Charting the Warpath (3)
After sending off Walker, the only task left was feeding a late dinner to my two aides, who'd skipped meals while standing by. When I ordered a fresh spread, Suyeon stared at the discarded food with obvious regret. But people of their position—my right hands—couldn't eat someone else's scraps. Not unless it was unavoidable.
I peeled off the silicone mask I'd worn the whole time dealing with Walker. The skin-like material came away with a sticky rip. It was a tool for visual disguises whenever needed, but I could never get used to the suffocating feel. CIA agents supposedly wore these for days straight. How the hell was that even possible?
During the wait, Kyung-tae cradled a warm teacup and asked, “Hyungnim. What was that Pepsi you mentioned earlier? You don't mean the Pepsi from Pepsi Man, do you?”
“Exactly.”
I gave a rough summary of the anecdote, and Kyung-tae marveled. “Second place forever in the cola wars, but dominating in the weirdest spot.”
“Soviet vodka shortage. Like anything wasn't scarce back then.”
“Huh? So they paid the cola price in vodka?”
“Yeah. Stolichnaya, your favorite.”
“Ah, Stolichnaya! That stuff's delicious! Pepsi had real taste in vodka.”
Kyung-tae went on praising Stolichnaya, saying the better vodkas had an alcohol scent like coffee beans, and so on. By then, a simpler table was set, and the two dug in. Watching them focus on eating, it was clear they'd been starving.
While they filled their stomachs, I sipped tea and sank into thought.
War, huh...
Walker had asked if I planned to wage war, but he'd never dream he'd struck the mark. If he knew my resolve, he'd cut ties on the spot.
The Camp Henry thieves here in Daegu lacked the guts to deal directly with terrorists. And my target, the UK, was a core ally in the Five Eyes—get caught, and it'd be worse than criminal; they'd treat me like a traitor to the nation.
Of course, the odds of these weapons seeing use in the UK were slim. Getting them there was the real hurdle. With terror threats rising daily, the UK had beefed up air and sea defenses, backed by top-tier Five Eyes intel. Long-term air smuggling was a gamble; sea routes via fishing boats or freighters were safer but still high-risk.
Even sourcing from elsewhere wouldn't change that. The sheer volume needed...
But if it came to fighting London's mages, I'd have to strike London eventually. You couldn't win that war on defense alone.
It might not even happen, but scrambling for options after it blew up would be too late. Had to find a solid route.
My thoughts naturally drifted to Central and South American cartels.
What if I used subs like them?
Theirs, loaded with coke from the Gulf of Mexico, rode the North Atlantic currents all the way to Europe. Small size meant killing engines and drifting could slip past the UK's seabed surveillance net—SOSUS.
Hell, I could even commission them to build one. Best would be outsourcing transport entirely, but convincing them to haul guns instead of coke? At least $300 million per run, matching their cocaine profits.
No one could sustain that, not even me.
Better to buy a sub outright. Problem was, money alone didn't cut it. Their old semi-subs ran maybe $2 million; even top-tier full subs probably topped out at $100 million...
But no listings on black markets, not even outdated hulks past their scrap date. Made sense—they wouldn't flood the market with their stealthiest ride and spawn rivals overnight.
Major cartels sat on billions in cash excluding bosses' personal stashes. No way they'd peddle their lifeline for a measly hundred mil.
How to approach strangers like that? Who to bridge the gap? Any other vetted channels for a sub?
That's when it hit deeper.
“Hm?”
The two paused mid-bite, staring at me. Suyeon asked, “What're you thinking so deeply? You even sighed.”
“...Sighed? Me?”
“Yes.”
Must've slipped out unconsciously. Aides were for venting these knots too. I shared my dilemma, adding, “No need to solve it now. Finish eating before it gets cold.”
As organization head, my top duty was feeding my people. Clothe them, house them, sustain the lives I'd claimed. Loyalty lasted when the group was their life.
The two, knowing me well, resumed without hesitation. Their chopsticks and spoons moved with more leisure now, bellies half-full.
“Earlier,” Suyeon said after setting down her utensils and sipping water, “Walker slipped up. Did you catch it?”
“'Our headquarters,' you mean.”
“Yes.”
“I suspected before, but that slip means the conspiracy's grown enough for casual leaks. Maybe even the commander.”
Suyeon gave a dry smile. “He said $10 billion's impossible, but if they've seized the support command, we can expect bigger volumes ahead. Time for those stateside seniors to earn their keep.”
Even units pinned to Korea rotated personnel. Camp Henry's insiders weren't exempt—after tours, they shipped out. To sustain their side gig, they had to recruit periodically.
But exiles weren't cut loose; that'd breed loose ends. When I'd questioned it before, they'd assured me: no worries, let's keep the good relations going.
So my expansion pitch? Scale shocked them, but it aligned perfectly—more people, bigger pie.
I turned. “Kyung-tae.”
“Yeah, hyungnim.”
“What's Walker up to?”
Kyung-tae, rubbing his belly post-meal, checked his phone. “Called someone higher-up for 47 seconds from the car, nothing notable since. Said he'd report tomorrow... Now drinking with Taylor from his unit at his usual bar. Sounds thrilled.”
“Thrilled thanks to my pocket money.”
Walker had been tailed since leaving. Even car calls got nabbed by remote laser mic on window vibes. Surveillance had a modded van for mobile bugs.
Kyung-tae joked, “They say prep for war brings peace, but busting ass like this only for mana to spike and skip the fight? Hilarious.”
“...”
Mana density held steady today. Fluctuated short-term, but averages neither thinned nor thickened. No guarantee the last surge was final.
If it spiked huge, fights might not even happen. Civilization would crumble inevitably—no way Londoners trekked here then.
Of course, I prepped for that too. War and disaster overlapped plenty; bit more effort covered both.
Kyung-tae continued. “If density keeps climbing and the world tanks, hoarded guns might gain new value.”
“How so?”
“Got this novel I love—Metro 2033. Read it?”
“No.”
He chuckled sheepishly. “Figured. You read everything but novels... Anyway, post-nuke survivors use bullets as cash. Made me wonder if our world goes that way. Feels not that bad, somehow. Too many similar books, maybe...”
His last mutter trailed off.
Bullets decided life or death—power incarnate. If lives were commodities, bullets became hard currency with guaranteed exchange.
A frail wish for that world flickered inside, but faded quick. Surviving there meant living just to survive, different from hunter-chased hell—but equally vile.
“Cut the nonsense. Win or imperialists win, an end exists. Beats world-ending war with those bastards by a hundredfold.”
“Haha, spot on.”
Kyung-tae grinned awkwardly. Suyeon, done sorting thoughts, spoke. “On arms transport woes earlier—even if we ship, who wields them? Can't throw our guys into London endlessly.”
True. “That's another hurdle.”
Slaughter favored numbers. But my crew alone? Victory or not, intel agencies would backtrace us.
“Got an idea?”
Suyeon nodded faintly. “Philippine Moro rebels.”
“Why them?”
“Beyond our Liberation Front clients, four more Islamist nut groups. Minus BIFF and splinters, that leaves Abu Turaipie and Abu Sayyaf. Handle right, they bridge to Middle East extremists.”
“Enemy of my enemy—reach out to jihadists?”
“Yes. London's our target; they won't mind. They crave post-IS fame; we don't care.”
“Hm.”
“I know you avoid zealots, hyungnim...”
“No. I said no holds barred. Good call—worth checking.”
Abu Turaipie and Abu Sayyaf gunned even fellow Muslims. Tiny outfits under fifty heads—not trade bait.
But small meant perfect stepping stones. Flash a million bucks, they'd drool.
Hurdle: zero connections. Couldn't ask our Moro Liberation Front clients—they were blood enemies. Especially Abu Sayyaf after their Ajang-Ajang commandos bombed a mosque.
Kyung-tae scoffed. “Sis, doubt those losers broker properly.”
Suyeon shot back. “Abu Sayyaf? Yeah, questionable.”
“Right?”
“But Turaipie? Worth betting on.”
“Why?”
“Tight with Pakistan expats, actively recruiting there. Unlike Sayyaf's kidnap-pirate suicide runs, their funding's murky... Rock-solid despite serial leader deaths? Suspicious.”
She paused, concluded. “Piecing intel, they likely get Pakistan ISI guidance like early Taliban. If true, even post-IS boss deaths, Taliban channels hold.”
“Whoa.”
Kyung-tae gawked at her fluid analysis.
“Memorizing trivia on trash like that.”
“It's my job.”
“Still. Damn, cool. So cool.”
Ignoring his double thumbs-up, Suyeon met my eyes calmly. “One more. For Central America cartels, ask the Chief?”
“Chief? Diamond Casino?”
“Yes.”
Her Chief was the casino's unofficial owner—the chips I'd given Walker came from there. Not a real tribal rep, just underworld nickname. Most Native groups had modern politics ages ago.
I tilted my head. “Why him? Few hate drug lords like he does.”
North American tribes had suffered poverty and addiction hell. The Chief, loving his Desert People (Tahouner Adam), despised dealers. Why no cartel deals despite Mexico border lands.