This book was originally published starting in 2018 and continued into 2019. But it began much earlier than that.

Around 2010 my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. No real surprise, it runs in the family, and there had been signs the preceding five years or so. That led me on a journey reminiscing with him about my earliest memories and gave me an idea:

What if someone could remember the future?

What if they could remember every possible permutation of the future they could conceivably experience?

That led to extensive research over the next decade as I compiled a timeline and hundreds of browser bookmarks. From technologies to important people and dates. Special thanks to Wikipedia for this.

Writing finally began in 2018 as my Dad continued to decline. The person he was had mostly left us, but there were still glimmers of the old him there.

He passed just as the series was coming to an end, a full eight novellas. The last part was unfortunately shorter than I had intended, as I found it impossible to write for a time after his death.

Beginning in 2025, I dusted off this early work, and revamped it, adding significant amounts of dialog and story. I've also broken it down into chapters, as the original novella was just continuous text.

From an original novella of just over 25,000 words, this segment of the story has been hugely expanded. It is now the sixth of nine novels based specifically on the original Deadlines novella and is over 94,000 words.

This ninth novel in the rewritten series is entitled, Sovereignty.

While it may be inspired by my own memories, the people mentioned are entirely fictional characters, with no relation to reality. Especially where historical figures are used. Every effort has been made to follow the rules of Alternate History, where real life characters, living and dead, are used for the verisimilitude and world building, not cheap laughs or as critical commentary.

I hope you enjoy this story, it means very much to me.

❖

PT Brainum

pt.brainum@gmail.com​

September 14th, 1991 was a delightfully cool and dry 62-degree morning in Sana'a. The high mountain valley of Yemen reminded me of days at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado. The morning air was filled with the scent of burning charcoal and the acrid but sweet acacia woodsmoke against the background of jet fuel as I exited the plane, pausing to take in the view from the top of the stairs.

El Rahaba airport shared its heartbeat with Al-Dailami Air Base. Familiar MiG-21s, MiG-29s and Antonov transport planes were comically hidden under jungle camouflage netting at the military apron in the distance. Closer to the apron a HeavyLift An-124 was slowly shutting its rear cargo door. I paused to watch the massive clamshell doors seal. Workers were moving around it like ants at a picnic, laboriously shifting the 125 tons of food just delivered. It had been going on since August 22nd, and the experience showed in the organized manner of the cargo workers.

The stairs had deployed from the forward door, so I moved quickly down them, following the new additions to my security team. Jack stood at the door watching them, his eyes narrowed. They were doing their job, but he was eager for 'teaching opportunities.' Halfway down the stairs I felt him move to take his position at my back.

A worn, thick red carpet had been unrolled at the bottom of the stairs. A legacy of the Soviet days. Three primary greeters stood at the end of the carpet for my arrival, backed by their own security. A detachment of Republican Guard with camouflage uniforms and red berets.

"Be good, Misha, remember we are guests. If you aren't sure what to do, nothing is best," I said in Ukrainian as I put a hand on the shoulder of the security officer standing at the base of the stairs just before I reached the bottom.

I walked down the red carpet feeling a silly moment of transposition. I was suddenly  wondering where Samantha was, and if she would have been nervous on this red carpet as much as the one at the Oscars.

Dr Abd al-Karim al-Iryani stood front and center. His warm two-handed greeting began with "Ahlan wa Sahlan," then he paused.

I watched him eye the four big guards in black graphene suits, submachine guns, sunglasses and earpieces. Before he could switch to French or English I responded.

"Ahlan bik, Ya Doktoor," I said in Modern Standard Arabic, but using the Hard 'G' in 'Doctor'. "I am honored by the family I find here. I have brought the grain of my home to ensure that the ease you promise is shared by all your people."

I looked over at my guards who were standing at rigid attention. "Ostaytes' u trapa." (Stay at the stairs).

When I looked back I found a thin, knowing smile. He switched to English. "Your Arabic is as precise as your logistics, Dr Cook. We have much to discuss."

"We do," I said. "How are my advisors? Are you getting better advice and assistance from them now that they are being paid to do their best, instead of what Moscow told them to do and then failed to pay for?"

"They are... rejuvenated," al-Iryani replied, his voice dropping to a tone of conspiratorial respect. "A man who is paid in bread and dignity works with much more 'Gowa' than a man who is paid in promises and ideology. You have transformed our 'advisors' from mourners of a dead union into architects of a new nation. But tell me, Dr Cook—now that you have bought their loyalty, do you intend to use them here, or are you just checking the inventory of your new estate?"

"I find myself in an odd place, as I'm sure you can imagine," I said as looked over his shoulder toward a line of black Mercedes-Benz 500SELs waiting near the edge of the carpet. "I inherited the assets of a dead empire by agreeing to pay all their debts. I've found that the moral debt they left behind is much greater than the debt in gold. I hope my unannounced delivery of food to start to pay that debt wasn't too much of an inconvenience."

The man on Dr al-Iryani's right moved forward for a single strong handshake. "Welcome to the Air Base," General Mohammed Abdullah Saleh said in Arabic.

The man on his left smoothly stepped forward as he stepped back after asserting his dominance, I was on his territory.

"Your planes arrive at precisely the same moment every morning at our four airports," Minister of Interior Yahya al-Mutawakel said. "It is a smooth and impressive delivery." His handshake was quick, polite but firm.

I was directed to the right side of the second Mercedes. Jack moved into the front passenger seat, hand near his weapon, but not on it. I slid into the rear seat behind him.

Dr al-Iryani started to get in the left side, then was tapped on the shoulder. Minister al-Mutawakel slid in first, a small box on his lap, then Dr al-Iryani slid into the cool, leather-scented interior of the Mercedes. The heavy armored door closed with a solid thud that silenced the rising whine of the distant spooling Antonov engines.

Dr al-Iryani watched me with the careful gaze of a man trying to solve a complex equation in his head. Outside the tinted glass, the dust of Sana’a kicked up by the departing food trucks created a golden haze around the Soviet-made anti-aircraft batteries guarding the perimeter.

"Inconvenience is a word for uninvited cousins," Dr al-Iryani said answering the question I had asked. "Not for a man who lands four hundred tons of wheat a day during a famine." He leaned back smoothing his jacket as the convoy began to move, his eyes watching me carefully.

Al-Mutawakel opened his box revealing his passport stamps, and held out his hand. I pulled the blue passport with the golden Tryzub from my inside jacket pocket. He took it, reviewed it briefly and stamped it, then returned it to me.

"His Excellency the President was convinced it was a plan to leave us indebted to you," Dr al-Iryani revealed in Arabic.

Al-Mutawakel didn't look down at his box as he clicked the stamp shut, his eyes remained on Jack and the driver. "The President worries about debt," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp compared to al-Iryani’s polished tone. "But the Vice President cheers a socialist gift."

Dr al-Iryani tried to rescue the conversation. "By delivering to our four airports in Sana'a, Al Hudaydah, Aden and Mukalla," he said. "You are feeding the tribes of the mountains and the sailors of the south in equal measure, Dr Cook."

"You are either a very generous man, or you are making it very difficult for our two leaders to disagree on who deserves your friendship more," Minister Al-Mutawakel remarked.

I understood what was being said. The two Alis had decided I was a friend, until shown otherwise. I would also need to be prepared for them to compete over who could be the better friend.

The Soviet-built airport transitioned into the gingerbread houses of Bab al-Yaman. The tall dark basalt stone houses with their white gypsum trim, and men gathered on street corners with plastic bags of freshly picked qat. Ancient buildings and ancient customs, here before the Soviets, and here long after.

We passed through rings of security. Saleh's elite Republican Guards snapped to attention at each gate. Their eyes lingered on Jack in the front seat as we passed. Beyond the walls and through the arch with the Golden Eagle of Saladin the city and its bustle vanished. The air felt suddenly colder.

Stepping out of the vehicle I was greeted with the vibrant walls of color from the blooming bougainvillea climbing the interior walls, and the strong sweet scent of Arabian Jasmine on the morning breeze. Oleander trees with pink and peach flowers competed with the pink roses.

Jack took his position at my back as I headed toward the heavy wood doors of the Palace. Beyond the threshold the floor moved from the basalt stones to polished wood and thick carpets that swallowed footsteps. I walked at an even, stately pace, as I headed for the wood doors of the majlis, the traditional meeting room.

The room was lined with a continuous and elevated sofa parallel to the walls. Furthest from the doors sat two men together.

President Ali Abdullah Saleh was on my left, looking serious and resembling a Mexican bandito from one of my Dad's favorite old western movies. Vice President Ali Salem al-Beidh was taking the chance to smile, his bushy eyebrows and mustache reminding me of Geraldo Rivera.

Beyond the couches the room was decorated with 'Dictator Chic.' Intricately carved wooden ceilings and plaster filigree where guards stood like knife-wielding statues, while gold-trimmed French style furniture and heavy silk curtains offered a modern counterpoint to an ancient room.

I continued my steady march up to the two gentlemen. They seemed suddenly uncomfortable at my steady, confident approach. President Saleh moved his arm from the back of the couch where he had adopted a relaxed pose and stood with an athletic grace. Vice President Al-Beidh moved to mirror him but paused to smooth his Western-style suit as he stood.

The President took a slow predatory step forward. His eyes were locked on mine, and his smile didn't reach his eyes. Al-Beidh followed a second later, a look of profound curiosity replacing his practiced socialist mask.

I reached out and took President Saleh's hand while the air between us thickened with the scent of heavy cardamom and burning frankincense. He didn't just pump my hand once and let go like a New York banker, but instead he wrapped his left hand over the top of mine, trapping my palm in a warm and calloused vise. He held it there for several long seconds, pulling me a half-step closer into his personal space so he could search my eyes for any sign of a boy behind the mask of a sovereign. I felt the weight of his curiosity and the strength of a man who had survived a dozen coups. I didn't pull away or look down, letting the ancient gold of my Scythian ring press against his palm until he finally released me with a slow nod of approval.

"It is such a pleasure to meet the Brothers Ali," I told them as Al-Beidh took my hands to repeat the ritual, his eyes widening at the appellation I'd bestowed on them.

"I cheered when I had heard that you two had rejected the poison of the Cold War, joining together. Red versus blue, such a monumental idiocy. To claim that there are only two colors in a world filled with a rainbow of places and people."

They stepped back together unsure what I was doing, but I continued with a clear room carrying volume. "What you Brothers," I said, applying the appellation again in Yemeni-accented Arabic, "are doing is so monumentally important for the world. You are showing that people and sovereignty is what is important. Not foreign ideology. I've been doing what I can for the moral debt that I inherited, and I have plans to legally eliminate much of the hard debt that remains as well, but more important is helping Yemen build something that is neither south or north. A sovereignty that demonstrates that two men can make a peace that lasts. An example for the rest of the world struggling with a triumphant strutting west that still doesn't care about anyone else and a dead east that has already been buried. You give me hope for places like Korea where the old ideological lines are drawn with tanks and landmines, not just colors and ink on maps."

As I spoke, my eyes stayed on the two men I had declared Brothers. I stayed aware of the peripheral movement of the others. Al-Iryani and Al-Mutawakel had followed us in, peeling off to find their designated spots on the long sofas like chess pieces returning to a board. The Air Base General, the President's real half brother, lingered near the entrance, his presence a reminder that my wings were currently resting on his tarmac. Behind the leaders, the shadow guards stood so still they could have been part of the plaster filigree, their eyes the only things moving as they tracked Jack’s every breath.

Saleh didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes locked on mine for a beat too long while a thin and unreadable smile played across his face. Then he made a nearly imperceptible motion with his right hand toward a young man standing near the sideboard. It was a silent command that broke the tension of my speech and signaled that the formal audience had transitioned into a private session.

The server moved with practiced efficiency, carrying a silver tray with a long-necked dallah and small porcelain finjans. He approached me first as the guest of honor, and the steam rising from the pot carried the sharp and aggressive scent of ginger and cardamom. This was the test of the transition. Saleh was watching to see if I knew how to handle the cup, and more importantly, if I knew that in this room, the coffee was never just coffee.

The server gave his slight bow in the corner of my eye, and leaned in with the silver pot, but I didn't look down at the porcelain cup he held out. I kept my gaze fixed on Saleh's dark, measuring eyes, reaching out with my right hand and taking the finjan with a grip on the outer rim that ignored the scalding heat of the ceramic. I felt the Scythian gold on my right ring finger click against the porcelain as they curled under the bottom of the handleless cup. The yellowish, ginger-scented liquid they called coffee splashed into the bottom of the cup. I took a single, slow sip, the aggressive spice of the cardamom blooming at the back of my throat, and then I held the cup out toward the server. With a sharp, practiced flick of my wrist, I let the cup shimmer in the light—the silent command of a man who had sat in a thousand Majlises and intended to sit in a thousand more. I wasn't just a guest anymore. I was a man who knew the rhythm of their world as well as they did.

Saleh finally looked away from my hand and toward the sofa with a slow and calculated blink. He gestured with a broad and open palm toward the section of the continuous sofa directly opposite him, which was the seat of a peer. "It seems the desert has a way of revealing a man's true lineage sooner than the classroom," Saleh said as he lowered himself back into his seat with the athletic grace of a predator returning to its perch. "Sit, Dr Cook. You speak of Korea and the poison of the Cold War with the tongue of a poet, but you land wheat with the hands of a king. My brother tells me your planes are like a clock that never loses a second."

I walked to the designated spot and sat down without leaning back into the cushions, maintaining a straight and focused posture. Al-Beidh sat to Saleh's left, mirroring the President's position but leaning forward with an intensity that made his bushy eyebrows twitch. Behind them, the shadow guards shifted their weight almost imperceptibly, their hands never straying far from the traditional hilts of their janbiyas or the hidden holsters beneath their jackets. Jack moved to my back, standing in the reserved gap between the sofa and the wall, becoming his own version of a silent and lethal statue.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of the cooling ginger coffee and the heavy floral notes of the palace gardens drifting through the high windows. Saleh leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes searching mine as if trying to find the diary where I kept my darkest secrets. "You mentioned the moral debt of the Soviets," he said, his voice dropping to a low and dangerous rasp. "That is a fine phrase for a speech, but Yemen is a land of hard stone and harder numbers. Tell us why you are really here, and tell us why you believe you have the right to speak of our sovereignty as if you were the one who helped us forge it."

I gave him my best grandfatherly smile, something the memories of my futures let me pull off with ease. "You seem like a man who appreciates direct speech," I said. "Sovereignty isn't forged by itself, it is built of many pieces. Some fit together better than others, but it becomes whole only in use, never as a decoration.

"Sometimes it is shared," I said nodding at his Vice President. "Sometimes it is held by the people themselves. My book, Handasat al-Umran, is dedicated to the Sovereignty of Mankind because innate Sovereignty has a handle for every hand, and it must never be relinquished.

"Yet, my proposal is going to sound just like that."

I looked around the room, I had everyone's attention. Even Jack was having a hard time looking anywhere but me.

"It begins with the assets I own from the Reset Trust. While I'm sure the $6.7 billion in Yemeni debt I acquired concerns you, don't let it. I'm asking everyone to publicly claim or insinuate that the debt isn't owed anymore because the USSR is extinct. That way when it goes to auction on October 23rd a Swedish nonprofit I established can buy it all up for pennies on the dollar, and then legally restructure it to a zero-interest 100 year loan. It essentially forgives it, without harming your global credit record, or harming my fiduciary duty to maximize the assets I acquired when I liquidate them.

"The new Republics are expecting a payday from the difference between the debts I've paid and the assets I will liquidate. To forgive a mountain of debt, but in turn to beat a man for a stone's worth is wrong, and this is my way to make sure the death of the USSR benefits everyone. They'll still get a payday, but it is not going to be at the expense of the sovereign nations that already lived through the boot-on-the-neck diplomacy of the Soviet Empire."

Saleh leaned back, the leather of the sofa creaking under his weight. He traded a long, unreadable look with al-Beidh, whose eyebrows were knit so tight they nearly met.

"You ask us to lie to the world so your Swedish hand can buy our chains for the price of scrap metal," Saleh said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the floorboards. "It is a clever game, Dr Cook. Very 'American.' But why do you care if Yemen pays the Russians or the Swedes? You have the grain, you have the ships. Why give us the air we need to breathe for free?"

"Everyone always asks that," I said with a nod. "Vietnam, Mongolia, everyone. I'll tell you what I told them, that transfer and reduction is set. Participate in the ruse or not, it doesn't matter. It is arranged and will happen no matter what. It requires nothing from you. You don't have to agree to anything else I propose, and if I fell over dead right now, it would still happen. It is a global Ihsan. I am so rich that it causes me no harm, and it turns the last bit of evil and ugliness of the Soviet Empire into something beautiful."

I sat for a moment, letting the silence of the Majlis act as a canvas for the numbers I’d just thrown into the air. Saleh’s eyes were narrowed, but al-Beidh looked as though I’d just told him the gravity of the Earth had been suspended.

"Six point seven billion," Dr al-Iryani whispered from the sofa. The sound was small, but it cut through the room like a gunshot. He looked at President Saleh, his face pale. "Excellency, if he does this... the interest payments alone... it is more than our entire oil revenue for the next three years."

Saleh didn't look at his minister. He kept his predatory gaze on me. "Ihsan is for a mosque, or a well for a thirsty village," he said, his voice a low growl of disbelief. "It is not for the balance sheet of a nation. No man gives away a mountain for the pleasure of the view."

I leaned forward, the heavy cardamom scent of the coffee still lingering on my breath. "I told you, I am paying a moral debt. But you are right, President Saleh. I am also an architect, and I have found the perfect place for a foundation.

"I have no interest in your mountain of paper, but I have a great deal of interest in your water. Specifically, the two square miles of rusted concrete and sun-bleached asphalt the Soviets left behind on Socotra."

I saw a flicker of movement from the Air Base General near the door. The word 'Socotra' had a specific weight for him—it was the island where his MiGs were supposed to be the kings of the Indian Ocean, but currently sat as expensive lawn ornaments.

"Socotra is a sanctuary of goats and dragons," Vice President al-Beidh said, finding his voice but sounding wary. "The Soviets wanted a base there to stare at the Americans. What do you want?"

"I want a gateway," I said. "And I want to build it without moving a single stone of your sanctuary."

I reached into my jacket and pulled out a thin, leather-bound folder. I didn't hand it to a server. I walked it over and placed it on the low gilt table between the two Alis.

"The six square miles starting at the Khor Ghubah East Lagoon. Four miles long 1.5 miles deep. I'll move the old Soviet PMTO docks to the new location," I continued. "I want a perpetual lease on that spot. In return, a Waqf for the future of Yemen will build an International Freeport, managed by the Swiss Kuehne + Nagel, creating a multi-modal cargo hub that will rival Singapore. A seaport and a cargo airport integrated into a single high-velocity lens. It will focus every cargo container heading for Suez onto high-speed Suez-ready ships.

"Because I know you worry about your soil, it won't expand inland, it will expand out. A floating extension of modular concrete, floating piers that reach into the deep water for the largest container ships in the world.

"The security will be handled by a Saudi-owned and flagged squadron of my acquired vessels. Initially manned by the very sailors I just bought from the Soviets. The Waqf will pay the Saudis a token fee for the 'protection' of their tankers and every other ship passing along the coast and into the Red Sea, which keeps their hands off your island, while your treasury and my Waqf split the profits fifty-fifty.

"I am offering to turn your island into the busiest port in the Indian Ocean. You trade a squatter for a partner. One of six global Independent Freeports. You trade a tiny bit of sovereignty and six square miles of soil for a perpetual income stream and permanent access to the global conveyor belt of trade. You won't need me to send you planes of food when you can afford it yourself."

I didn't sit again. I stood there, my hand still resting momentarily on the edge of the gilt table, looking down at the two men who held the fate of the Red Sea in their hands. I wanted them to feel the weight of the shipping I was planning, not the depth of the cushions.

Saleh’s eyes didn't go to the folder. They stayed on me, dark and calculating. He was looking for the 'American' trick despite my arrival under a Ukrainian passport. But al-Beidh couldn't help himself. He leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows twitching as he reached out a hand—almost tentatively—toward the leather cover of the folder.

"Singapore," al-Beidh murmured, the word sounding like a prayer in the quiet room. "The British left them a swamp, and they built a mountain of gold. But they have land, Dr Cook. You speak of floating concrete and Saudi flags. You speak of a port that has no roots in the earth."

"It has roots in the trade winds, Excellency," I replied, my voice calm and steady. "And it has roots in the fact that every ship coming out of the Gulf is currently terrified of what has happened in the north. I am offering them a return to calm water for the region."

Saleh finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He ignored al-Beidh’s wonder. "The Saudis do not get paid for the privilege of guarding, Dr Cook. They pay for others to do the guarding. You say your 'Waqf' will pay them a token? You are asking me to allow the wolves to guard the gate and then tell me I am the one who owns the key."

"The house of Saud is terrified," I told him. "SynFuel means the end of pumping crude globally in the next 25 years. They just saw their own wells burned by a hostile Iraqi army, and are paying every painful bill the alliance that defended them puts on the table.

"Kuwait signed a 10 year security agreement with the US and got permission to build a solar thermal SynFuel plant, securing their place in the global new energy hierarchy. The house of Saud will buy all the ships I'm willing to sell them, and hire all the ex-Soviet sailors who will work for them, and they will gladly take a pittance for a legal right to guard from Socotra to Tartus, another new Independent Freeport in the Mediterranean. If they paid for the privilege they would consider themselves owners, by being paid they are just the contract labor. It gives them a Naval shield they own, and they know pleasing me ensures they get to join the SynFuel club early.

"Most importantly it sets the stage for a restructuring of Yemeni influence, and the Middle East. I might be a Physicist by education, but I'm an Engineer by heart. I want to build a structure of overlapping interests so strong that everyone happily makes friends and guards each other's backs. Socotra will soon be the hub for international aid for the coming collapse of Somalia and the plague of pirates that will swarm the Red Sea as the power vacuum of the dead Union continues."

Saleh snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound that echoed off the plaster filigree. "The Somalis? They are too busy killing each other for a bag of rice to worry about a tanker. A few fishermen with rusty AKs in a dory are not a 'plague,' Dr Cook. They are a mosquito bite on the neck of the world's trade."

"A mosquito carries malaria, Excellency," I countered, keeping my voice low. "The MV Naviluck wasn't a mosquito bite, it was a funeral pyre. That was before Siad Barre's generals realized they could make more money from a captive captain than a looted cargo. The vacuum the Soviets have left isn't just a lack of power—it is a global invitation to every desperate man with a gun."

Al-Iryani looked up from the folder, his finger tracing the line of the 'High-Velocity Lens' port design. "He is right about the timing, Ali," he said, addressing the President by his first name—a sign of their deep history. "If the Red Sea becomes a gauntlet, the insurance rates for the tankers will triple. If Socotra is the only port that offers protection, 'Saudi-flagged' or not, it won't matter what the fuel is. Every ship will stop there."

"Best of all, Saudi-flagged ships will get no objection if they start sinking pirates," I told them with a feral grin. "Not from the West, not from Europe, not from the rest of the Middle East. A 100mm gun on a Krivak-class Frigate is a happy little pirate ender."​

Saleh’s eyes dropped to the folder at last. He didn't open it yet, but he placed a hand on it, claiming it. "Fifty-fifty," he said, the words slow and tasting of salt. "One half to the Treasury of the Republic. This is clear. But the other half? You say it goes to your 'Waqf.' I have spent my life watching foreigners build 'foundations' that are merely banks for their own influence. Who sits on the board of this Waqf, Dr Cook? And where does the gold actually flow?"

I didn't sit. I kept my position, as the architect, at the head of the table. "The other fifty percent replaces the global soft power the world lost with the death of the Soviet Empire. It builds schools, hospitals, and all those other good deeds the Empire did just before sticking a gun to the head of the nation getting them.

"All six Freeports, working in unison, with half the net profit to build infrastructure for their host country and the rest of the world. You want a new hospital in Sana'a and Aden, or a dozen clinics in the rural villages? Tell the Freeport, they can fund it. You want a Socotra Yemen University built somewhere to spread your international influence? Tell the Freeport. They'll look at the proposal and decide whether to fund it. As far as the ports themselves, they fall under an unchangeable set of rules so they keep operating at peak efficiency. You are welcome to audit the books of Kuehne + Nagel anytime if you question the profit numbers being generated."

General Mohammed Abdullah Saleh had been watching and listening patiently. As the founder and commander of the Central Security Forces, he wasn't interested in the 'poetry of sovereignty.' His only reality was the texture of his rifle and the boots he commanded on the ground. Guarding the borders and his brother's back was his life. We were discussing a huge hole in his defense perimeter, and he wasn't happy.

"You speak of a 'High-Velocity Lens' and floating piers, Dr Cook, but a ship is still a piece of steel that can carry a battalion. If your 'Saudi-flagged' squadron decides to turn its guns away from the pirates and toward Hadibo, who stops them? My MiGs on that island are currently resting because of a lack of parts, not a lack of spirit. Are you offering me a port, or are you offering the Saudis a permanent aircraft carrier two hundred miles off our coast that I can no longer monitor?"

"AAR Global took over Aviaexport," I told him. "There's no reason you can't order the parts you need. They have even leased some of the factories to keep the parts flowing. Fighter jets, Antonov or Ilyushin airplanes, even any of the Soviet helicopters. They've got the parts, the repairmen and the certifications and warranties that go with them.

"As far as the Saudis I'm only selling them ships. President Bush would be unhappy if I killed the trade deal he arranged. They are going to buy new American fighter jets. He's not completely happy with the Freeports either, but that is just too bad. They are too important. Even if they do dilute the American hegemony, the world needs a way that trade can't ever be strangled, or to let ideology block borders again.

"I named the organization that bought the assets the 'Cook Reset Trust' for a reason. I'm resetting the world for the next century. My Freeports will only ever have one allowed military force venture inside, the one that is hired to be there to keep everyone else out."

Minister al-Mutawakel seemed to catch himself from the daydream he was seeing with a sudden fear. "So, the ships are Saudi in name, the sailors are Russians you bought, and the manager is a Swiss company. Where are the Yemenis in this 'New World'? Are we just the landlords of a 6-mile strip of concrete while foreigners sail our waters and fly our skies?"

"As I told al-Assad in Syria, the Freeport is a port, not a city. It is going to need 20,000 Yemeni willing to live in Socotra, and another 80,000 to support them there. The Saudis are never going to have the population or desire to man all the ships on their own. They might manage to crew a flagship, but not a dozen destroyers. While Ukraine or Russia might authorize the use of their citizens to sail the Saudi ships, it is not a long-term solution. Fortunately, the Naval training base  in Sevastopol is owned by Ukraine now. I think that they would be happy to have paying customers to run through their training courses. That sounds like an excellent thing for the Waqf to fund. A native Arabic speaking crew would make a Saudi-flagged ship much more palatable to everyone else as well.

"Imagine a Saudi flagged fleet guarding a Greek cargo ship heading for Suez, manned by Saudi, Yemeni and Syrian sailors. If that doesn't say the Arab world is united, I don't know what does."

President Saleh didn't move, but the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. The image of Yemeni sailors operating a fleet that the Saudis paid for was a masterful stroke of ego-management. In the Arab world, prestige was a currency as hard as gold. I had just offered him a way to put his people on the most modern ships in the Indian Ocean.

Al-Beidh, the socialist dreamer, was already nodding. He saw the 'United Arab' optics. Saleh, the realist, saw the tactical advantage. If the crews were Yemeni, the ships were practically his, no matter what flag flew from the mast.

"You are a dangerous man, Dr Cook," President Saleh said, finally opening the leather folder. He didn't look at the diagrams of the floating piers. He looked at the signature line. "You don't just build ports. You build traps that look like gifts. But a man who is starving does not care if the bread is a trap."

He looked over at General Mohammed. "The General will want to see the specifications for the 'AAR Global' repair contracts. If my MiGs fly, and my men sail, then the 'gateway' stays open." He turned back to me, his dark eyes finally showing a glimmer of something that wasn't suspicion. "We will discuss the Waqf. But for today, tell your pilots to keep the wheat coming. It is the best gift we have received in years."

"Then I have a few more gifts for you," I said maintaining the local Arabic accent I'd been using. "You have tens of thousands of ambitious students among your returnees. I've got a nonprofit ready to fund their immediate enrollment in the old Soviet Naval schools. It is an intense course, it needs your best and brightest.

"When the auction of the Reset Trust assets happens on October 23rd, I'll be ready to break ground immediately on the Freeport. That is 20,000 construction workers needed for modern construction techniques.

"That same education nonprofit can sort through the camps, figure out who has the skills already, and set up a training program for the rest. When Saudi Arabia cancels their ban, they will be ready and trained to go anywhere else in the world instead, if they decide the summers in Riyadh are not worth the pay."

"A man with a trade is a man with an anchor," Dr al-Iryani murmured, his eyes moving from me to the President. The academic in him had caught the scent of the university students, but the politician in him had seen the relief on Saleh's face at the mention of the twenty thousand. To both of them, those men were a ticking clock of unrest. To me, they were a construction crew I'd need for the next 20 years.

President Saleh let out a short, dry laugh that lacked his usual predatory edge. He leaned back, the folder resting on his lap like a captured prize. "You want my students for the cold of Ukraine and my builders for the heat of the Indian Ocean," he said, his voice regaining its gravelly strength. "You are stripping the tinder from my fire, Dr Cook. If I give you these men, I am giving you the future of the Republic to mold in your image."

"I am molding them into the image of their own sovereignty," I corrected him, my voice steady and devoid of any hustle. "The Saudis treated them like disposable parts. I am treating them like the key gears of a new Red Sea. When they return from Sevastopol with the rank of Officer, or from the Freeport with a certification in graphene-reinforced construction, they will be the most valuable men in the Middle East. You won't just have a port, you will have the technical elite required to run a modern state without begging for outside 'advisors' ever again.

"I'll also be ready to hire them on my other building projects around the world. I always pay my people the best rates, so be prepared to have to fight to keep them," I said with a grin.

Vice President al-Beidh reached over and tapped the leather folder, his bushy eyebrows raised in a rare moment of genuine alignment with his partner. "A hundred-year loan at zero interest and a university for our sons," he said, looking at Saleh. "Ali, if we say no to this man, we are the ones setting the trap for our people." Saleh didn't answer immediately. He simply watched me with that measuring gaze, finally giving a single, decisive nod to Minister al-Mutawakel to begin the paperwork for the 'Security Clearances' of the twenty thousand students.

I returned to my seat, no longer needing to address the Freeport. But all was not well with Yemen yet. My daily four planes were just enough to keep the returnees fed. The four airports were in the regions that they had already congregated to. My deliveries were consolidating the camps as well, the men being moved to be closer to the airports. That was good, but the living conditions weren't even tents, in some cases it was cardboard.

I flipped the finjan, the traditional coffee cup, upright in my right hand and caught the eye of the Gahwaji, the traditional server. He poured the strange mixture into the cup, and I wished for a mug of cafezinho instead. I didn't take a sip, instead I set it on the table. It took a moment for the room to really notice what I had done.

"Last week," I said, then counted the days on my fingers. "Most of last week, I was in Brazil. There I finished a program started in June to stabilize their economy and end inflation permanently. My port proposal requires I purchase the land directly and establish the Freeport with the Soviet assets already there. Then I buy the assets from the Reset Trust at the auction, to make sure the Waqf controls it all.

"I'd like to make that purchase with Yemeni Rials. I'd also like to buy an additional 10 square miles nearby, outside the Freeport, to build the modern city that will support the Freeport on Socotra. I also want to make that purchase with Rials.

"I paid Angola $500 million for their Freeport land in Luanda, it is about the same size as yours. I'll pay another billion in US dollars for an empty site suitable for a city of a hundred thousand."

Dr al-Iryani's eyes went wide as the penny dropped. "Dr Cook, you are not asking us to print more Rials are you?" he questioned.

"I am not," I said. "I'm offering you the opportunity to fix your inflation problem. If I buy 18 billion Rials at the official 12 to 1 exchange rate for $1.5 billion, then you burn that cash when I give it back to you for the land, and you stop printing more, your inflation problem stops immediately. You don't have to print more, you will now have a nest egg to get you through the time it takes for the Freeport to be built and become profitable."

Al-Beidh did not wait for al-Iryani to explain the math. He surged to his feet with his face turning a dark shade of bruised purple. His hand came down on the table with a crack that made the empty coffee cups dance. "You want us to burn it?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the wood paneled walls. "We are a nation of paupers and refugees, Dr Cook. My people in the South are wearing rags and eating once a day. You bring us a billion dollars and then tell us to set fire to the only means we have to pay our soldiers and feed our children? This is the ultimate capitalist arrogance. You want to strip us of our sovereignty and turn the Republic into a company town where we must beg you for every credit."

I didn't blink or move a muscle. I just watched him vibrate with a righteous Socialist fury that was twenty years out of date. He saw the piles of paper as wealth, but he couldn't see the rot that was hollowing them out from the inside. To him, money was a decree from the state, not a medium of exchange. He was looking at the fire I wanted to start and seeing a funeral pyre for his revolution. He didn't understand that the fire was the only thing that would keep the house from collapsing.

"Sit down, Ali," President Saleh said, though his voice was quiet and dangerous. He didn't look at his Vice President. He was still watching al-Iryani, who was busy scribbling figures on a napkin with a silver pen. Saleh knew his partner was an emotional creature, but he also knew that al-Iryani didn't get excited about nothing. Al-Iryani had a manic air about him as he made calculations, muttering to himself. The General stayed silent, his hand resting near his holster, clearly more comfortable with a shouting match than a lecture on monetary supply.

"I am not asking you to burn wealth," I said, my voice dropping an octave to pull the room back to me. "I am asking you to burn the illusion of wealth. Every Rial you print right now is a lie that steals from the man who earned a Rial yesterday. In Brazil, men would carry suitcases of money to buy a loaf of bread. By the time they reached the front of the line, the price had doubled and the money was worthless. Is that the sovereignty you want? A currency that is better used for starting cooking fires than for buying grain?

"When else will you have the opportunity to burn that much cash in one place?" I asked and looked at al-Iryani as he continued to mumble to himself.

"Don't burn the dollars, whatever you do," I told them. "It is already on a deflationary path. After January first you'll be able to buy twice what you could buy with them today."

President Saleh leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his fingers interlaced. He ignored al-Beidh's heavy breathing and focused entirely on me with the intense stare of a man trying to see the bottom of a deep well. He looked at the napkins al-Iryani was covering in ink then back at my face. "I am a soldier, not a banker, Dr Cook," he said with his voice low and raspy. "I understand how to capture a hill or hold a border. I do not understand how destroying my treasury makes my people richer. Explain this to me as you would a man who sees eighteen billion Rials as eighteen billion bullets for his army. How does making this money vanish put bread in the mouths of those returnees?"

I gave him a nod. "Which is harder to find for your son, a beautiful wife, or an average wife?" I asked. "And for which is the Mahr (the bride price) higher?"

I didn't say another word. I just watched him. I could see the gears turning behind his dark eyes, moving away from the abstract concept of 'billions' and toward the concrete reality of a marketplace he understood.

"The beautiful one is harder to find," Saleh said finally, his voice like gravel. He looked at al-Beidh, who was still fuming, then back at me. "The rare one commands the highest price because there is only one of her."

"Exactly," I said. "And right now, your Rial is the girl no one wants. You have flooded the streets with her. You've made her so common that men would rather hold a cigarette or a handful of qat than hold your paper. I'm suggesting you take eighteen billion of her sisters out of the market. I'm suggesting you make the ones that remain the most desirable brides.

"The problem with the economy is not a lack of bullets, it is working guns," I said just as al-Iryani finished his calculations.

Al-Iryani stared at the napkin for a long ten seconds then he looked at me with a look of genuine shock. He didn't look at Saleh or al-Beidh. He looked only at me as if I had just performed a miracle in front of him.

"President," al-Iryani whispered, his voice shaking slightly. "He is not just buying land. He is creating a floor for our entire lives. If we burn eighteen billion and hold his billion and a half in the vault, the Rial is no longer a leaf in the wind. It becomes a stone. Our debt to everyone becomes manageable because our money will actually have the power to pay it."

He turned the napkin toward Saleh. "Dr Cook is offering us a way to turn every single Yemeni into a man with twice the wealth he had this morning. But Ali," he said looking at al-Beidh. "We must stop the presses. If we print one more note after the fire is lit, the spell is broken and we will have thrown his gift into the dirt."

Saleh looked at the napkin then he looked back at me. The predatory edge was gone from his eyes. He was finally seeing the 'Reset' for what it was. "A hundred-year loan at zero interest," he mused. "And a currency that actually buys a gun instead of just a bullet."

I picked up the finjan and drank the entire cup in one long drink, and held it out for a refill. In moments the silver pot was back filling it comfortably. It might not be cafezinho, but it was still better than suutei tsai.

"The other thing I can do to help your economy is reduce the cost of fresh water," I told them. "I discovered in Syria that the water filtration technology I invented as an eight year old was never introduced by the Soviets to their client states. I think because it was only available from a Western company. Regardless of how cost effective it was, it was something they couldn't even make a shoddy knock off of.

"I've got a roll of graphene felt water filtration on my plane. You can have it, it is not very expensive. It will turn any pump with a pipe into the sea into an unlimited fresh water well."

I pulled a small square, about six inches across out from my pocket, and held it out to the Gahwaji. "Wrap this tightly around the spout of your dallah (coffee pot) and pour anyone interested a cup through it," I instructed.

I watched the server hesitate for a fraction of a second before he took the small square of matte black fabric from my hand. It looked like nothing more than a piece cut from the same suit I was wearing, but in his hands it was a piece of the future.

He did as he was told and stretched the graphene felt over the long, curved beak of the silver dallah. He moved with a practiced grace as he tilted the pot and a stream of clear liquid hit an empty finjan. There was no hiss of steam or mechanical hum, just the quiet splash of hot water that had been ginger and cardamom spiced coffee seconds before.

The room went silent again as the steam rose from the cup. The server offered the cup to President Saleh first, who took it with a wary curiosity. He didn't drink right away. He held it up to the light of the window, looking for any sign of the seeming miracle. When he finally took a sip, his eyebrows shot up. He didn't say a word, he just handed the cup to al-Iryani.

"It is fresh," al-Iryani whispered after his own taste. He looked at the scrap of fabric on the spout as if it were a holy relic. "Dr Cook, you are telling us that we can have this in every village? That we do not need the massive, expensive Soviet desalination plants that are always breaking down?"

"Exactly," I said, leaning back and feeling the warmth of the coffee hitting my system. "The Soviets made great pumps. Big, loud, noisy, and anybody with a hammer can fix it. Everything else attached to them is last century's technology, and completely redundant. If you put the filter on the intake end of the pipe, you don't even have to clean it, the water movement washes the collected salts away. If you want the salt, then leave it where you can collect the rejected brine. It'll be nearly solid salt, the water will go right through.

"You have the pumps and you have the sea. I am just giving you the filter that makes the two of them useful. If you have unlimited water, you have a different kind of sovereignty than the one you get from a printing press."

Saleh looked into the finjan of clear, pure filtered water as if it were a looking glass. He looked at the server who was staring at his own silver dallah with a mix of awe and terror. The man knew that the pot was still half-full of the dark, spicy Qishr he had brewed himself, yet the liquid coming out of the spout was purer than the mountain runoff in the highlands.

"You have turned a ritual into a laboratory, Dr Cook," Saleh said, finally setting the cup down. He looked at al-Mutawakel, the Minister of Interior, whose mouth was hanging open. "If I put this on the pumps at the Aden station, the people will no longer have to wait for the tankers. They will no longer have to pay the 'Water Sheiks' for the privilege of not dying of thirst."

"The coastal Water Sheiks will hate me," I agreed, taking another sip of the unfiltered coffee from my own cup. "Right until they figure out they can truck the water into the mountains. But either way, the people will love you. When you have enough water to grow more than just Qat, your Republic changes. You stop being a collection of tribes fighting over a well and start being a nation that can actually feed itself."

I looked at the server. The young man was pouring samples both ways for the others so they could see the miracle and taste it themselves.

I held out my cup, curious if making it stronger made it better. "No filter," I said. "I'm wondering what double strength tastes like."

The Gahwaji poured, and the condensed liquid was thick, almost syrupy. It was a dark, bruised purple-brown, smelling violently of concentrated ginger and scorched husks. I took a sip. It didn't just taste like coffee, it felt like a punch to the sinuses. The ginger heat was a physical presence, a slow burn that started on the tongue and moved straight to the back of my skull. It was the kind of drink that could keep a man awake through a three-day siege. This would make an excellent local candy if it was concentrated further.

Saleh watched me take the hit of caffeine and spice without flinching. He looked at the wet scrap of fabric in my hand, then at the finjan of clear water on the table, and finally at the sludge in my cup. The physics of it were undeniable. The water had been separated from the essence, and now the concentrated essence was being delivered to the cup.

"You have separated the blood from the body," Saleh said, his voice low. He wasn't talking about the coffee anymore. He was looking at al-Mutawakel and the General. "You took the water—the life—and left the grit behind."

"I took the water and concentrated the flavor," I corrected him, feeling the ginger-fueled adrenaline start to kick in. "And I did it with a scrap of fabric and the water already in the pot. Imagine that on the scale of a city. Imagine your coastal towns with pipes that breathe in the Red Sea and breathe out the purest water in the world, while the salt is left in neat piles to be given away. This was the first of my inventions. My family looked the same as you do now, when I showed it to them at dinner one cold winter day, nearly 8 years ago."​

The road back to the airport was crowded with Peugeots and old Soviet trucks. Bringing water from the sea inland needed a