf.

He opened it up and flipped through the pages, marveling at the intricate details.

"It's... beautiful," Gulag said.

"I'm glad you like it," Pushkin said with a smile.

"But I do not understand its meaning?"

"It's a symbol of your newfound status as a VIP in the world we are creating right now.

With this passport, you can go anywhere you want, and do anything you want.

You are above the law."

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"And how exactly do you see my role in this new world?

I am still the sole patented owner of the antidote, right?" Gulag inquired.

"Yes, of course, but this is a small matter for now." Pushkin deviated.

"On the geopolitical landscape, your plan to distribute the antidote has been expanded to other avenues to the benefit of both our countries."

"Without speaking out of place, Mr President, could you please elaborate?

I will still be rich and powerful? " Gulag asked with concern.

"Your new passport is a branch of our new Pax Russo-Siniensis passport.

In Latin, it means 'Russian-Chinese Peace Passport'," Pushkin asserted.

President Wang cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Gulag, my new friend. You underestimate what your new position will be.

It can be whatever you want it to be with immunity. And the money that is the easy part," Wang said.

"The truth is, China has a serious reproduction problem.

Our fertility rate has been below replacement levels for decades, and our population is shrinking.

It is a major problem for us, both economically and strategically."

"Chinese men are flaccid. Our Russian boys have steeler rods," Pushkin boasted.

Wang ignored Pushkin's Russian crassness.

"I see," Gulag nodded in understanding.

"And how does your new world order fit into this?"

"It's simple," Wang said.

"With your antidote, we can keep a slave population alive for breeding purposes.

This will ensure that China has a steady supply of labor and soldiers, even as our native population continues to decline."

"Are you implying that you want to create a new race of Chinese-Russian people?

You would use my antidote for such a purpose?" Gulag asked.

"Yes," Wang said without hesitation.

"We need to do everything we can to ensure survival and dominance in the new world order."

"Ethnic cleansing, Gulag." Pushkin proudly declared.

"One country, one religion, one passport, one power.

And you will be at the peak of the mountain."

Gulag overlooked the three-dimensional spectacle of the invasion, a seemingly infinite waterscape filled with soldiers moving across the oceans; while the unsuspecting world fought with each other in barbarity.

Pushkin and Wang had thrown a curve ball.

African-Chinese-Russians, European-Chinese-Russians, American-Chinese-Russians. Hell, even Muslim-Chinese-Russians. The religious complexity would be a conundrum Gulag thought.

Wang poured Gulag another stiff drink.

"Please Gulag make yourself feel comfortable. I see you have some concerns."

Gulag took the whiskey and thought for a moment.

"When I created this virus I wanted to create suffering and oppression."

Wang and Pushkin nodded.

"Speak Gulag. What is on your mind?" Pushkin prodded.

"I feel like my thunder has been stolen somewhat. I want to feel recognition like a president."

"We understand," Wang said placing his hands on Gulag's shoulders.

"We had a team of psychologists read your early diaries. We know of your morbid fascination with Dr. Joseph Mengele, 'the Angel of Death'."

"You want a free space where you can express your deepest desires?"

"A place where you can treat people unfairly and unjustly. With full immunity," Pushkin added.

"Give us a few minutes Gulag," Wang said

President Wang and President Pushkin went to the corner of the room, engaging in a diplomatic discussion for a few minutes, conferring with some senior political advisors.

Gulag's fingers drummed the table, eyes shifting from leader to leader, calculating his next move behind a facade of polite interest.

Once they had finished they returned with a new proposal

"Gulag, once we have taken control of the USA, we would like to officially make you the president of Greenland.

What do you think?"

Wang was offering a fresh glass of champagne to Gulag.

"Eskimos offer little in the way of contribution to our political designs," Pushkin decreed.

"The term is Inute's, not Eskimos, Pushkin" Wang laughed.

"Eskimo is considered to be an outdated and offensive term by many Inuit people."

"I don't give a Russian bear shit Wang."

Gulag accepted the bubbly. Shifting himself between the two sparring presidents.

Gulag pondered his new title as President of Greenland.

Controlling the Arctic expanded his control. Human experimentation afforded free indulgence through immunity.

Yet ruling a frigid backwater seemed a poor match for his virological talents.

As their plans progressed, perhaps new horizons would open - even new offerings of new territories.

"Very well, my fellow presidents. I feel my needs have been catered for.

But I must request that I do not spend too much time in Greenland.

My talents are best served in warmer climates, with five-star facilities?"

"Your passport guarantees you exclusive access. To any palaces, stately homes, or ranches in any country you please Gulag." Wang said.

With plans now set, they turned to currency matters. Wang put a coin on the table.

Pushkin put a crisp note on the table. On both sides of each was a portrait of the respective presidents.

"These are just the early prototypes of the new One World Currency, the Friendship Coin," said Pushkin spinning the coin like a spinning top.

"And of course the Friendship Note," Wang was admiring his side view shot on the note.

"Don't they look wonderful Gulag?"

"You do look like a fetching pair," Gulag observed.

"As long as enough Friendship Notes are flowing into my bank account every day. I don't care what the currency is.

Can I request to have my own Currency in circulation as well? I think my face would fit well on a note or two?"

"Sorry Gulag, no can do," Wang said seriously.

"One currency for all is all we will offer. But I am sure we can make you a high-value cryptocurrency."

"A pump-and-dump crypto market," Pushkin concluded.

"We must have later discussions about a virtual currency market," Wang said.

"One thing that is on my mind," Gulag asked.

"Is what's the plan? where are we headed?"

"We will cruise in style for the next few months while the ground invasions unfold," said Wang.

"Then we will arrive in the USA while it's on its knees," Pushkin added.

"We have many countries that sympathize with our cause. They will be joining us on land also."

President Wang had just finished speaking when suddenly there was a loud knock on the thick oak doors as the meeting was coming to an end.

"Who is it?" barked Wang irritably.

The doors ground open to reveal Uncle and Victor Petrov, the latter clutching a file nervously - a report from Uncle's intel cell.

"Forgive the intrusion, my esteemed leaders," began Petrov, bowing deeply.

"But we have an urgent matter that requires Gulag's attention."

"It is President Gulag, that is how you must address me."

"President!" said Uncle puzzled

"I am the new President of Greenland," Gulag said appointingly.

Gulag straightened with interest while Wang and Pushkin frowned, exchanging annoyed looks.

"This had better be good, Victor," snapped Pushkin.

"We were just concluding important business."

Petrov launched into a harried explanation about Grey's sensor, detecting movement. But Gulag read the file for about a second and screwed it up into a ball.

"Victor. There is no need to disturb us over such trivial trifles."

"With respect, this development is most... curious." Uncle said

Wang's eyes tightened with irritation. "Are you suggesting that this fool Grey could compromise our operations?"

Before Uncle could reply, Pushkin slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the whiskey glasses.

"Enough. We plan domination," Pushkin stated.

"Victor, deal with your man and report back if anything substantive arises."

With Gulag watching them thoughtfully, Petrov and Uncle retreated. Grey's audacious movement was dismissed as a mere distraction, not worth his time.

The mini-summit ended on a sour note as the three presidents contemplated any potential threats to their rising tyranny - small or otherwise.