Chapter Sixty-Nine: Massacre (IV)

Yark Bevin could never have imagined that at this moment, Lei Dong had already left the battlefield behind, striding swiftly through the jungle, running like lightning amid the dense mist. His destination lay in the southwestern part of the forest. Connor’s thirty-man assault team, after enduring fierce counter-ambushes, demolitions, and assaults, had paid the price of fourteen casualties to break through constant harassment and now had “successfully” reached that region. Like Yark Bevin’s group, they too were now engulfed in thick fog.

All of this unfolded with crystalline clarity in Lei Dong’s mind, as he had already gained preliminary control over the haze. Leaving behind Yark Bevin’s squad, now whittled down to less than ten men, Lei Dong was already heading toward his next objective. His sole aim was to lure this still-formidable squad over and annihilate them all at once.

“There’s plenty of time left, enough to play a round with you all,” Lei Dong’s face broke into that chilling smile, the one that made even Wu Yun shudder at the sight.

…

White House, Capital City of the Minia Federation, Woxington.

This was an extraordinary building over three hundred years old, rising just four stories high, and known as the residence of the most powerful person in the world—the President of the Minia Federation.

In a spacious conference room on the second floor, heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and a large screen on the wall flickered with scenes of battle. Teams dashed through jungles, rode armed helicopters between skyscrapers, sniped at opponents in deserts, and fired in fields of blazing smoke.

In the lower right corner of the screen, the prominent trident symbol reminded everyone that these were action videos from the Poseidon Assault Team.

A circle of wide sofas surrounded the screen, seating a dozen or so men and women, some elderly, some middle-aged. Whether clad in sharp suits, gleaming with military stars, or exuding a keen competence, they all shared a singular feature: a trace of gravity, even anxiety, between their brows.

Anyone well-versed in world affairs, especially those of the Minia Federation, would have been astounded to see so many of the most powerful figures in the nation—perhaps the world—gathered here.

The tall, somewhat gaunt man at the center, legs crossed and hands restlessly rubbing together, his skin as dark as ebony, was the nation’s first pure-blooded black president: Lauren Omah, a lawyer by training.

To Omah’s left sat Ms. Clary, Secretary of State—a woman of mature years yet still charming, shrewd and capable, with a hint of allure.

To his right, the rotund, white-haired man was David Malone, the President’s chief advisor on national security.

Beside Malone, in order, were Defense Secretary Gusby, CIA Director Meg Ryan, Homeland Security Secretary Sean Lee, and FBI Director McCarthy.

To Ms. Clary’s left sat a row of generals in crisp uniforms. Unlike the relaxed postures of the politicians, these soldiers sat ramrod-straight, even in the deep softness of the sofas. Their sharp gazes and the rows of medals across their chests marked them as battle-hardened veterans, and an unspoken aura of deadly force radiated from them.

First among these soldiers was General Albert, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; beside him, Navy Secretary Admiral Scheler and Lieutenant General McLaren, Commander of Joint Special Operations Command.

The only person standing in the room was a man of about fifty, radiating an intimidating sharpness—the Deputy Commander of Joint Special Operations Command, former Commander of Poseidon Assault Team Six, and former head of the Navy Special Warfare Command, Major General Matt Dean.

Now, Major General Dean stood before the big screen, electronic pointer in hand—a slender, one-meter-long silver rod—serving as the presenter. However, it was clear that he was restless, even agitated, his mind wandering. His explanations of the combat footage were punctuated by long silences, and his lifeless commentary drained the excitement from the battles being displayed.

“Matt, is there still no word from the front?” General Albert suddenly asked.

Major General Dean’s brow furrowed deeper; worry was etched across his face. He shook his head. “Not yet. By all rights—”

He was interrupted.

“All right, relax a bit, Major General Dean,” President Omah smiled elegantly, displaying perfect white teeth. “Have a seat. Have some coffee. We sent out our finest—every one of those men is a battle-scarred veteran. Isn’t that so?”

Major General Dean glanced at Omah’s teeth—so perfect that, during Omah’s election campaign, they had even won him votes. Heaven help us, democracy in this country was almost laughable in its absurdity.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Outwardly, at least, Major General Dean preserved the proper respect for the nominal Commander-in-Chief. He replied, but did not sit, nor did he ring for coffee. Instead, still frowning, he said, “Mr. President, I once again strongly recommend we immediately activate the real-time intelligence and command system, maintain contact with our fighters at the front—”

President Omah waved a hand and looked around. “What do you all think?”

National Security Advisor David Malone shook his head. “That’s not a good idea, Mr. President. It would mean considerable political risk, sir.”

Omah turned to Clary, who nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mr. President, I agree with Mr. Malone. It would expose us to unpredictable political and diplomatic risks…”

Omah shrugged. “You see, General Matt, we can’t do that. The new president of that country is not like the old ones—what was it called? Ah, yes, ‘hide one’s strength and bide one’s time.’ He is not a man who only knows how to be patient. He’s aggressive, and I don’t want to face accusations from him on the international stage…”

Matt nearly exploded. “Don’t want to face accusations from him on the international stage?” What kind of reasoning was that? Was this honesty, or just glib, irresponsible rhetoric? These politicians knew nothing of war! Merely to avoid political embarrassment, they had ordered radio silence for an operation involving the highest-level secrets of the Federation—contact with headquarters was only permitted after the mission. They had no conception of how terrifying the armed forces of the Red Republic truly were!

Even though this operation involved the so-called elite Poseidon Assault Team Six—the finest unit under the Navy Special Warfare Group, with reinforced organization, facing an enemy supposedly without equivalent strength—the thought of those frequent, costly encounters on special operations battlefields filled Matt with a vague unease.

Major General Dean cast a pleading look at General Albert, hoping the influential and authoritative Chairman of the Joint Chiefs might say something to sway the president. But Albert merely shook his head slightly, signaling Matt to let it go, and reclined in silence.

Major General Dean was bitterly disappointed. Albert was a good man, but sometimes too soft. Of course, perhaps that was unfair; in a government run by civilians, the military’s authority over war decisions was always constrained, and ultimate power rested with the politicians. Still, one day these politicians would doom the whole Federation.

At that moment, the screen flickered violently, erupting with fire and smoke, while thunderous explosions rumbled through the high-fidelity speakers.

“It’s here!” Major General Dean straightened, turning to the screen, pointer raised, ready to narrate for the assembled dignitaries.

President Omah smiled easily. “Ladies and gentlemen, let us enjoy the performance of our brave warriors…”

But in the next instant, Matt’s pointer froze in mid-air, and Omah’s smile died on his lips.

“Massacre, massacre, we’re being slaughtered! All dead, they’re all dead…” In the trembling image, someone screamed hoarsely. “Boom, boom, boom, boom!” The explosions came in relentless waves, the screen flooded with red light—then, suddenly, it turned to static, a deafening hiss assaulting everyone’s ears.

Clatter. The electronic pointer slipped from Matt’s hand and fell to the floor. He closed his eyes in agony.

Omah stared blankly at the other stunned military and political leaders. His lips, once crimson, now drained of color, and his perfect white teeth glimmered ghastly and cold. After a long silence, he finally murmured, “How could this happen…? How…? Will someone tell me what in God’s name just happened?”

No one answered. The only sound in the entire room was the shrill crackle of static.

David Malone was perhaps the first to recover. Stammering, he said, “Mr. President…uh…I think we should consider how to explain this to the public. Yes, we must give the people a reasonable explanation for why these men fell…”

Matt’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing as he glared at the fat man whose belly quivered with every word. Over a hundred warriors had sacrificed their lives for their country, and the Federation’s highest military secrets had been lost—and yet their first thought was not to recover the secrets or avenge the fallen, but to lie to the public, to provide a “reasonable explanation”?

Damn politicians. They all belonged in hell.

Major General Dean could contain his fury no longer. He stormed from the conference room, slamming the door behind him.

With a thunderous bang, everyone inside stared at one another in shock, while Matt’s enraged roar echoed down the corridor:

“Son of a—!”