NOVEL WEB Chapter 397
The corporations despise war, but the warlords love it.
The longer the war lasts, the bigger the slice of the pie that falls into the warlords’ mouths.
So, it’s no wonder that warlords are fond of war.
After all, war means money.
And there’s not a single person in this world who hates money.
—
Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man
—
I made contact with warlords who had a friendly disposition towards Abas to build good relations. At the same time, I would lure in their military power to eliminate the hostile warlords.
That’s the gist of this operation.
Inside the safe house prepared through an informant.
I pointed to the symbols of three warlords hanging on the board.
“There are three major warlords representing this area: Asen, Sanya, and Hassan.”
The Asen Tribe is the biggest among the neutral tribes, while the Sanya Tribe is the largest among the pro-imperial tribes. For convenience, I labeled the two warlords as ‘Group 1’ and ‘Group 2.’
And finally, there’s Hassan’s Tribe, the big boss of the ‘Group 3′ warlord faction that is pro-democracy.
“This operation starts with gaining the trust of the Al Hassan Tribe. We’ll work our way up from below, win over the leader of the Hassan Tribe, and enlist the entirety of Group 3.”
Using a friendly warlord to intervene in local disputes is a tactic frequently employed by powerful intelligence agencies, including those from the United States and Russia. The National Intelligence Service and Information Command have also used similar tactics in the past.
Of course, the original practitioners of this field are the British Empire. Divide and rule, represented by sowing discord and suspicion, was Britain’s specialty when commanding colonies.
We will utilize that very method.
“Hmm… I understand the plan.”
An intellectual from a prestigious British university nodded with his arms crossed. He had experienced the realities of Africa and the Middle East through medical missions and interned with British intelligence.
“We’ll incite discord between Group 1, represented by Asen, and Group 2, represented by Sanya. The goal of the discord is armed conflict. Once military hostility begins, both warlords’ powers will dwindle, allowing Group 3 to absorb the two factions’ share of the pie and increase their power. Did I get that right?”
“Absolutely.”
Camila did not uncross her arms. It seemed she had some grievances, but fortunately, that was not the case.
With a dissatisfied look, Camila pouted and began to grumble.
“Why did England come up out of all the examples?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because it’s England.”
“Oh, come on!”
A civilian from England raised his voice towards the (former) Oriental intelligence officer. Why? Because it’s true.
I bent down to avoid the papers fluttering around.
“What a great patriot you are. What’s so impressive about creating the most Independence Days in the world…?”
“Have you finished talking?!”
“Camila, don’t you have a conscience? Burning the fields painstakingly farmed by peasants in Africa, which your ancestors set ablaze? Aren’t you ashamed?”
While dodging the furious Camila, I consistently poked fun at her. If my colleagues from Information Command who knew me had seen this, they would’ve been whispering, “What’s up with that guy? Did he eat something bad?”
However, the moment Camila’s explosive reactions surfaced, those guys would surely join in with their own quips. Her reactions were utterly entertaining.
After a round of banter, it took us quite a while to return to our seats. While Camila was calming down, I dusted off the papers littered with dust.
“Anyway, the goal of this operation is to incite armed conflict between Group 1 and Group 2 to weaken the two factions. Like you said, increasing Group 3’s influence is also a goal.”
“I understand the content. However, there’s something that intrigues me.”
“What specifically intrigues you?”
“The part about the armed conflict.”
After cooling down, Camila returned to her usual demeanor and posed a sharp question.
“How exactly do you plan to incite armed conflict between Group 1 and Group 2? Regardless of being warlords, if they have something in their hands, they’ll avoid fighting.”
That was a good question.
“Let’s take a look at this.”
I handed her a photo extracted from the board.
“This was taken by a war correspondent who operated in this area last year. It’s the territory of the Sanya Tribe, and the people in the picture are combatants from Group 1, under the Asen Tribe.”
In the photo, local individuals armed with rifles wandered through the village. People presumed to be from the Sanya Tribe looked at the combatants with wary eyes, and far off, an Asen soldier—clearly an orc—was threatening the villagers with a large knife.
Upon seeing that scene, Camila’s brow furrowed instantly. Half of her expression showed that she’d seen something unpleasant, and the other half was intent on examining the photo closely.
“You said this photo was taken last year?”
“Yes.”
“It seems this kind of thing hasn’t happened just once or twice. Judging by the nonchalant gaze directed at the armed individuals, it seems I’m right.”
That analysis was spot on.
As Camila suspected, the relationship between Asen and Sanya was at its worst. Private conflicts between the two tribes were frequent, and even this year, several battles had occurred between the warlords.
I passed on intelligence to Camila.
“According to my informant, battles broke out last month too.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that. I read a brief article about it in a local paper a few days ago. It reported that there was a major battle in the region which was quelled by the government army.”
“That’s a lie. To my knowledge, the government army only moved four days after the battle started.”
“What on earth happened?”
“Getting into the specifics is complicated…”
I took a sip of my drink and blurted it out.
“Recently, the Sanya Tribe forcibly demanded the Haranan Tribe, which is under the Asen Tribe, to join their warlord.”
“Suddenly?”
“As it turns out, the Haranan Tribe has mines for tin and nitrate.”
Tin and nitrate are raw materials for gunpowder. They’re used not only for ammunition production but also for making explosives. Therefore, most countries control the circulation of tin and nitrate.
Camila was already aware of this fact. She once wrote a report on bomb terrorism by non-state actors, that gained favorable attention from a professor, which led to her receiving recommendations for an internship in British intelligence.
Fragmented information accumulated in her mind. Her knowledge learned during her internship and analysis experience supported her reasoning.
Quickly analyzing, Camila submitted the answer without much contemplation.
“The Asen Tribe must have mined gunpowder from that area to produce ammunition.”
As she knew, it was very common for rebels to produce ammunition.
Bullets and casings can be easily obtained from abroad. If they can secure the raw materials, they can produce ammunition independently.
Her speculation continued.
“The Sanya Tribe probably wanted to secure a means of supply since they weren’t able to obtain ammunition themselves. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s correct.”
I then shared additional intelligence that I had received from Victor.
“Initially, the Sanya Tribe tempted them with money, but when that failed, they sent armed troops to intimidate them. Unable to part with their mines, the Asen Tribe consequently handed over some of the gunpowder produced under duress.”
“And then? What happened after that?”
“Well, it’s obvious.”
Asen stopped supplying ammunition to the Sanya Tribe.
That was the result of the last armed conflict.
—
As the example shows, the relationship between Group 1 and Group 2 was nearly at its worst. Given the right trigger, they would risk war. The analysis by the Military Intelligence Agency reflected this, and I agreed as well.
After hearing the report, Leoni decided to utilize this situation to Abas’s advantage. The plan was to make the 2nd Group, which is friendly to the Kien Empire, look foolish and sever the Empire’s tentacles.
And this operation would serve as the dagger to cut those tentacles. I would be wielding that dagger.
“Therefore, this operation must succeed without fail. If we mess this up, it won’t just be a failure as an intelligence officer, but a failure as a human being.”
“Ah, Osamu Dazai! The great author.”
Camila became overly excited upon hearing a novel she recognized.
For a moment, I thought she seemed quite nerdy, but voicing that would probably result in a paper airplane whizzing my way, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Anyway.
We gathered around the table in the kitchen of the safe house to continue our discussion. The living room had a table, but it was difficult to avoid external surveillance with so many windows and thin curtains.
That could be resolved by simply buying new curtains and hanging them later. Let’s think about it later.
“In order to incite conflict, we need the assistance of the Hassan Tribe. But logically, these guys wouldn’t even meet a foreigner with no power. So, we have to work our way up from the bottom.”
My plan was simple.
We would first target the tribal leader who has a friendship with Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.
By building rapport and constantly expressing the desire to meet the Hassan tribal leader, the scent of our intentions would eventually catch the attention of Hassan’s leader, prompting him to send someone.
It may seem like a flimsy plan, but in reality, it’s actually quite standard. It poses less risk than direct contact.
It’s always more effective to get an introduction from someone you know rather than approaching a complete stranger. The same method is used when intelligence agencies entice people.
“We will be operating within the territory of the Al Bas Tribe, subordinate to Hassan.”
I marked the territory of Group 3 on the map with a red X. It was the domain of Al Bas.
After putting down the pen, I cited intelligence from the Royal Intelligence Department. I had scanned the recruitment poster for Hassan’s fighters at dawn and received the information gathered by the local intelligence officer.
“Currently, Group 3 is recruiting combat personnel. There’s even a promise of special treatment for the precious resources like magicians and shamans.”
“That’s from the propaganda, right? Are you planning to use that?”
“Something like that.”
We would infiltrate a magician like Camila, who is being sought after by the warlords, as a combatant. It’s an effective and appealing option, but this plan was too dangerous.
To throw an untrained civilian into the role of an intelligence agent? If the higher-ups learned of this, they’d freak out. Moreover, it was surely not a pleasant situation for me if Camila were to be put in danger, so I absolutely couldn’t use this plan.
Of course, alternatives exist.
“Alright, Camila. From now on, you are my bodyguard.”
“What? Me?”
Camila was startled and pointed at herself with her finger.
“A bodyguard? I know nothing about guarding! I was barely ever on-site during my internship; how am I supposed to guard someone?”
“I’m not asking you to perform sophisticated bodyguard work. I just need you to ‘fake’ it.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
“Because magicians are valuable assets.”
Magicians are precious assets. While advanced countries like Abas have established educational systems that reliably supply magicians into the labor market, the Mauritania Continent is not so fortunate.
Just like a graduate from a prestigious university in India searching for jobs with foreign companies or looking to emigrate, magicians and shamans born on the Mauritania Continent often transition to advanced countries to seek their livelihoods.
Thus, there are only two types of magicians left in the Mauritania Continent.
Locals who are unable to receive an education and have no talent, getting by somehow, or foreigners who went into hell to bite into lucrative positions.
Camila’s identity would belong to the latter.
“Having a magician as a bodyguard implies that one is either extremely wealthy or holds a position of power. We can see that just from warlord leaders having magicians or shamans as close aides.”
“Ah, so you want me to look like someone with a high social status?”
“Precisely.”
I handed her lightweight clothing that would allow her to blend in with the locals. It was a local garment that adventurers on the Mauritania Continent would wear over casual clothes.
“You just need to act like a bit of a snob. Imagine the image of a mercenary, you know? Money-loving and fond of alcohol. Of course, due to religious reasons, drinking here is impossible, but if you give off hints in other ways, you should be fine.”
“Do you think that’ll actually work? Honestly, I have my doubts…”
“Intelligence officers disguising themselves as cartel members in Central America use strategies even more extreme than this. There are cases where they get authorization from their companies and engage in cartel-sanctioned assassinations.”
However, I had no intention of making Camila undertake such deeds, even for a moment.
As long as she acted with some proper weight, it would suffice. Just like those haughty magicians.
Before we stepped out, I burned all the documents, and Camila, dressed as requested, approached me.
“I’m ready.”
“Good.”
I packed the photos of the military standoff between the Asen and Sanya tribes taken by the war correspondent. They were necessary materials for the operation.
I climbed into the car that was tidied up and started the engine, pulling out of the safe house. Having checked the locking mechanism of the front door, Camila took the passenger seat.
Our destination was the territory of the Al Bas Tribe, whose ruling clan was related to the Hassan Tribe.
As I drove towards the tribe’s checkpoint, I shifted gears while explaining.
“I’ll be operating under the identity of a freelance war correspondent from now on.”
“A war correspondent.”
Camila dusted off the dust that had settled on the window with her finger, murmuring.
“I met a few while I was volunteering as a medical aid. They were well-informed experts covering war zones, so do you have the confidence that you won’t be found out?”
“Of course.”
Just like Camila had met war correspondents while volunteering, I too had encountered countless war correspondents during my time working as an intelligence officer.
So, disguising as a war correspondent was absolutely plausible.
“Journalists are an identity frequently utilized by intelligence agencies. Meeting informants for intelligence collection is easy that way. War correspondents are quite similar.”
“Hmm, it doesn’t seem much different from what I see in movies.”
“It’s even more exaggerated than in movies. During my service in Africa and the Middle East, I’ve seen not just foreign journalists but several Korean war correspondents too. Watching what they do is no joke.”
“Are there indeed Korean war correspondents active in war zones?”
“Absolutely. People don’t realize it, but there are surprisingly many. In fact, I even had acquaintances who were war correspondents.”
Was it South Sudan or Lebanon? While I was supporting the army called to service as UN peacekeepers, I met many Korean war correspondents in the local area.
Initially, we met as informants and intelligence officers, but somehow we got closer, exchanged greetings, and ended up as friends. I fondly recall how people at various media outlets would ask what kind of relationship we had, considering he was nearly ten years my elder and I shared a casual rapport with him.
I wonder how they’re all doing now.
Just then, while I was driving with all these nostalgic thoughts swirling in my mind, Camila sitting in the passenger seat suddenly asked me.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Feel free to speak.”
“If I disguise myself as a war correspondent, will I be able to get in contact with the warlord leaders?”
That was a rational question.
I thought over it carefully and answered cautiously.
“Hmm… I can’t guarantee a 100% chance of contact. There are way too many variables at play. But there are definitely choices with the highest possibilities.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Do you know the saying ‘a clever rabbit has three burrows’?”
The clever rabbit has three burrows. If a propaganda-conscious warlord is approached by a war correspondent, there’s a chance they could respond to the interview request, but frankly, I cannot be too confident they would securely meet. Even if we do manage to contact them, there’s no guarantee they would provide anything of nutritional value.
But what kind of place is an intelligence agency? It’s a realm of paranoid individuals who knowingly dispatch people to situations likely to fail while preparing alternate plans just in case shit goes sideways.
Also, we can’t rule out the possibility that things could go south, so I naturally prepared another identity in case things fell apart.
“Arms dealer.”
I answered, my gaze fixed ahead.
“I’ll push forward as an arms dealer if the war correspondent angle doesn’t work.”
“An arms dealer? You’re going to pretend to be a black market broker?”
“Correct.”
While speeding down the smooth highway, I elaborated on the dynamics of the war-torn areas.
“In war-torn regions, even if I just go to the market, I can find arms. However, the weapons demanded by warlords aren’t the kind of guns you can find lying around the market—they are military-grade arms. Rifles, machine guns, sniper rifles, mortars, anti-tank guns… The ambitious ones even go as far as acquiring armored vehicles with hefty sums.”
“…….”
“But brokers handling such commodities are less common than you’d think. Military equipment used by regular forces is almost never available on the black market. Even if it does, the quantities are limited. We are going to target just that.”
Camila’s expression noticeably darkened. Perhaps it was that she was uneasy about my plan to supply weapons in a war-torn zone, or maybe she thought it was unrealistic.
However, the latter seemed to be the case. After deep contemplation, Camila opened her mouth.
“Where do you plan to get those weapons? Are you thinking of bringing them from Abas?”
“It’s impossible to bring military equipment from Abas into the Mauritania Continent. That would trigger investigations from the Imperial Guard HQ or other intelligence agencies.”
In the current situation, I had to minimize risks; I had to avoid surveillance from foreign intelligence agencies at all costs. To begin with, an operation to illegally export military equipment from Abas would not be an issue Congress’s Intelligence Committee and the Defense Committee would agree to. The higher-ups, including the Military Intelligence Agency’s senior staff and the Ministry of Defense, would raise hell against it.
Should I enlist Victor’s help? That was also impossible.
Victor was supporting the Sanya Tribe-led Group 2 warlords at the request of the Kien Empire’s Ministry of Defense. In such circumstances, supporting the Hassan-led Group 3 was logically unmanageable.
However, even if the heavens collapse, there is always a way out. I do have a fairly plausible plan to procure weapons. Yet since I had decided to operate under the guise of a war correspondent, it would be wise to put that plan on hold for now.
“…….”
However, Camila’s complexion showed no sign of brightening.
While gripping the steering wheel, I kept glancing at the rear-view mirror.
“What’s wrong? Are you worried?”
“It looks like it doesn’t sit well with me. It’s a plan that screams recklessness from a mile away.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say it’s reckless…”
As expected, Camila seemed to think that the plan lacked feasibility. Since leaving her in a state of discontent wasn’t a great idea, I added detailed explanations to help alleviate her concerns.
“Camila, take a look at this photo.”
“…This is the war zone photo you just showed me. The one taken by the war correspondent, right?”
“Exactly.”
Camila scrutinized the photo. It depicted a standoff last year between the Asen and Sanya tribes taken by the war correspondent.
“Look at the firearms and equipment the combatants are holding.”
“…….”
As I spoke, Camila carefully examined the photo. The combatants from the tribes were each equipped with rifles and gear, but even to her untrained eyes, the quality was severely lacking.
They were locals, casually clad, carelessly strapped with old bandoliers, gripping battle-worn rifles. Compared to the Islamic extremist armed groups she’d seen on Twitter, their equipment was decidedly outdated. Just looking at their rifles, it resembled something from World War II.
After thoroughly looking over the image, Camila’s gaze shifted to me, as if to ask, “So what?”
“How shabby their gear is. So, what’s the point?”
“You really don’t get it, do you? Listen closely, Camila.”
I imparted a valuable tip commonly shared among intelligence officers operating in the Third World.
“When we interact with paramilitary groups like this in Africa or the Middle East for the first time, it is vital to visually assess their armament level. Knowing how invested they are in equipment is key to understanding their capacity.”
“Isn’t it possible to gather that kind of information beforehand?”
“Theoretically, yes. But is this world ruled by theory and principles?”
Records may indicate significant expenditure on military funds, but it is common for middlemen to embezzle money or sell purchased equipment at a bargain on the black market. Regular forces engage in such tactics, so why wouldn’t warlords?
Hence, intelligence operatives must assess the armaments of militant groups with their own eyes.
They have to verify if the informants’ claims of “they are equipped properly” hold up, or if they’ve been selling off their equipment without permission. If internal evaluations deem, “the arms level is quite poor,” but they observe equipment that even rivals the regular army’s? That’s when the intelligence officer urgently needs to figure out what scheming the paramilitary might have.
While continuing my explanation, I carelessly added,
“There’s also a possibility that the intel we received was wrong. But that case is rare, you know? Thus, understanding their armament levels based on our intel is crucial. Of course, it’s also to avoid the worst-case scenario.”
“If the situation contradicts the intel, then analyzing it becomes tricky.”
Camila said this, while I shook my head.
“You don’t need to spend time analyzing paramilitary groups in the office. That’s reserved for complex analyses on regular army units; the levels of warlords are all quite similar and easy to clean up. They follow a pattern.”
“What kind of pattern are we talking about?”
“I’ll be sure to inform you once we observe it directly. The checkpoint will soon appear.”
Anyway, back to the main point.
“So what I want to convey is that these guys are so poorly equipped that they are desperate to procure weapons. So if I disguise as an arms dealer and approach them, they’ll probably jump at the bait.”
“It’s a realistic plan. If I were the warlord leader, I would have set up a meeting if an arms dealer approached me.”
“You? I don’t think so.”
“Why would you say that?”
As Camila sounded puzzled, I pointed at the photo with a smirk.
“Those combatants in the picture? The guns they’re wielding look just like what your ancestors would’ve used.”
“Oh, these guns? Hmm… now that you mention it, it does seem that way. My great-grandfather had indeed been deployed to the battlefield once upon a time. The guns resembled the ones I saw in the old photographs.”
“Battle? You must have fought in the colonies. Where did he serve? India? Africa? Afghanistan?”
“…….”
“I’m just kidding. Why are you getting serious? Oh, wait, wait! We need to use that photo!”
At that moment, a bus driver carrying passengers on his roof witnessed the vehicle ahead swaying and began blasting the horn.
Of course, the sound didn’t reach my ears as I wrestled for Camila’s photo.
—
After a brief incident where the bus driver yelled at us through the open window, we successfully arrived at our destination.
We drove for a solid few hours until we entered the territory of the Al Bas Tribe. This was under the rule of the Hassan Tribe’s representative, the Hassan warlord.
The main road was occupied by armed forces. These were combatants from the Al Bas Tribe, aligned with the Hassan Tribe. They had erected barricades and raised flags to signal for us to stop. I placed the prepared documents on my lap and, in accordance with their signals, eased off the speed.
“…….”
At that moment, a soldier clutching a worn bolt-action rifle approached the driver’s side. Just looking at him indicated that their gear was, in short, the worst of the worst.
With only a few clips of five bullets secured by a rag, and with no body armor in sight, they had a single radio at the checkpoint.
It was fortunate that they were at least wearing uniforms; without that, I might have mistaken them for mere street bandits.
I rolled down the window and thought to myself.
What a mess this is.
“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you. Where do you hail from?”
As I fully lowered the window, I handed him my passport and the documents. It was a pass permit stamped by the local government.
“Hmm….”
The expression of the combatant turned sour immediately upon reviewing the documents. It was easy to guess just how poor the relationship between the local government and the tribe was simply by the fact that the government placed a bounty on the warlord’s head.
However, seeing that the individuals sitting in the driver and passenger seats were obviously pale foreigners, he didn’t bother to be nitpicky and allowed us to pass.
“You may enter, but next time, please try to present a pass issued by the tribe.”
“By the tribe? Where can I acquire that document?”
“If you enter the nearby city, seek out a tribal building. They’ll guide you. You’ll find the building marked by the flag over there.”
The combatant pointed toward a building with a flag fluttering nearby. It had the emblem of the Hassan Tribe drawn on it.
“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you.”
I offered a return greeting as I raised the window. The soldier raised his hand, prompting a nearby combatant to lift the vehicle’s barricade.
How splendid.
Thus, we passed the first checkpoint and entered the tribal territory. There were countless checkpoints leading deeper into their territory.
Each time, Al Bas combatants required us to stop and conduct inspections, yet perhaps due to the call from the prior checkpoint, they merely assessed the government-issued documents without any further words.
As we passed through the third checkpoint, Camila let out a sigh.
“Just 30km outside, there was a government army checkpoint. Here, the rebels are managing the checkpoint. What has this country come to…?”
“Isn’t this the style of a war-torn area?”
I chuckled as we traversed the rugged terrain.
“As I drove, I observed that the tribe’s situation doesn’t seem very good. The combatants’ armaments looked quite pathetic too. The people seemed a bit undernourished as well.”
Shielding her eyes from the sunlight pouring in through the passenger window, Camila replied thoughtfully.
“I read in a report published by an international organization that the food situation in the Mauritania Continent isn’t great. Foreign governments and aid organizations have been providing assistance, and the local government has been promoting agricultural policies, but due to the famine that recently occurred, food prices skyrocketed.”
That was not good news. Whenever food became scarce, disgruntled humans would usually pick up arms and start causing trouble. It was common for people to resort to gunfire to secure a sack of grain, and it was all too frequent for aid trucks to get hijacked and carted away into their territories.
How on earth did the higher-ups plan to send Camila and others into a land like this? It’s truly a mystery.
I continued driving straight into the territory of the Al Bas Tribe. After about an hour since passing the third checkpoint, a new checkpoint appeared.
However, something felt off.
“…….”
My hand on the gearstick hesitated for a moment. The condition of the checkpoint seemed unusual.
Typically, intelligence officers operating in the Third World assess the equipment level of paramilitary groups or warlords when they encounter them or pass through checkpoints. The state of the forces at frontline checkpoints is intentionally displayed.
Let’s consider an example.
According to gathered intelligence, there are factions that invest heavily in equipment. However, if the soldiers at the checkpoints or patrols turn out to be poorly equipped, there are three main situations one could infer.
First, there’s a tendency to concentrate on the personal guard. All the investment in equipment is being poured solely into the personal guard.
Second, there’s corruption. Someone in the middle has been taking military funds or selling off the equipment on the black market.
Third, the group may not want to publicly showcase its military might. More precisely, they may wish to keep secrecy about their military investments from other factions.
Conversely, there are also occasions where the fortunes are poor, but the checkpoint soldiers are incredibly well-equipped. This can likewise be inferred in four main scenarios.
First, there’s a tendency to show off to others. Second, the lack of control has led to the units supplementing their own gear in-house. Third, the unit in the area may be acting independently or preparing for a coup.
And lastly, the fourth.
“…….”
A combatant with black gloves raised his hand to signal us to stop. Gradually, I lowered the speed. As the rumbling engine noise filled the air, I could hear a dry swallow from next to me.
The soldier who had signaled stood firmly with his rifle at the ready. It was scuffed, but anyone could tell it was an intimidating automatic rifle.
After stopping the vehicle, the spacing of the combatants began to tighten around us. One moved next to the passenger seat, another blocked the front of the driver’s seat, while another drifted a few steps away, taking up shooting positions that could target the driver and passengers without engaging.
Looking at the well-trained actions of the soldiers, I anticipated, almost in a whisper, toward Camila.
“Camila.”
“…Yes?”
“Remember what I said earlier? When we first arrive at a checkpoint, there are worst-case scenarios.”
“…I remember.”
“Well, this seems to be one of those cases.”
The clues were contrary to the intelligence we received, which indicated the armed factions weren’t heavily investing or lacked supplies and yet the checkpoint had soldiers with exceptionally advanced equipment.
That’s the fourth scenario.
The local forces are already aware of the visitor’s arrival.
“…….”
Knock knock. The combatant who had signaled at us knocked on the driver’s window.
“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you all.”
As I lowered the window, he offered a greeting. He was equipped with weaponry that wouldn’t look out of place in a regular army—Kien Empire-made automatic rifle at hand, five 30-round magazines strapped to his chest, body armor, a radio, and a pistol fixed to his waist.
That was far beyond the level of even local regulars; even elite special forces would not fall short to his gear.
He spoke.
“Turn off the engine and step out of the vehicle.”
“…….”
“Lady in the passenger seat, you must exit too.”
His tone, though smooth, conveyed nothing of the sort.
Normally, a paramilitary group won’t erect a checkpoint and demand a passenger to get out of a car. Furthermore, if they were merely asking and not ordering it might be a different story, but with a machine gun-mounted truck blocking the road, these weren’t terms to be issued lightly.
Naturally, resisting here would be madness. Even before I could shift gears and drive away, that machine gun would turn us into a flurry of holes.
I had a hunch they would react if foreign nationals made a scene in their territory. It was just that I was taken aback by the armed individuals who showed up, vastly superior compared to the checkpoints we had passed through earlier.
“Step out of the vehicle.”
I casually removed the key and exited the driver’s side.
Once they finished searching the vehicle, they escorted us back toward the checkpoint. Then, they loaded us into a van parked nearby the checkpoint.
After transferring vehicles, we entered the territory of the Al Bas Tribe.
Surrounded by armed forces.