A Spoonful of Chaos
The booby traps I planted were finally proving their worth. They began detonating all over the place. In completely unexpected locations—areas the rebels firmly believed were under their absolute control—the traps started going off.
Panic began to spread among the rebels. No one knew who had set them, or when. Yet, these mysterious traps continued to detonate, one after another.
The real kicker was the style of the traps. To anyone looking, they were identical to the ones taught by Derrick Meyer—clumsy, amateurish designs put together in a rush. They were the exact same traps the rebels themselves had been planting all over the region.
They were supposed to be defensive measures to keep out intruders and inflict casualties on the government forces, but now, the rebels themselves were the ones suffering. In truth, the rebels were no strangers to falling victim to their own traps.
During the early days of their training, they had built them and promptly blown themselves up with them. Some went off during installation; others were triggered when soldiers forgot where they had placed them and walked right into them.
Now, these anonymous traps—which looked exactly like their own work, meant to keep the enemy at bay—were causing massive headaches for the rebels.
As a result, every time the rebels moved through the Kampoko region, they had to check and double-check their path. Trails they used to stroll down without a second thought now had to be navigated with extreme caution, like tapping a stone bridge before crossing. The rebels' operational speed slowed to a crawl.
The dozens of booby traps I had planted were more than enough to sow chaos. To be fair, the traps themselves didn't inflict devastating casualties. A few injuries here and there, with the occasional fatality, but most victims escaped with minor wounds.
But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that whenever the rebels moved, they had to ask themselves: Is there a trap here? Or is it safe? If I could make them hesitate for even a second, if I could delay their advance by just a fraction, the traps had done their job. When a force is forced to second-guess itself during an advance, the psychological toll is already immense.
The true purpose of a booby trap isn't to kill the enemy; it is to make them doubt everything. To breed paranoia and confusion. And now, it was time to stir in another spoonful of chaos.
L'Oasis. That was the name of the bar run by Jose. A French expatriate, Jose wanted his establishment to be a sanctuary of rest and refreshment for weary travelers. Hence, he named it after the French word for oasis.
That evening, after wrapping up another training session with Poapy, I made my way to L'Oasis.
"Hey, Jose. I'm here."
"Welcome, welcome! My favorite VIP."
"VIP? Come on, don't you think that's a bit much?"
"Anyone who visits every single day is a VIP in my book. Besides, you have great manners and you're clean. You're the best customer a man could ask for."
"Haha. If buying a single bottle of beer makes me a VIP, I'll gladly take the title. Give me a cold one, please."
"A Tembo?"
"Yeah. I've taken a liking to it. I love that crisp, bitter finish."
"Ah, Tembo is an excellent choice."
I took a seat at the counter directly in front of him. Jose slid over a bottle of Tembo, the local brew featuring an elephant on its label.
A single bottle cost ten dollars. In a country where the average monthly wage hovered around a hundred to a hundred and fifty dollars, I was spending two to three days' worth of a local's salary every single evening at L'Oasis. On some nights, I went through several bottles. Perhaps I really did deserve the VIP treatment.
I took a slow sip. The rich, bitter liquid washed down my throat, cool and refreshing.
"How's work treating you lately? You've been looking pretty busy."
"Ugh, those damn rebels are driving me crazy."
"Why's that?"
"They keep causing trouble left and right."
"Trouble?"
"Lately, they've been planting bombs in each other's territories, blowing one another up... it's a total shitshow."
I felt the eyes of the other patrons in the bar instantly lock onto me. Perfect. This was exactly why I came here every single day. While Jose was an invaluable source of intel, his bar was also the perfect place to leak disinformation. In a place like this, every single patron was likely only one degree of separation away from the rebels. That was just how Congo worked—a country where people drew government salaries while secretly moonlighting for the militias. I was about to feed them some fresh, piping-hot fake news.
"Word is the ADF planted those bombs in M23 territory."
"What? Are you serious? Does that even make sense?"
"It sounds crazy, I know, but that's what our intel says."
"Damn. A lot of people are going to die over this."
"Apparently, the ADF recruited some ex-US special forces guys of their own. The tactics they're using are almost identical to M23's."
"But why would the ADF attack M23? They have no reason to start a war."
"M23 gets backed by Rwanda, controls the mineral mines, and has those lucrative smuggling routes. The ADF probably got greedy. They want a piece of that pie."
"Good grief..."
"Because of that, our unit is suspending all patrol operations for the time being. Command thinks it's too risky to get caught in the crossfire."
"Smart move. Best to stay out of it and keep your heads down."
By tomorrow morning, my conversation with Jose would reach the ears of the rebel leadership. The rumor that the ADF was attacking M23 would be treated as an absolute fact. M23 was the largest and most powerful rebel faction in the country. While the ADF was smaller, they were still a formidable force in Central Africa. In Congo, M23 was number one, and the ADF was number two. Historically, they maintained a tense but stable truce—never encroaching on each other's territory, operating strictly within their own boundaries. Just like rival syndicates.
But now, the "detective" monitoring these syndicates had just let slip that number two was making a move on number one. The rumor would spread like wildfire, reaching every other minor militia in the region. No matter how vehemently the ADF denied it, M23 would never be able to shake their suspicion. If a random street kid had said it, they might have hesitated. But a foreign special forces instructor with access to high-level military intelligence? They would swallow it hook, line, and sinker.
This guaranteed that the top two factions would never unite. If they tore each other apart, all the better. The other minor rebel groups would watch from the sidelines, waiting to see how the dust settled. That was the funny thing about these warlords—they would dismiss any official government press release as propaganda, yet they believed back-alley rumors as if they were gospel.
Our patrol operations hadn't actually been canceled, of course. They were merely postponed. I was giving these bastards the perfect stage to run wild. I'll clear the field for you. Now, go ahead and tear each other to pieces.
M23 Rebel Base.
Bakambu, the ruthless leader of the M23 rebels, was doing a terrible job of hiding his foul mood.
"The ADF attacked us?"
"Yes, Commander. That is what we are hearing."
"Those bastards have no reason to pick a fight with us."
"We suspect they are trying to seize our smuggling routes, sir."
"If they wanted our smuggling routes, they should be striking here in Uvira, not all the way out in the capital, Kinshasa!"
"Our analysts believe they are striking Kinshasa to draw our forces away, leaving our strongholds here vulnerable to a sudden raid."
Derrick Meyer, who had been quietly listening to the exchange, finally spoke up.
"Where did this intelligence come from?"
"It reportedly originated from one of the government forces' tactical instructors."
Derrick let out a dry, mocking chuckle.
"Then there's a ninety-nine percent chance it's fake."
"Excuse me?"
The scout blinked in confusion, and Bakambu turned his sharp gaze toward Derrick.
"Why do you say that?"
"Think about it. From the government's perspective, what's better than rebel factions tearing each other apart? If we destroy ourselves, all they have to do is sweep in and clean up the ashes. They're trying to spark a turf war. Why should we dance to their tune?"
"But the rumor that we got hit has already spread everywhere! You expect me to just sit on my hands and look weak?"
"It's better than wasting resources on a pointless war, isn't it?"
"No, you're wrong. A victorious battle is never useless," Bakambu snarled, his eyes gleaming with greed. "In fact, this is the perfect opportunity. If we crush the ADF now, we can absorb their territory, their weapons, and their men. We didn't have a justification to strike them before, but now we do. I actually feel like sending that government instructor a thank-you note."
"I won't stop you if you're set on going to war, but you won't gain as much as you think."
"And why is that?"
"Our weaponry and organizational structure are vastly superior to theirs. Trying to integrate and retrain their undisciplined rabble would be highly inefficient. Compared to us, the ADF is broke and poorly armed."
"But we will cement our reputation. We will be the undisputed, absolute rulers of the Congolese underworld."
"The risk is far too high just to claim a title. We are already the top dog. Why risk what we have?"
"We are the top dog for now," Bakambu said, leaning forward. "But tell me, Derrick. Do you honestly think I'm doing all this just to be the biggest fish in a small pond of rebels?"
"What?"
"I don't want to just lead a rebellion. I want to seize the entire Democratic Republic of the Congo. I want to conquer this nation and rule it. To achieve that, I need every gun, every soldier, and every resource I can lay my hands on. And you want me to throw away a golden opportunity just because you're afraid of a little risk?"
"..."
"Once I absorb the ADF, the smaller militias will fall in line. They'll have no choice but to bow to me."
Derrick shook his head, his expression cold.
"No, they won't. The political and religious divides run too deep. You can't just force them to unite under one banner."
"Everyone bends the knee when a gun is pointed at their head."
"It won't be that simple."
Irritated by Derrick's persistent negativity, Bakambu glared at him, his voice dripping with venom.
"I hired you to be my combat instructor, Derrick. Since when did you become my chief of staff?"
"..."
"I make the decisions here."
"Fine. Then your combat instructor will take his leave."
Derrick stood up, turned on his heel, and slammed the door shut behind him. Bakambu glared at the closed door, his jaw clenched.
Bakambu's resentment toward Derrick had been building for a long time. When Derrick first agreed to join, Bakambu had been ecstatic. He had boasted about being a Navy SEAL, and Bakambu had assumed he was from DEVGRU—the absolute elite of the SEALs. It turned out he was just a regular Navy SEAL. To be fair, Derrick had never explicitly claimed to be DEVGRU, but he dropped the name so often in conversation that everyone had assumed he was. Derrick hadn't technically lied, but Bakambu felt cheated nonetheless.
A regular SEAL and a DEVGRU operator were leagues apart; DEVGRU only recruited the absolute best of the best. Yet Derrick, who wasn't even part of that elite tier, had demanded absolute authority the moment he arrived, claiming they needed to overhaul their entire system. Do this, do that. Buy this, build that. He had bled their treasury dry. And what did they have to show for all that money? Nothing but a bunch of cheap booby traps.
Defensive traps weren't useless, but they lacked the raw, terrifying destructive power Bakambu craved. He wanted to completely crush the UN peacekeepers and the government forces with overwhelming military might. He wanted his men to move like a highly trained special forces unit. Instead, Derrick had them burying tripwires in the dirt. Half of Bakambu's men, completely untrained in handling explosives, had ended up blowing themselves up or stepping on their own traps. Losing a few grunts was no big deal, but Bakambu had expected a massive return on his investment. Instead, he got a glorified gardener planting explosives.
Derrick's sole achievement was wiping out the Okapi Sting team. Even then, it had required an incredibly elaborate trap. He had set the bait and waited for months. The operation had consumed an astronomical amount of manpower, budget, and time. If that ambush had failed, Bakambu would have personally executed Derrick on the spot.
They clashed on almost everything, but their biggest disagreement was over the training of the recruits. Derrick kept trying to turn the rebels into disciplined soldiers. But rebels weren't soldiers. They weren't peacekeepers; they were agents of chaos. Sitting quietly in a camp, running drills, and waiting for orders went entirely against their nature. A rebel's job was to kill, pillage, and terrorize. If they saw something they wanted, they took it. If someone annoyed them, they slaughtered them. That was the essence of a rebel. Derrick only needed to teach them how to kill more efficiently. His opinions on strategy and discipline were entirely unwelcome.
Now, the time had come to make a choice. Strike the ADF, or let it slide? Fortunately, the government forces had reportedly suspended their patrols, and the UN peacekeepers had been keeping a low profile lately. The stage was set. This was his chance to crush the ADF without any foreign or government interference. He would absorb their territory, build an unstoppable army, and finally swallow the entire country whole.
Nothing could stop M23 now. The era of M23 had arrived. The world belonged to Bakambu.
"Prepare the men," Bakambu ordered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "We are going to war with the ADF."