Mercenary Black Mamba

Chapter 270: Chapter 31, Episode 1: National Treasure

During overseas operations, call names were authorized to request cooperation from the host country’s embassy where they operated. They were also allowed to mobilize personnel from the embassy when necessary. “A chaque hour ce puis sa soleil” was the code that replaced a special military advisor’s ID card.

In fact, the embassies in each country were accredited spy lairs. The U.S., the Soviet Union, France, the U.K., and Israel were specifically substandard in their cases. It wasn’t unreasonable to consider the head ambassador as the spies’ leader.

While a team dispatched from the 11th Airborne Brigade watched over the French Embassy in Syria on the surface, half of their staff members were the DGSE’s strategic operations agents. The agents were currently active in Kaparja under Bonipas’ orders. If they had remained, Black Mamba wouldn’t have been in such a bewildering situation.

“F****** hell, how were the guards educated?” Black Mamba grumbled in Korean.

He’d traveled on paved and unpaved roads for the past 12 hours without rest. Dodging the checkpoints only doubled the time.

The temperature completely changed once he passed Idlib and entered the desert. Although it was October, the temperature ranged around 30 degrees Celsius. “I must have gone mad,” he must have said that phrase at least 100 times while traveling down Route 60, which stretched across the desert.

He had arrived only to discover that the station guard didn’t know the code. Bonipas’ reassurance that he would be able to receive help anywhere in the world was s***. Now, he had another reason to shake Bonipas’ neck.

Black Mamba looked down at his attire. He looked like any other Syrian in their specific clothing, additionally covered in white dust. Grime flowed down his face. He looked like a beggar, he admitted. He barely suppressed his explosive anger.

“If you don’t have any business, please leave.”

The station guard poured oil over the raging fire within him.

“Contact the ambassador.”

“Did you make an appointment?”

A mocking smile was planted on the station guard’s face.

“I made an appointment in advance.”

“I received no notification.”

The station guard responded stiffly, like a dried pollock. He was driving Black Mamba mad. Black Mamba considered beating up the b*stard after overhearing the conversation in the guard post.

“Look at that idiot. He doesn’t even look like a military advisor. What more a special military advisor? Maybe it’s a temporary position he gained from helping out with Mitterrand’s political campaign.”

“But sir, that’s the password we got from the boss. The ambassador said we should bring him over immediately, won’t there be a problem?”

The newbie was restless.

“Corporal, I’m the guard leader. I’m the king, and that yellow b*stard is a monkey. Monkeys belong to the zoo. The main entrance to the French Embassy isn’t some monkey’s cage.”

Haha, f*** these b*stards!

Black Mamba’s eyes flashed. He could hear the conversation in the guard post like it was playing on a stereo. The guard leader was playing around despite knowing his identity. Those b*stards were racially discriminating. Black Mamba used up the last of his patience.

“I am the guest whom the ambassador is expecting. You’re making a mistake.”

Clack—

The station guard aimed a pamus at him.

“If you don’t step back, I’ll shoot you.”

“Ha, my God! I am the special military advisor. I want you to confirm it if you’re still in doubt.”

“You b*stard, if you’re the special military advisor, I’m the defense minister. Get out of here.”

Ha, this b*stard’s treating me like s*** because I’m of a different color.

Black Mamba’s patience snapped. He disappeared the moment the station guard pushed his gun forward. As though he was flicking a bead, Black Mamba rolled out his index finger and flicked the station guard’s forehead.

Craaack—

A cracking sound rang.

“Aaagh!”

A tormented scream broke out. His eyes lost focus with just a single flick. The station guard staggered as though he was drunk and slumped down.

“What the hell?”

Three guards popped out of the guard post.

“You b*stards are offering yourselves, right?”

Slap slap slap—

The guards who had their cheeks slapped fell to the ground one by one.

“Une seconde, attend une seconde![1]” The guard leader came rolling out of the post.

“There’s no second you f*****!”

Slap—

The guard leader, who received a stinging slap, spun once in the spot where he stood and fell. The few teeth that fell out of his mouth glimmered under the intense sunlight. That was a slap loaded with emotions, unlike the slaps Black Mamba had given prior.

“Sergeant, do you really not know who I am?”

“Uuugh!”

“Comme on fait son lit on se couche[2], do you know that saying? I’ll make you lie down for the rest of your life if you keep feigning ignorance.”

The guard leader staggered up.

“I will ask again. Who am I?”

“You didn’t identify yourself.”

“Hah!”

He snorted in amusement. That b*stard was trying to showcase his racial superiority despite knowing his identity. He was the kind of b*stard who would claim nothing had happened when questioned later. He would never have imagined that his conversation would be heard from 100 meters away like it was playing on a stereo.

“Let me ask you again. I’m the special military advisor. ‘A chaque jour cepuis sa peine,’ don’t you know? Do you want to stand in a court-martial?”

There was only silence.

The sergeant’s mouth opened and closed, unable to reply.

“Hah, you f*****. The sergeant is the king of all the guard posts, huh? And a yellow monkey should go back to the zoo?”

“Ugh!”

The sergeant’s face creased. Now, he had no excuses to make. The bloodthirsty shout ended the uncertainty he had about how his conversation was made known.

“Attention!”

“Oui!”

The guard leader clicked into position at the roar.

“State your affiliation and title.”

“I’m sergeant Sarco Riverie from the 11th Airborne Brigade’s Third Battalion.”

Black Mamba glared at the sergeant with a raised brow.

“Sergeant, do you have a death wish?”

His cold glare dug into the man’s head.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry? Who am I?”

“You’re the special military advisor, sir.”

“Your excuse?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Do you have any family members?”

“I’m unmarried, sir.”

Black Mamba tore off the sergeant’s epaulets. There were always b*stards who acted out needlessly with a rat’s s*** amount of power. They didn’t deserve forgiveness.

“You mocked me despite knowing my position from the beginning. You’re demoted, sergeant Sarco Riverie, to a second class private from this moment onwards. You will be escorted to the court-martial for insulting a superior and humiliating the flag.”

“But…but sir!”

Guard leader Sarco Riverie’s face darkened.

“I tore off your epaulets instead of your neck. Say another word, and I will pull apart your neck.”

Damn, I stepped on s***.

The guard leader lowered his head, unable to say a word because of the overwhelming aura. The consequences of mistreating a guest were harsh.

“Stand, you b*stard.”

He kicked the station guard who had been rolling on the floor ever since the forehead flick.

“Call the one in charge over.”

The station guard sprinted into the building as though he was rolling.

Tatatata—

Three guards in uniform came running out of the main building. A guard wearing the rank of a major stepped forward.

“Are you the head of the guards?”

“Yes, sir. I would like to check your identity as per regulations.”

Black Mamba stared at the head of the guards. That b*stard was putting on a show too.

“A chaque hour ce puis sa soleil.”

The head of the guards’ face creased. It was the nuclear bomb that the ambassador had forewarned about. He was the person the ambassador had warned about several times to serve with etiquette. The stupid sergeant had only reported him as a high-ranking official.

“You b*stard, report properly.”

The major unleashed his anger on the sergeant.

Crack—

The sergeant, who had the area between his legs kicked, hopped on one leg while gritting his teeth. Lackeys always suffered a sad reality, whoever they were.

God, they’re really putting on a show.

Black Mamba stopped judging the guards who kept putting on a comedy show.

“Act! I’m unaffiliated second-class major Pontaine Ecjose.”

Ecjose clicked his heels together and raised his hand in a salute.

“I’m the special military advisor.”

“My apologies, sir. It seems like my subordinates forgot the code.”

“Major Pontaine Ecjose, are there only chickenheads gathered in the 11th Airborne Brigade? Educate your subordinates well.”

“That’s…an exaggeration, sir.” Ecjose’s face creased.

He’d also stepped in s*** because of the idiot, Riverie.

“I’m very patient right now. One more word, and I’ll pull your ribs out.”

Ecjose’s mouth closed like a clam at his warning and unrelenting aura. Ecjose turned to glare at sergeant Riverie.

“You f****** idiot, I knew you’d get into trouble someday. Hey, put sergeant Riverie in the holding cell.”

“What is it?”

The ambassador of Syria, Julian Jopine, turned to Ecjose with disapproving eyes. The healthy man who came in after Ecjose looked like a beggar covered in dirt. He wasn’t dressed like someone who should be entering an ambassador’s office.

“Ambassador, he’s the special military advisor.”

“What?”

Surprised, Jopine leaped up.

“Did you check his identity?”

“Yes, sir!”

Unable to find the right words, Jopine looked at Black Mamba helplessly. The eyes hidden under the ghutra were colder than dry ice. As the ambassador, there was no way that Jopine wouldn’t have known about the situation in Kaparja.

All of the embassy’s operative agents had moved out to locate the very man before his eyes. The man who had overturned Kaparja and went missing stood there like an illusion, after 52 days.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Julian Jopine.”

“Ange de la Mort,” Black Mamba replied shortly. He grabbed his hand and released it immediately.

Jopine was startled. That was the Angel of Death who had wiped out Assad’s secret camp and erased 4,000 people. He grew nervous.

“I want to talk to Bonipas.”

“Of course.”

Black Mamba was immediately led to the communications room. He pressed the anti-eavesdropping button and punched in his personal DGSE call number.

On the eighth floor of the DGSE’s headquarters, in the director general’s office, also known as the swimming pool.

A map of Syria was spread over the center of a dull mahogany table. The director general Piel Lagos, director of operations Bernier Bonipas, and director of intelligence Musa Kabaye were having a coffee break after a heated debate.

“Bonipas, did you get rid of the cancer cells attached to the Elios Project?”

“I sent the bribed b*stard and the information-leaking b*stard to court-martial. I’ve also exiled five Crolsa workers assumed to be the CIA agents.”

“This is a big deal. At this rate, when are we going to launch our own satellite? The progress of the ground camp’s construction has already been delayed by 50 percent.”

“It’s a humiliating matter. 10 years to launch a reconnaissance satellite? That makes me want to send all those technological science researchers and arsenal workers to the 19th century.”

“I’m more frustrated. Director Bonipas might have a cheat key called Ange de la Mort, but I’m a dog flea. Even the Yankees and ours blanc are coming after my rear. My brain is almost fried after gathering information from some local agents. France has turned into a floating coffee bean due to the delay of the Elios Project,” director Kabaye complained as he lifted his cup of cold coffee.

“It’s my fault. I’ve spent a lot of funds on the ground wiretapping camp. The funds poured into Allueroua, Perigueux, Domme, Massif Central, and Albion alone added up to 1,500,000,000 francs.” Lagos turned to look at Kabaye apologetically.

The satellite project had met with hardships because the funds were directed toward the wiretapping system.

“The construction of the wiretapping camp is important in order to catch the movement of those terrorist organizations. The construction of the Prencherlon is related to the satellite business, after all. It can’t be seen as a waste. The problem is the inefficiency of the Intelco[3]. It’s far behind the U.S. in terms of the information’s quality and quantity,” Bonipas interfered to defend his superior’s position.

While human intelligence activities couldn’t be ignored, the trend was satellites and wiretapping. They wouldn’t have lost track of Black Mamba’s position if they had a reconnaissance satellite.

France was currently being pushed out of the Arabian Peninsula, as well as their front yard, Africa, due to the U.S.’ aerial attacks, with the CIA and the NSA at their forefront. Aside from the information’s quality and quantity, they couldn’t match up in speed. There was nothing that they did correctly after the left-leaning government took control of the flag. The defense companies heavily influenced by bureaucracy gave excuses during the time that they should be producing results. The problem was the reconnaissance satellites.

“Just stationing satellite camps in four places, New Caledonia, Mayotte, Petit Touder, and Tours, added up to 2,000,000,000 francs alone. The council is determined to burn me on the stove by stalling for time,” Lagos explained as he rubbed his saggy cheeks.

“Director Kabaye, is there new information on Aleppo?”

Bonipas changed the subject. The satellite launch wasn’t a problem that could be resolved in one or two days. Black Mamba’s location was their pressing problem.

“The Yankee informants stationed in Aleppo have disappeared like the tide. I feel like Langley’s Adam received a critical blow this time. Black Mamba is France’s national treasure. We’ve lost the said national treasure.”

There was deep regret on Kabaye’s face.

“You still haven’t found a lead on Black Mamba’s location?” Lagos asked as he straightened up in his chair.

Black Mamba’s missing status was not only the DGSE’s but the department of defense’s biggest loss. Lagos similarly felt as though he had lost a lottery ticket that he’d won. Nothing more could be said about Bonipas, who directly managed Black Mamba.

“There’s not a single trace. The U.S. reacted negatively. The CIA focused the KeyHole on Aleppo’s skies by changing its altitude and sent countless Dragon Ladies and Blackbirds. Even Smith, the direct head of consultants in the Middle East, appeared in Kaparja. Five DIA eraser teams poked around Aleppo with Assad’s help. All of the activities stopped last week. The intelligence division came up with two theories. Firstly, a major project that the CIA had been working on was affected due to Black Mamba. That gave them a reason to track Black Mamba, and they ultimately concluded he was dead. The intelligence division also believed him to be dead. Black Mamba was either swept away by the water and torn to pieces or crushed under the tons of the collapsing cliffs. We’re planning to withdraw the remaining informants we’ve sent out.”

“How many informants were sent to Aleppo?”

“46 trackers, 120 slippers, and 30 operative agents.”

“You’ve mobilized the entire supporting agents in the Levant region.”

“That’s how important the case is. Black Mamba’s battle capacity and survival rate were proven in the Sahel. He’s the kind of guy to live just because it would be wasteful to give up that much money. The moment he disappeared, I ordered the embassy in Syria to investigate the special military advisor’s location. We cannot conclude his death until we see his corpse. He might even be crawling out of hell right now.”

Bonipas spoke the truth, as though he had attained god-like senses after being traumatized by Black Mamba.

[1] “Wait a second, wait a second!”

[2] We sleep on the bed we make.

[3] The space company that the French department of defense invested in.