#22. Torch of Anti-Communism (1)
The Waukulik uprising, which began as an act of defiance but devolved into terrorism, ended in catastrophe on the day it unfolded, with more than half of the Native American activists and hostages dead. The militia and self-proclaimed heroes suffered no casualties of their own—not only because they held the advantage in experience and equipment, but because they outnumbered the others overwhelmingly.
There was scant public backlash against the militia, the self-styled heroes, or the police supervisors who controlled the scene. The tide of opinion had been sealed by the public executions broadcast live across multiple channels. The general consensus was that there could be no excuses for going back on a promise of peaceful hostage release.
The White House Madman didn't miss a beat, seizing the moment to amplify his past statements.
"I've known their true colors from the start! Why else would those savages oppose building the border wall? Because they were drug dealers peddling narcotics and human traffickers selling people! Only drug lords, human traffickers, and illegal immigration brokers find a border wall inconvenient!"
"They've been fattening their bellies by robbing honest Americans blind at gambling tables all along! All while vilely shielding their right to run those games under the banner of tribal sovereignty! So this incident is nothing more than a robber getting hurt while trying to pull off another heist!"
"We can no longer afford to yield our greatness to them! We've apologized enough and compensated them plenty! Even after granting them privileges and concessions time and again! And yet they still wallow in their innate laziness on the reservations, scratching their bellies and throwing tantrums for handouts—'Gimme this, gimme that!' What more can we possibly give to these primitive casino dealers?"
"They cling to events from over half a century ago, dragging them up with absurd claims! How could anyone remember something that old? Almost all the actual participants must be dead by now—it's ridiculous for people who weren't even there to whine about reparations. That's why they're stuck in the past, unable to move toward the future!"
"I have no mercy to spare for murderers and thugs! As a representative of this great nation's great morality, I will make damn sure they learn the price of their crimes!"
In the midst of this, voices emerged from the Desert People condemning Mashath's faction—including some officials from the tribal self-government.
"They don't speak for us. Sure, there's a thug among them strutting around calling himself 'chief' or whatever, but that doesn't make him a true representative of the tribe. With a proper self-government in place, who elected him to that title anyway? He's just the head of a criminal syndicate."
"The lease on sacred Waukulik was a legitimate contract approved by the tribal council. Some criticize that council as a cabal of old fools, but what group in the world always makes the right decisions?"
"That council was a modern representative body formed by the tribe's elders. Its will was the tribe's will, and its mistakes were the tribe's mistakes. Blaming it now is just spitting in our own faces."
"People need to own up to their mistakes if they want to grow. Sadly, there are shortsighted elements in the tribe who can't. Just like the president said, they're trapped by the past and blind to the future."
Finally, Mashath's rivals tried reaching out to me.
"Chairman, you are a friend to our tribe, our most important client, and above all a reliable business partner. Even if I take control of the casino, I won't forget the friendship you've shown. If you support me..."
The tribal members operating in the reservation's shadows would still vividly remember my "friendship without guarantees." My endorsement would benefit these ambitious players twofold: securing business stability with a promise not to pull funds amid the casino chaos, while leveraging my reputation to win over the hearts of casino-affiliated tribesfolk.
Amid their pitches was one hilariously absurd line.
"By tradition, a woman cannot become chief."
Tradition? These people had already changed their names and ditched customary ones, running shadowy businesses—now they were dredging up ancient customs to trash a rival.
In this climate, any tribal members directly or indirectly involved in the Waukulik uprising—even those who offered the slightest aid—could no longer stay on tribal land. They had no choice but to flee the tightening noose of the oppressors' investigations and the traitors who wouldn't hesitate to sell out kin for a pittance.
Watching my pre-laid mechanisms click into place, influencing the exodus, brought a quiet satisfaction. Few moments were as gratifying for a schemer like me.
My influence as the tribe's benefactor, combined with the chief I'd already reaped, drew those fleeing young Natives like a magnet. Who else could offer sanctuary to the displaced? Even the compatriots settled in Mexico fell under the casino's sway.
But the world has more setbacks than smooth sails.
'No wonder things were going too well.'
Just as I wondered how one plan could unfold so perfectly, others unraveled in chain reaction, furrowing my brow.
The first cold splash on my satisfaction came in late February: news from northern Pakistan. The smuggling division head dispatched to Dara Adam Khel reported that negotiations with the five major factories, including Al Qasim, weren't progressing as swiftly as hoped.
"...They've declared a Loya Jirga assembly?"
"Yes, Chairman. It's set to be a massive secret gathering, drawing tribal reps from across the border in Afghanistan too."
Loya Jirga (لويه جرګه) refers to the Pashtun grand council. It's a colossal assembly convened when the Pashtun tribes need a unified stance on an issue, and its decisions carry authority rivaling Pashtunwali (پښتونولي), the Pashtun code of honor—binding on all tribes in the Pashtun lineage.
That's why these councils never wrap up quickly.
'We can't afford delays if we're to build Alim Shahidi's prestige in time.'
Shortages of merits to feed the adepts or Black Sea Party weakening from arms scarcity could wait. After a brief silence, I voiced my irritation.
"Why summon a grand council just to move five factories? Heard anything specific?"
"Yes. Gohar Rawal quietly passed word: not 100% confirmed, but the agenda might brand China the 'enemy of all Muslims.' With the Black Sea Party chaos shaking China from within, isn't Chairman's proposal to shelter Uyghurs a golden chance to aid our oppressed brothers in faith? That's Abu Al Qasim's pitch, apparently."
Damn. Abu Al Qasim, that sly old fox—his real aim was likely easing the factories' and tribe's burdens.
What irked me more than the delay was the spotlight. Even mighty America paid close attention to Loya Jirgas. No matter how tight Pashtun security, leaks were inevitable.
"Surface agenda's something else, of course?"
If not, we'd be in real trouble. Fortunately, they weren't that reckless.
"Right. Officially, joint countermeasures against awakened hazardous beasts. But the mood suggests it's more than a smokescreen."
Northwest Pakistan and central Afghanistan—core Pashtunistan—are barren deserts. What awakened beast threat in such wastes demanded joint action?
I figured the Taliban was involved.
'Hope the CIA contractors prove incompetent.'
Little-known fact: modern CIA outsources much intel work to private firms—for budget cuts and plausible deniability. Just as private military companies eat the flak for U.S. troops worldwide, private intelligence outfits wield "flexible morality" for jobs official agencies can't touch: kidnaps, detentions, torture, tails, break-ins, thefts, bugs, hits, smuggling, hacks.
They claim 70% of America's trillion-plus-won annual intel budget. That dark economy dwarfs even outfits like mine.
But pros have cons. Don't expect corporate ethics or missionary zeal from profit-driven contractors—they lack the dedication of CIA "regulars."
With U.S. forces barely holding Kabul's outskirts and the president's myopic withdrawal push, contractors likely saw this Loya Jirga as unprofitable or abandoned by the client.
'Still, they'll watch minimally.'
Nonzero risk of exposure chafed. Even if they missed me, America eyeing the five factories for Black Sea Party intervention spelled headaches.
Risk might hike intel value to adepts, but...
The division head assessed:
"If the Pashtuns vow jihad, it won't all be bad for us. Their networks and patronage hold immense value—we'd be friends to the entire Pashtun people, not just five factories."
Pashtun protection meant a massive new distribution web. Jihad-forged alliances outclass mere business credit. Factory operators would pour zeal into the deal if war was declared—the same folk who'd warred against the British Empire over housemaid flings in endless sun, or fought Taliban to shield a stranded GI per Pashtunwali.
Hard to call that worthless.
But for now, the hassle outweighed. I could only pray the damn council ended soon.
Leaving a pivotal project's fate to luck soured my mood.
Following the Loya Jirga, early March brought troubling news from Jambi.
"The engine shipment got raided by pirates?"
Pressing my temples, I got a voice thick with apology.
"Yes, Chairman. They say pay up and get hostages and cargo back—but haggling will take time."
Sinaloa cartel's subs needed ~400 man-hours. Two or three techs could churn one every two weeks, overtime included. That's the productivity letting cartels overwhelm U.S. surveillance with volume.
Small hulls, off-the-shelf engines, batteries, periscopes—all FRP with hand lay-up from molds. I'd stockpiled molds pre-base, expecting sub #1 afloat by March's end.
Outsourcing engines was the misstep. Smuggling division lacked manpower and ships, so I tasked a Malaysian broker to Kuala Lumpur only. Insured, too—hired a platoon of French Foreign Legion vets at premium, some Awakened. Pirates? Armorless oarsmen vs. gunfire—even non-Awakened edge sufficed.
Yet they got hit. How many pirates?
'Had the inaugural cargo from Japan lined up...'
Planning chemical weapons haul post-commissioning, I sighed and accepted reality.
Topping this timeline fiasco? North Korea's armed infiltrators—in the so-called "Armed Infiltrator Vlog" mess.