Mercenary Black Mamba

Chapter 248 - Episode 23: For Whom the Bell Tolls

Chapter 248: Chapter 27, Episode 23: For Whom the Bell Tolls

“You truly think so?” Adam’s expression turned serious.

Manager Matilda wasn’t the type to say anything that she couldn’t be held accountable for. There was always a reason behind her self-confidence.

“Director, I only lie when I’m meeting a man. There’s definitely one intruder. Look at this picture.”

Her long fingers spread 10 photos captured by the satellite camera across the table.

Click—

When the switch was flipped on, the backlight table lit up.

“The angle of the raindrops’ deflection was reconstructed into a three-dimensional shape. You can’t see the intruder, but someone’s moving out there, for sure. Compare the form with the surrounding objects. The measurement is at a meter’s worth.”

Adam’s eyes widened as he stared at the photos. 10 photos were taken at intervals of 0.1 seconds. The raindrops’ deflection moved 20 meters in one second.

“What the hell? Are you saying that Abbadon moved at 20 meters per second?”

“That’s it. The fully equipped Green Berets moved at six meters per second. The intruder is a haunter[1]. If you look at the photos taken after the dark clouds have cleared, Aloadin’s outer barbed-wire fences haven’t been tampered with. According to the Investigation Division’s reenactment of the intrusion, Abbadon didn’t break through the fences but jumped over it instead. He’s an explosive specialist who lured a sequence of explosions in the facility using at least 20 explosives. From what we can assume from the explosion’s range, at least 70 percent of the terrorists must have been out of power. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know either. The rest must have been wiped out by the rear fire support group. I think Abbadon is an active haunter eraser.”

The haunter whom Matilda spoke of referred to people with supernatural abilities. There were two types of people: Those with psychic abilities and those with mechanical abilities from having artificial muscles or lightweight hydraulic stents implanted. These human weapons were being developed in the seventh sector of Area 51.

“Kekeke, does that make sense? There are at least 1,000 ANO members. An extreme suicide squad of 100 members called the Horazan joined them recently. The terrorist organization’s defense line is beyond the White House’s since they’re terrorists specialized in breaking through it. Did the ANO and Horazan get high on hashish? Are you saying that Abbadon is an invisible human? Leave your desk if you’re going to write novels.”

Adam’s twisted smile turned into laughter.

“Nothing’s impossible if he had received a separate infiltration training at a speed of 20 meters per second. Even the predator in Area 51—”

“Hey, stop! Just continue with what you were talking about,” the director interrupted Matilda mid-sentence.

Area 51 was a taboo topic even among the CIA officials. Matilda flinched after realizing her mistake.

“Do you think France developed artificial muscles or lightweight hydraulic stents?”

“That can’t be. It’s impossible with France’s level of genetic engineering. They’ll need at least 50 years to catch up with Area 51.” Matilda shook her head.

When her shiny black hair flowed along to the movement of her head, it reminded him of a scene from a shampoo advertisement. Her long fingers pushed back the few strands of hair that had strayed on her forehead.

It wasn’t an intentional scene but an innate ability. A part of his body twitched at the alluring sight. Flustered, Adam pressed down on the stretching member. This wasn’t the time to lust after a subordinate, nonetheless a female mantis.

“Hm, that’s true. Maybe he’s a surviving product of the Arago Project?” Adam came up with an impractical speculation.

France had rambled on about creating a superhuman since Napoleon’s time. They have likely created a mutant. France was quite advanced in parapsychology.

“The Arago Project was a failure. According to a mole’s report, the research building and cave were sealed.”

“Well, without knowing their place, those frog b*stards turned innocent children into—”

Adam swallowed back the word “sacrifices.” The project in Area 51 was much more than that. He was in no position to blame others.

“Director, you should know that haunters only have one ability. The Abbadon is capable of moving. The DGSE must have trained the transfer haunter using camouflage and explosives. Assad’s s*** must’ve been erased along with the explosives. The support helicopters were shot down with missiles. They must have taken the Strela from the Strategic Air Defense Army’s arsenal.”

“France has created quite the weapon.”

“It’s not a weapon that the DGSE developed on their own. As the name suggests, he’s an unknown being that had either crawled out from hell or fallen from the sky.”

“Haunters don’t move so actively. What is he?”

“A haunter that has both physical and mental abilities? It’s what we are looking for. Hm, he’s quite amazing. I heard that Frenchmen have good manners, maybe I’ll ask him out on a date. Hmm!”

That mantis of a b****.

Adam ignored Matilda, who was twisting her lower body while humming. From being tempted by a similar situation, at least five men in Langley had their cheeks slapped and lower bits almost removed.

Samanda Matilda was the manager of the Information Investigations Division and an expert negotiator. She was a beauty who turned heads and also a killing machine who could murder 10 Green Berets at once. He did not want to become her sixth casualty.

“A haunter…damn.”

His mouth turned sour. His manager’s speculation of Abbadon being a haunter made sense. Otherwise, it was unexplainable. Adam’s chest felt stuffy. The haunter’s psychic ability was amazing, but his combat power was unknown. Even the haunters in Area 51 couldn’t enter the battlefield because of internal malfunctions.

Even if he did receive fire support, one haunter b*stard had wiped out the impregnable Aloadin fortress and turned it into a wasteland. Only a haunter who moved with active precision could bring about such absurd results.

Even Rambo Sylvester Stallone would cry at the appearance of the trained hitman, no, trained terrorist. The impact on the cuckoo’s nest was already a problem, but a being like the Abbadon would be a burden forever.

“Director, we don’t have the time to discuss Abbadon’s identity right now. We need to pull out the cuckoo’s nest, even in its broken state.”

Matilda directed Adam’s attention to a more significant problem. A failed operation had to be quickly resolved to avoid external attacks.

“We can’t move now as long as Assad’s chopsticks remain on the table. Are there any humans on our side in Kaparja?”

Bee—

The interphone interrupted their conversation. Adam’s face wrinkled while listening to the interphone.

“Got it.”

Bang—

Adam slammed down the phone.

“Matilda, the b*stard really blew up the missile camp.”

“What? The missile camp!”

This time, Matilda was surprised. Assad’s chopsticks possessed an amazing security system, but the Third Airborne Brigade had protected them. It was hard to believe that the ANO was attacked and that a regular air defense military base would collapse in such a short time.

“This is a big deal. France can now shove their Mirage freely in Syria’s northern regions. Assad won’t be able to curry any favor with France. Hehe, how do I report to the Enforcement Division that a part of the Socrates Project had failed?”

Adam fumbled around as he started losing his patience. The Socrates Project was part of Reagan’s executive core plan to push for Pax Americana.

The Socrates Project’s purpose was “to study the flow of disruptive technology which would help control the enemies, and to respond properly to the depletion of fossil resources including oil.” In other words, it meant exploiting the Third World’s resources, filling America’s stomach, and developing technology that would crush b*stards who don’t listen to them. The Socrates Project was just an excuse to be a bully.

The cuckoo’s nest was a part of the Socrates Project. Attorney general Davis was someone who could have a private meeting with the president at any time. He visualized the attorney general’s face.

“Report the truth. You will get a nosebleed if you try to wriggle your way out of this.”

“Hoo, Davis will be hopping mad.”

“Attorney general Davis is an impatient person. If the report is late, he will release a hurricane from his mouth. Director, you’ll fly away like a dandelion seed.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true.”

Adam smiled bitterly. The cuckoo’s nest, which they’d invested in for three years, were gone. Assad was missing his teeth and claws. Now, they wouldn’t dare touch France’s share of the north-east oil fields.

30,000,000 dollars worth of operation fees were scattered across Syria’s desolated lands. There was a shortage of information for a report that had to be urgently written. If he reported that an unidentifiable entity named Abbadon had ruined the project, the swivel chair beneath his rear would disappear.

“There’s not enough information. There are always limitations when it comes to machines. Do you think Shire and Dyson are still alive?”

“Those two are nothing but sadists. There’s no use in them being alive,” Matilda snapped.

The two operatives leased from the DIA had created problems across several difficult operations. She had to wash the dishes every time they created problems. She was sick of them.

“Matilda, you can’t trust machines too much. They are competent agents. Their role is to acquire the ANO’s leaders and Syria’s powers. The most important point of an engagement operation isn’t the agent themselves. The target is the key point. If the target is a terrorist and a sadist, the agent should reflect on those characteristics. Sharing the same goals with the target can help earn trust and achieve a sense of unity. Shire and Dyson shared Abu Nidal’s ideals and were awakened to the reality that they needed external help. We dug through those cracks, and that was the first step of our operation. Morals and ethics aren’t worth anything as much as a man’s nipples. You must not forget that these human operatives are the reason why our company still exists.”

“Ugh, yes, why not?”

Matilda shivered at Adam’s admiration for the theories of human rights. They were in a world where they looked at the ground from the sky every day and listened to the conversations in the Syrian president’s office from Langley’s office. The era of human intelligence had passed, leaving a world of zero’s and one’s. To her, human intelligence was purely secondary.

“Matilda, humans are the subject of intelligence. I know you’re capable, but you’ll lose the core if you rely too much on machines.”

“Yes, I get it. Send out a consultant to manage the scene, if you can. Abbadon appeared and wiped out the cuckoo’s nest. We can’t report that now, can we?”

“Your head would be gone first if we do—”

“—and the wheels on your chair would give out.”

“Stop talking about those wheels and send out the Blackbird immediately. Use the KeyHole to track down the guy.”

“We’ll have three KeyHole channels focused on Syria. Director, you can support me by assigning the DIA shadows instead of psychopaths like Shire and Dyson,” Matilda persisted on the issue.

It was a hysterical response from an old woman in her mid-30s. Adam gradually found the lively face before him annoying.

“Right. I’ll support you as much as I can. If you don’t catch that b*stard, I’ll fire you first before the wheels on my chair give out.”

“Yes, yes, of course, you would. I’ll drag Abbadon over in a dog’s leash.”

Matilda left the office, licking her red lips. It remained unclear if she could put a leash around Black Mamba.

Adam kept Zaitun’s existence a secret from Matilda. Zaitun was the best consultant whom the CIA could operate. To control Assad, he was necessary. A consultant had the authority to move independently. He only contacted the headquarters when needed. Adam would never have imagined Zaitun’s death.

“F****** hell!”

Bang—

The innocent desk was kicked away. The wrong guy had shown up to disturb the cuckoo’s nest, which had been progressing smoothly. Protecting Syria’s oil rights, excursion from France’s control, and preventing the Soviet Union’s expansion into the Middle East—all three bluebirds had flown away from his hands. The executive secretary position that he’d been anticipating, along with his current position, was at risk.

“Abbadon, I’ll peel off your skin for sure.”

He gritted his teeth and lit his cigar. His determination to stop smoking collapsed in a week.

[In Damascus’ Tishreen presidential palace]

“My apologies, your excellency!”

Bansiri performed a deep bow after he finished his report. Assad didn’t say a word. His gaze was fixated outside the window, somewhere beyond his office. Outside his window, the star above the minaret shone brightly. When he entered the presidential palace, he had sworn on a star above the minaret that he’d make Syria a strong country and drive away external influences. The reality was still a gutter. All kinds of thoughts swirled in his head.

The reason why he feared the Muslim Brotherhood wasn’t because of their power but because of their dangerous ideals. Pan-Islamism was an empty ideal, but the foolish Sunnis were easily swayed by it. They fixated too much on the Quran’s verse, “You were sorted in classes.”

They idealized a world dominated by the Sunnis. The classes they wanted to solidify were the ruling Sunni faction and the lower-class non-Sunni faction. That was a prayer he couldn’t accept.

Whether they were a Sunni, Shi’ite, or Alawites, they were all people and citizens of Syria. They were in a country that had been weakened and torn apart by external forces. He wanted to create a strong country with well-off citizens. Realistically, it wasn’t as easy. Endless obstacles emerged. After a long period of silence, Assad finally opened his mouth.

“Abu, my child, I know you well. You tried your best. Did you say the b*stard is an Iblis[3]?”

“Yes, your excellency, I’m sure he is an Iblis made of fire. Your excellency’s wealth and warriors were burned down. Your finest warriors had their waists sliced and necks cut by a swing of the b*stard’s fire whip. I still cannot believe it!”

Abu Bansiri was overflowing with tears. He was angry and pained. He’d barely managed to escape after losing 1,000 of Allah’s warriors. He could vividly hear Jarkawi’s tormented screams as though it had followed him. If it hadn’t been for Jarkawi, he would’ve been torn to pieces by the Iblis’ whip.

[1] Psychic.

[2] A slender tower with a balcony, typically part of a mosque.

[3] A name that referred to the primary devil in Islam.