Ch.399Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

A cool breeze slips through the window.

The prayers of Al Yabud believers ride the wind into the house. When I lift a finger to part the curtains, I can clearly see locals prostrating themselves, kissing the earth in the courtyard.

I carefully enter the garage and service the vehicle.

The SUV Victor provided is an older model, but its off-road capability and fuel efficiency are exceptional.

[Changed the engine oil and filled it up with fuel. It’s already been inspected at headquarters. See the spare fuel container inside? It’s premium fuel mixed with high-purity magic stone powder certified by the Ivory Tower. If those notoriously picky potion makers approved it, you can imagine what quality it is. It’s hard to find locally, so use it sparingly.]

I found a note written in rough handwriting inside the glove compartment. It was a letter from the orc, showing his consideration for my travels through rural areas.

I couldn’t help but chuckle imagining that troll-sized guy sitting at a desk writing a letter.

“…You fool. Why give me something like this.”

I lit the note with my lighter and burned it. It was for security purposes.

After lighting a cigarette and exhaling several puffs of smoke, I made one final check to ensure I hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Let’s see… Fuel, water, combat rations. Communication equipment, camera, firearms, bulletproof vest.”

That should be enough. And finally, a thick wallet. I packed as much money as possible since I never knew when I might need to bribe someone.

After completing my inspection, I disposed of the overnight trash in the incinerator. The dawn prayers were ending, so it was probably fine to start moving now.

“Wake up, Camilla!”

“…Huh.”

When I called upstairs, I was met with the sound of someone catching their breath. Camilla emerged from her room, looking disheveled as she mumbled.

“…Coming.”

“Hurry up and get ready.”

I put on my sunglasses and added:

“We’ve got some journalist play-acting to do.”

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

We boarded the old SUV and headed toward Al Bas tribe territory. As always, I took the driver’s seat, while Camilla, who didn’t have a license, sat in the passenger seat.

“Any interesting news today?”

“Hmm. Intelligence has come in from several sources.”

Camilla placed the military intelligence terminal on her knees and scrolled down. The screen was filled with information from this morning’s Abas Foreign Ministry, the local Kiyen Empire embassy, foreign press international reports, and open-source information issued by the local government.

Her skills, honed during her internship with British intelligence, shone here. Camilla quickly summarized the flood of intelligence.

“The government military spokesperson made a major announcement last evening. They’ve declared a curfew around the capital area from 10 PM until 5 AM the next day.”

The local government had declared a nighttime curfew. They would control movement from 10 PM until 5 AM the next morning.

“They say they’ll arrest all locals who are active during those hours, regardless of their purpose for moving around. Foreigners need permission from the Interior Ministry to move about.”

“The capital area is quite far from here. Any news about expanding the curfew zone?”

“Not yet. They say the applicable area will be limited to the capital region… but since they didn’t mention a specific timeframe, some foreign correspondents believe it’s essentially groundwork for declaring martial law.”

“Is that speculation or official?”

“It’s from an interview with the Mauritania Continental Geopolitical Research Institute.”

Not positive news.

We don’t know when the curfew might escalate to martial law. If martial law is declared nationwide, all foreigners become subjects of surveillance, and war correspondents and foreign journalists are essentially treated as special monitoring targets.

I glanced at the communication equipment in the trunk. I planned to contact the company if I had the chance.

“Any other news?”

“There’s a report that warlords have occupied a water supply facility in the northern region. Looking at the map, it’s in Group 1’s territory.”

It seems the Asen tribe attacked to secure clean water.

Camilla cited reports from international organizations explaining how poor the local water situation was. Water facilities weren’t operating properly due to warlord activities, and what facilities did exist had been deemed inadequate for years due to government neglect.

“So the locals mainly use water resources like wells, rainwater, and river water. But hygiene issues cause infant deaths every year.”

“What about the east?”

The east is mostly territory belonging to the Hassan tribe. It’s also where we’ll be operating for the time being.

After checking the reports, Camilla gave me an awkward smile.

“The east has a lot of problems too, apparently.”

Well, that’s just great.

I calculated how much bottled water we had in the back seat and trunk.

We had enough water in the vehicle for about three days if Camilla and I each used 3L per day. That’s just for drinking, of course.

Still, with that amount, we could spare a few bottles to distribute to locals for recruitment purposes. Camilla agreed this was a good idea.

“That’s a good plan, isn’t it? Clean drinking water would be appreciated by the locals.”

“But you know that once we run out, we’ll have to find water for ourselves too, right?”

Wells, rainwater, river water. The deadly trio that can easily kill you if consumed incorrectly.

Plans are good, but we absolutely need to conserve water. In the desert, running out of water means death.

“Let’s try to recruit with money when possible.”

“That works too.”

After thoroughly compiling the information, Camilla closed the terminal. Then she pulled out pre-printed materials about Group 3’s organization, territory, and members.

“Who are we meeting today again?”

Camilla asked while examining the materials. I answered as I drove the vehicle off the exit ramp.

“Nayan Al Bas.”

“Nayan, Nayan Al Bas… Ah. Found him here. But…”

Camilla’s voice grew faint after confirming the information.

After staring at the paper for a moment, she looked up at me.

“Is this person really going to show up?”

“Yes.”

The leader of the Al Bas tribe of the Hassan lineage, Nayan Al Bas.

Also the cousin of Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.

“We’re on our way to meet him right now.”

He’s our first target.

*

The Al Bas tribe belongs to the Hassan warlord faction. They control the eastern “border,” a strategic point leading to the capital, which gives them significant influence within the warlord organization.

And the person leading this important tribe is Nayan Al Bas.

He’s the cousin of the Hassan warlord leader and the recruiter responsible for funding and troop supply.

“Though he’s just one of five or six cousins, this gentleman is particularly close to Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.”

They lived as neighbors when they were young, frequently visited each other, and even attended school together.

Considering that the average education level in the Mauritanian continent is far below that of post-Korean War South Korea, these two men are “intellectuals” by local standards.

“They graduated elementary school and attended the same academy. They both entered university, but Nayan dropped out in his first year due to succession issues.”

“Succession issues?”

“The Al Bas tribal chief died suddenly. Cause of death was poison. It was assassination.”

So Nayan parted ways with Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan. Nasir also had to drop out in his fourth year when the Hassan warlord faction began facing government pressure, but the cousin friendship that extended from academy to campus remained unchanged.

“Thanks to that, Nayan Al Bas was entrusted with the important task of recruiting funds and troops for the Hassan warlord faction.”

“Sounds like he got the position through connections.”

Though she said it with a negative connotation, unfortunately, tribalism is deeply rooted in the Mauritanian continent.

Even Kim Young-sam, who became famous for the phrase “Are we strangers?”, would have to take a step back here. The locals, who prioritize their own tribe, would respond, “If not family, then what are we?” Of course, Africa and the Middle East are similar.

At this point, Camilla started laughing as if this was absurd. She seemed quite shocked that such an important position as recruiter was given to a relative.

I corrected her thinking as I turned the steering wheel.

“It might seem strange, but Nayan was actually suitable as a recruiter at the time. He majored in accounting.”

“He must have studied hard. Especially math. Did they trust him because he was quick with calculations?”

“That’s part of it, but the biggest reason was trust and a sense of debt. His father was assassinated when he was 20.”

“Ah.”

The warlord leader of Hassan apparently kept his cousin, who lost his father to assassination just as he became an adult, close to his heart. He sent gifts to Nayan, who missed life in the capital, every quarter and delivered letters from his university friends.

The local counterintelligence agency didn’t miss this touching family bond.

Based on communication records with Nayan, who had joined the warlord faction early on, the counterintelligence agency monitored Nasir. The surveillance was so intense that Nasir’s close friends distanced themselves from him.

Military intelligence analyzed that this experience indirectly caused Nasir, who rose to become the leader of Al Hassan, to fiercely resist government forces.

In other words,

“The tribal leader of Al Bas, Nayan Al Bas, is both a relative and comrade to Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan, the leader of the Hassan warlord faction. We’re going to exploit precisely that point.”

I drove the SUV through the alley toward a building. Green propaganda painted on the shabby fence and proudly fluttering flags. It was the same building we visited yesterday.

I parked the car in the parking lot, following the hand signals of a soldier with a freestyle fashion sense rivaling a militia (sleeveless striped shirt, worn shorts, sandals). I received a handwritten parking ticket from the tribesman.

“What? Three hours of free parking, then 5 tacrons per 15 minutes?”

5 tacrons is enough to have a meal of imperial dumplings from a Kiyen Empire street vendor. It’s a dish filled with fatty meat to withstand cold weather, substantial enough to fill you up with just one.

But 5 tacrons per 15 minutes for parking on a dirt floor? These highway robbers. Just take a bribe instead, you bastards.

“…”

As I was suppressing my gradient of anger with a water bottle, Camilla, who was drinking water, tapped my shoulder.

“What?”

“Look over there. The people we met yesterday are here again.”

“What?”

I turned my head following Camilla’s finger. At the entrance of the shabby building stood the man and woman we met in the interrogation room yesterday.

The duo in shabby formal wear and traditional clothing approached and greeted us warmly.

“May the peace of the Earth Mother be with you. Good to see you again, journalist. We meet again.”

They waved their hands happily, as if they had never suspected us of being intelligence agency informants and had cleared up the misunderstanding.

The woman approached and explained the situation. Stripping away the flowery rhetoric, she was saying they would guide us during our stay in tribal territory.

Camilla tilted her head quizzically.

“Guide?”

The man responded in awkward Kiyen language.

“We. Local. You. Foreigner. Here. Very dangerous. Help. Need. Absolutely.”

“That’s what they’re saying… What do you want to do?”

A local guide can be a valuable asset to a war correspondent. Intelligence officers avoid hiring guides to prevent unnecessary contact, but when operating as a journalist, having a guide makes sense.

Of course, whether they’ll simply act as guides or are here to monitor us is a truth only they know.

If they were sent by the warlord faction, reports would go up the chain. Perhaps we could even use those reports to our advantage.

“Alright. Welcome. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Asud, here to cover the civil war.”

“Welcome. Very much.”

I shook the hand the man extended. As we were shaking hands, a sour smell began to sting my nose.

Could it be body odor? No, how could a human body emit such a smell? I heard this was a water-scarce country (fact), but are they not even bathing now?

While I was thinking this, a strange scene unfolded. The woman who had greeted Camilla approached our SUV.

“Excuse me, we already went through the checkpoint…”

The woman, seemingly deaf to my words, opened the back door of the SUV. Then she took out a small water bottle and began drinking it.

What the hell? Is this a hidden camera prank? As I stared in disbelief, the man also started drinking water he had taken.

“Why are you taking that water…”

“Friend!”

The man grabbed my hand.

“We. Friends! Water. Share.”

“No…”

“Very grateful. Tears coming.”

Damn it, I didn’t share it—you just took it without asking.

I gritted my teeth at these highway robbers who swooped in without even signaling. I wanted to knock them down, but Camilla restrained me.

With years of experience in medical volunteer work in civil war zones, Camilla consoled me with a pitying expression.

“Be patient, Frederick. No matter how angry you are, don’t fight.”

“You want me to be patient after seeing that?”

“If you’re going to hit them, do it where no one can see.”

“Ah!”

Hit them where there’s no surveillance. That was indeed a clear answer.

Since the intellectual from the British Empire had advised against fighting, I also took a step back. The robber duo who had seized the 500ml water bottles took a couple of bottles and retreated from the vehicle.

“Here, take these too.”

“What are these?”

“Snacks.”

Watching this, Camilla put energy bars into the hands of the two robbers. They were emergency rations that had been stuffed into the remaining space after packing combat rations.

Camilla took out three or four and handed them to the locals. And she delivered very warm words.

“Take them and share with your colleagues. They have chocolate, so they’re fine for children too. There are also nuts inside.”

Giving snacks to robbers? That was an action Jesus would admire.

Witnessing Camilla’s good deed, I was aghast.

“Wait, this doesn’t match your concept. Weren’t you supposed to be playing the role of a haughty magician?”

“Isn’t it easier to approach someone who’s kind rather than aloof? You never know. If we become friends, they might share good information.”

Is it because she’s British? Her skill in dealing with these people was quite impressive. This is why companies hire experienced professionals.

“Thank you.”

“Overwhelmingly grateful.”

The duo who received the energy bars thanked Camilla. They also expressed their gratitude to me.

Looking at them like this, they don’t seem like terrible people, so I wonder why they drank our water without permission.

What a confusing, idiotic country.

“…Should have stayed cooped up in the office.”

“Hm? What did you say?”

“Just talking to myself.”

Anyway, now that we’d filled the robber duo’s pantry, it was time to receive something in return. The two began guiding us with bright smiles.

*

The place the warlord duo guided us to was somewhere a few blocks away from the building. I use this vague expression because I couldn’t even be certain of where I was.

We navigated through streets and buildings with complex structures. Following the man and woman leading the way, we would occasionally see people who appeared to be warlord members watching us from a distance, suddenly signaling to each other.

One peculiar point was their age. Everyone exchanging signals was a minor. Some looked like high school boys, while others seemed like children who had just entered elementary school.

If there was one commonality among these children of different ages, it was that they were all presumed to be affiliated with the Hassan warlord faction.

That meant the children were child soldiers.

“…”

Perhaps realizing this fact, Camilla’s expression darkened.

She had always been perceptive, so I expected her to notice eventually. I just didn’t expect that moment to come so quickly.

I scanned the child soldiers with an impassive gaze. Over their young faces, I could hazily see the overlapping faces of other child soldiers I had seen elsewhere.

Liberia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Mexico…

“…”

One child soldier who made eye contact with me turned his head to look at his friend.

Children who should be attending middle school were sitting in the dirty corridor of a common entrance, playing with soil from a flower bed.

Beyond the window, which was wide open without even glass, was a mother with a baby wrapped in a bundle on her back, and on the living room wall hung two old rifles.

What a messed-up country. Children really shouldn’t come to places like this. As I followed the warlord duo, I whispered to Camilla in a low voice.

“Want to go back?”

“…Where to?”

“Anywhere. Kiyen would be fine, or Abas, or the Magic Tower or the Order. Or even Fatalia where Francesca is.”

We could rest at the villa for a month and then leisurely return to the Empire.

Grand Duchess Alexandra Petrova is friends with Francesca. If she hears the news, the Grand Duchess would wait patiently.

But the answer I received didn’t deviate at all from my expectations.

“I don’t want to.”

Camilla, walking beside me, jabbed my side with her elbow.

“What are you planning to do if I disappear? As if I could go anywhere without you.”

“…”

Now she’s treating me like a child.

“I don’t know who’s worried about whom here.”

“Looks like we’ve arrived.”

The warlord duo, who had been walking for quite some time, stopped in front of a building.

It was an impressive residence.

It looked like the home of a distinguished minister or a magnificent mansion where a local dignitary might live.

What stood out was that guards armed with automatic rifles surrounded the mansion. Looking around, I was certain.

We’ve come to the right place.

“Good to enter.”

Camilla and I entered the mansion guided by the duo. Several armed soldiers, who seemed to have been waiting for us, began to accompany us.

After passing through a marble-floored lobby and climbing stairs, we were able to meet the owner of the mansion in a room with a good view on the third floor.

“A journalist, you say?”

An elderly local man, sitting with his hand on a chair in what appeared to be an arrogant posture, spoke from behind a desk.

“Yes, I’m Asud.”

He slowly turned around. Behind him stood a local man in his 30s and a woman in a robe, positioned on either side as if protecting the old man.

“Pleased to meet you, Asud.”

A face familiar despite being our first meeting.

“I am Nayan Al Bas.”

He extended his hand for a handshake.

“Leader of the Al Bas tribe.”