Metamorphosis (12)
“Hey, Vice Director.”
“What is it?”
“Do all the arms dealers in the international black market maintain elite private armies like yours? Where every soldier's combat prowess surpasses your average private?”
“There are differences in scale and quality, but nine times out of ten, yes. The clientele in this market—whether states or individuals—are all dangerous types, and given the nature of the goods we handle, grudges from buyers often come back to bite the sellers.”
“I see...”
“Some dealers even provide troops directly to clients. Like the Desert Hawk Brigade, which was treated as the Syrian government's elite force—an independent brigade where the arms dealer exercised operational command independently.”
“What? That happened?”
“It did. The dealer himself was a former government officer, and his brother was the active Marine Corps commander, which made it possible... A unit with high combat power, self-supplied equipment, and even self-sustaining logistics is an irresistible commodity in a civil war.”
“Impressive. Truly impressive. It doesn't even feel like the world I live in.”
“Reality always exceeds imagination.”
The story I told was about Colonel Mohamed Jabir, one of the heavyweights in the Middle East smuggling market. He supplied weapons and goods to the Syrian government under Western trade sanctions, and eventually commodified his entire smuggling organization into a brigade-sized combat unit for the regime. In return, the colonel gained rights to plunder enemy territory, priority in government procurement contracts, and shares in the oil fields of occupied zones.
Among those rights, the oil fields undoubtedly brought the biggest windfall. Modern civilization practically stands on oil.
How much money the colonel raked in through long-term oil smuggling was beyond even speculation.
'And he blew it all away over a petty greed.'
The Desert Hawk Brigade was disbanded after its subunits looted pro-government areas, incurring the wrath of the ruling Arab Socialist Ba'ath Party—commonly called the Ba'ath Party. The brigade commander, Colonel Jabir, was exiled abroad.
Of course, his brother, Brigadier General Iman Jabir, remained Marine Corps commander afterward, and the Western trade blockade on Syria persisted, so the colonel's main business didn't collapse.
Still, the fact that he'd squandered massive interests through needless blundering was undeniable. This is why rational management and restraint matter.
Even deviations must start from rational thinking. A business that holds firm to fundamentals is like a deep-rooted tree—unshakable.
“Here it is.”
Hushan Liang opened one of the storage compartments matching the keycard number. A beep and clank followed as the iron grate unlocked.
Inside were Black Sea Party weapons gathered from across the city, each tagged with a number.
Gao Xusen voiced a new concern.
“When I asked to open this place, the High-Tech Communications Director was openly pissed. They claimed they'd pulled all-nighters investigating and found nothing more. They'd already done basic non-destructive inspections, so what new leads do you expect to find?”
“Did they really do full inspections on all these weapons in a day? They probably just sampled randomly.”
“Then...”
“I can't guarantee something will turn up, but a researcher's eye differs from an arms dealer's. Trust my eyes, Director.”
Even as I said that, the moment I stepped in, I was already half-convinced. My suspicions had started during yesterday's battle.
Donning latex gloves, I selected weapons with distinct manufacturing hallmarks and loaded them onto the transport cart. To avoid suspicion from picking too swiftly, I took time pretending to inspect each meticulously.
Casually, I asked, “No address yet?”
A question about the basement location we needed to raid.
Gao Xusen, who had been watching my every meaningless motion breathlessly, flinched.
“Ah, just a bit longer. I should have intel by end of day.”
“It's urgent, but don't rush and botch it.”
“...Understood.”
Gao Xusen's face soured again, but I ignored it and kept selecting samples until the cart was full.
“That's enough. To the lab now.”
“Yep.”
Kyung-tae pushed the cart down the corridor. In the lab, the workbench held the non-destructive sprays I'd requested. A separate camcorder on a tripod faced the bench for recording, independent of CCTV.
Apart from minor differences, the setup resembled a morgue dissection table.
“Let's begin.”
At my urging and nod, Detective Hushan Liang powered on the camcorder and hit record. Following the wall checklist, I macro-photographed each item's condition, then precisely disassembled the weapons, laying parts neatly on the bench.
I considered delegating the rote work to Kyung-tae, but he'd get bored just watching arms crossed. With the inexperienced communist noble as audience, doing it myself wasn't bad.
“Cleaner.”
I held out my hand; Kyung-tae passed the cleaning spray.
Penetrant non-destructive testing: Wipe with remover, spray penetrant, wait for soak, wipe dry, then apply developer. This reveals penetrant in cracks, scratches, or joints.
It provides clues on the manufacturing process. I'd selected weapons where such clues would show clearly.
After penetrant and wipe, I sprayed fluorescent developer to finish.
“Come closer, Director.”
With lights off and UV on, glittering streaks emerged. These irregular striations from finishing were familiar to me as an arms dealer—maker signatures.
Gao Xusen showed curiosity. “What does this mean...?”
I gestured to pause the camcorder, then answered the noble's question.
“Factory production doesn't leave traces like this. These weapons are all handmade—with hardware store-level tools.”
The barrel used a manual universal lathe and drill, but other parts showed crude tool marks. The lower receiver even had hammer-forged spots where developer pooled faintly.
“Handmade? With hardware store tools?”
The blinking noble fitted parts together in confusion. “How can handmade be this precise? Parts mesh perfectly. No reports of Black Sea Party jams or minor failures!”
“Because the craftsmen are skilled. You're seeing world-class artisans' collaborative work.”
“World-class artisans? What...”
“They exist. A craftsman's skill is habit, handiwork. These finishes and processing methods are like signatures to me.”
A seal—like an artist's stamp on calligraphy or ink painting.
Gao Xusen grew excited. “You can identify the maker from this?!”
“Yes. As an industry insider, I assure you: These are from the Al Qasim factory in Pakistan's Dara Adam Khel.”
“Foreign interference? Korea and now Pakistan betraying us? No, that's not it.”
How often do personal and national interests align? Cutting off the hasty, foolish speculation, Gao Xusen glared at the disassembled gun and demanded, “Tell me anything else I need to know.”
I shrugged. “I've covered the essentials... Dara Adam Khel at its peak had 60,000 artisans running 2,000 gun lines. Al Qasim topped in tech and output among the five elite groups. The name came from Afghan mujahideen who loved their guns.”
Qasim means 'Father of Beauty'—religious praise from Islamists who'd fought Soviets then Americans.
In short, Dara Adam Khel was once the Taliban's arsenal. Besides Al Qasim, Kamran, Samiullah, Sharifkhel, and Sharifkai had reputations for precise replicas, but my samples all bore Al Qasim's unique marks.
Four generations of family technique formed an identity as distinct as bloodline.
“The key fact: A significant portion of Black Sea Party weapons come from one source. Meaning some entity contracted supply with them.”
“Those ignorant Black Sea scum couldn't negotiate alone—language barrier! Foreign powers must be involved!”
He loved blaming outsiders. To avoid overreach in his report exposing incompetence, I shook my head and offered a realistic scenario.
“We don't know. China's west has many Muslim minorities, right?”
“...Uyghurs?”
“Not just them. Millions of Hui in Henan, Ningxia, Yunnan. Your party demolished mosques, suppressed faith, forced intermarriage with Han. They might seize this chance for revenge, brokering arms. Could be their shot at independence.”
“Investigate them hard! Those impure Allah-worshippers have long peddled opium. Indeed! If drugs flowed that route, why not guns? I'll suggest it immediately.”
This from a communist cadre selling heroin and fentanyl to America while arming Southeast rebels.
I corrected the noble spitting on his own face again. “Just one hypothesis.”
“Another possibility?”
“Yes. The factory might have come to China.”
“...I'm listening.”
“Pakistan cracked down on northern Taliban, shrinking tribal council autonomy. Dara Adam Khel artisans, who thrived in that shadow, face unemployment. Desperate for outlets.”
“So they relocated entirely?”
“More like on-site service. A truckload of tools lets them set up anywhere. Nothing special about the tools—no seizure risk. They procure locally.”
In essence, they are the walking factory.
Pakistan promised industrial parks for jobs, but COVID derailed it. Craftsmen skilled only in guns, bombs, cannons had to fend for themselves.
“Include this in your report. With these exhibits, higher-ups will reach the same conclusions. They'll rate you high for strategic vision and analysis.”
Al Qasim replicas lagged genuine in performance and durability, but functional reliability was top-tier—especially in close urban fights.
If superiors had brains, they'd heed it. Even if disproven, circumstantial plausibility made it propaganda gold.
Gao Xusen nodded deeply, gazing at me complexly. “I asked before, but... still: Are all black market arms dealers as shrewd as you?”
Doubt, bewilderment, admiration. Reading the noble's eyes, I deceived with light confidence.
“You'll learn allying with me is your great fortune.”