#21. Doctor, Martyr, and Terrorist (1)
Right after returning to Korea, January 18th—the day I'd pinned my hopes on—passed quietly. To Mashath, it seemed President's Day was more fitting for the grand undertaking than Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It came down to who the terrorist message was meant for: the American people, or the White House's master. Either way, both sides would turn their eyes to the Desert People, but where the appeal focused would massively shape the aftermath.
In that context, zeroing in on the White House's master was a poor choice. Opting for direct confrontation in a war where public opinion mattered. At best, youthful bravado; at worst, a green leader's miscalculation.
To me, it was all for the better.
The Chief—soon to bear the prefix "former" in his title—wasn't improving bit by bit. Instead, each day brought fresh signs of decline. At his age, the concussion's aftereffects had evolved into full-blown dementia. When Mashath heard, she couldn't hold back; she sobbed pitifully over the phone. The Chief in his right mind would've scolded her immaturity. Even if it was her grandfather's friend on the line, showing such weakness was unbecoming.
Anyway, things had shaken out this way, buying us extra prep time. Time to ready ourselves for taking in the fugitives fleeing across the border.
Sipping the coffee Suyeon brought while skimming the Mexico ops report, I said, "It might not be a bad idea to float the idea with the admiral soon."
"You mean the evacuation routes for the fugitives, sir?"
"Yeah. If we handle it all in-house, that paranoid bastard's bound to get suspicious."
This was about Admiral Martinez. True to his word since our first deal, he'd kept a vigilant watch over the seas. Every time one of my ships entered Mexican waters off the west coast, a radio greeting inevitably followed. That twisted patriot was burning the midnight oil to ensure the weapons he'd sold didn't boomerang back onto Mexican soil.
His influence is abnormally strong for his rank.
Martinez's rank of rear admiral (contralmirante) equated to a brigadier general elsewhere. Objectively, not low, but not exactly high either—an ambiguous tier. Yet his sway extended beyond his command of Naval Zone 8 (ZN-8) to Mexico's entire northwest territorial waters.
Though we'd spoken only once, the seething hatred and venom dripping from him lingered vividly in my mind. Considering his mindset, his rise to admiral must've been riddled with trials and setbacks. No doubt he'd faced multiple promotions denied even after earning the title. So it wouldn't be strange if he had a personal cadre of loyalists. Hell, maybe even superiors treating him with favoritism beyond rank.
I figured his surveillance was backed by the joint US-Mexico maritime monitoring network. The waters off Baja California were filthy with Sinaloa cartel subs slinking through. So far, he'd spotted my ships—just Sapphire Express and one other. We'd done only three deals, a piston-transport schedule and volume two ships could handle.
But a quick check of my organization's registry would've revealed three more vessels under our flag. Having five ships under his watchful eye for hauling Native fugitives was more inconvenient than I'd like. Fleets operating elsewhere had their own schedules and plans; yanking them risked serious losses. And with the chance of interdiction mid-transport, cooperating with the admiral from the jump made more sense.
After all, we were spiriting away America's most-wanted. Leveraging a US-system collaborator? No downside there.
Suyeon nodded in agreement. "Indeed, sir. We can't afford to give the impression we're dealing with the cartels."
"Think he'll bite?"
"He has no reason to refuse. He's already fretting over shortages in his inventory; we're handing him an alternative on a platter. And that it's America's fugitives? A man who despises the US would welcome it. Though..."
"Though?"
"It's unsubstantiated rumor for now—no place in the report yet—but word is the new mayor, Pedro Santos Sanchez, and his supporters in 'Juan's Phalanx' are getting untraceable political funding."
"Source?"
"A few tabloids notorious for their gossip sheets. But since they've covered it differently across pages, it might hold truth beyond opposition mudslinging."
"Hm..."
Potbellied Perucho—Pedro Santos Sanchez. And Juan's Phalanx, the butterfly effect from my cover identity's "death." Those names cropped up in my ears whenever I tried forgetting them. For someone obsessively averse to leaving traces, it grated.
No need to overthink why Suyeon flagged it. "You think the cash might be coming from the admiral? That some of my payments funneled through him to Perucho?"
"A bit speculative, sir, but yes. A rear admiral hating cartels and sick of the old guard's corruption might pin big hopes on a fresh face who entered politics after losing his daughter to their rampage. Plus, swaying a mayor without backers yet lets him lock down Puerto Vallarta as his turf."
"If true, that's a wrinkle."
I'd banked on Perucho fading naturally. In a corrupt Third World pit like Mexico, how long could a rookie pol with just powerless citizen support last? He'd get used up by the establishment vets and boiled alive once expendable.
Suyeon's prediction back when I'd pondered his fate.
"My apologies, sir."
She clasped her hands, bowing her head. "My oversight has inconvenienced you."
"Enough. You gave the opinion, but I made the call. The blame's mine if anyone's. Besides, your take was solid at the time."
"..."
"This is all hindsight anyway. No need for self-flagellation."
"Yes, sir."
"Straighten up."
"Yes, sir."
I toyed with the warm coffee mug, lost in thought. Perucho-as-mayor lacked Mexico's essential lubricant: "Mexican oil." A patron now pouring it freely? His political lifespan just got a major extension.
He might even rise to unexpected prominence amid the chaos.
Mexico's political scene was paralyzed—ruling party infighting and opposition stonewalling. Fallout from welcoming the FPDA+1 peacekeeping force on backroom deals between the president and party brass.
Nations too weak for self-policing often leaned on foreign muscle. It happened more than you'd think internationally. Normally, even unilateral deployments got UN Security Council nods and blue helmets for cover, with neutral observers for legitimacy.
But FPDA+1's incursion thumbed its nose at all that. Their diplomatic status couldn't touch the UN's. So domestically, the president and his crew were slammed for dunking national pride in the toilet.
Question was, had Mexico ever had any to lose? They'd long let foreign lawmen roam free—DEA with branches and armed agents since the '80s.
Perucho, Perucho...
If he becomes a real thorn, I can always pop back and kill him myself.
Who could stop a grand magus on an assassination run? Reformist pols in corrupt lands rack up grudges. In a cartel-plagued hell where politicians dropped like flies, a potbellied newbie's death would spark outrage but few questions.
Or induce immortal cancer indirectly.
Sorting my thoughts, I said, "Form a team for the new admiral talks. Handle it."
"Understood, sir."
"Pakistan-bound ship's on course?"
"Yes. Al Qasim's sending a Karachi welcome party—negotiations should kick off ahead of schedule."
"Good."
Flipping e-report pages amid our business chat, Guangzhou intel from my watchdogs caught my eye. One nugget: Gao Xusen flipped out after failing to snag my hair, fluids, prints post-Pinyun Zuo dinner. Even tore apart the hotel where I'd bedded Linfei, then chewed out his underlings.
Hiding prints was child's play—a thin telekinetic film over my hands. Bodily traces? Easier. I couldn't erase them outright, but projecting invisible mana warped or shredded DNA, rendering samples useless. My own organics glowed distinct in my Golden Age's Eye vision anyway.
A few pages later, a blurb on Linfei: "Reports her every move dozens of times daily with photos/videos. Likely to dispel suspicions."
Diligent loyalty.
Like daily proving, "See? No other men."
Wouldn't last. She'd tire or drift emotionally with distance.
Better if she rolls in the sheets with others.
A beauty's intel and sway stemmed from bedroom toil. To me, she was best as the most addictive among many marks—not her sole precious client. I was sure she'd soon hunt fresh prey: to maximize profits selling the same goods, insure against my defection, slake her pleasure thirst.
The ecstasy I'd etched in her was unattainable normally; withdrawal by now was no surprise.
Hope she didn't touch real drugs chasing it.
China's rep for harsh drug laws was half-true. Death sentences hit makers and dealers only. Users? Max 15-day admin detention and 2,000 yuan (~$340) fine. Lenient globally.
Why? Elites' kids dabbled freely. Guangdong, a trafficking hub, made it easy for Linfei.
Once hooked, flimsy "love" chemistry got swallowed by harder highs.
In my view, vanilla romance was just that—chemical fizz. Normal folks were the weird ones. Extraordinary or insane otherwise.