Chapter Thirty-Seven: In Odru

Duan Tianya sat on the plane. The vast cabin accommodated only two people, and the roar of the engines seemed to pound directly on his eardrums. Opposite him sat Chen Cao, eyes closed in rest. The relentless thrum of the helicopter’s rotors did not disturb him. Though the world below spread out clearly through the window, he showed no inclination to admire the passing scenery.

“We’re almost at our destination.” Duan Tianya produced a yellowed file from his jacket, glancing at Chen Cao as he slowly opened his eyes. “Now is the time for you to know the entire plan.”

Chen Cao chose silence in response. For him, any words outside the mission’s plan were irrelevant and automatically filtered out of his mind.

Duan Tianya drew a photograph from the file. “I’ll brief you on their basic situation.” The first photo showed a bespectacled man with delicate features and a pointed chin, scholarly in appearance. Pointing to the image, Duan Tianya said, “This man’s codename is ‘Sky Tiger.’ He’s a major-level intelligence officer at the Academy. Your first mission is to rescue him—dead or alive, you must bring him back or his remains.”

Chen Cao nodded, his eyes carefully scanning the photograph. The intelligence organization, known as 0611, was highly classified, and he had rarely met any of its members. He needed to commit this information to memory.

When he looked back at Duan Tianya, the latter understood and drew out two more photographs, his expression tinged with bitter resignation. “You should be quite familiar with these two.”

Chen Cao’s pupils dilated the moment his gaze fell upon the photos, his heartbeat quickening. These two people were all too familiar: Zhou Hongye and Yu Hongxiu.

Duan Tianya noticed Chen Cao’s reaction and, after a long pause, spoke in an emotionless tone, “Treat them by the same standard.”

Chen Cao’s chest heaved fiercely before he gradually regained his calm and nodded once more.

Seeing Chen Cao’s composure, Duan Tianya offered no words of comfort. Instead, he lightly crushed the photographs in his hand until they turned to powder. For a mission soon to become reality, words were futile. He continued by briefing Chen Cao on the specific details and procedures.

...

The Republic’s helicopters could not approach the battlefield. Otherwise, they might be spotted by satellite and accused of unauthorized intervention, which would drown them in a sea of global condemnation. Thus, Chen Cao disembarked in a small town named Mimi Lu, several thousand miles from Aodelu.

Waiting for him was a man in a voluminous robe, whose appearance from any angle did not suggest a professional soldier. Clearly adept at disguise, the intelligence officer sported thinning hair and a bulging beer belly, appearing at least in his fifties. His fingers glittered with jewelry, notably a ruby ring as large as a bird’s egg, and his easy smile revealed two gold teeth. He seemed surprised that headquarters would send such a young special forces operative for this extraordinary mission.

Judging by his complexion and the long whiskers he had cultivated while living in the desert, he was likely a native of the Grand Chen Empire.

“Old Duan, is this the elite you mentioned? So young!” The intelligence officer extended his hand and embraced Chen Cao warmly, introducing himself in fluent Mandarin: “You’re Chen Cao, right? I go by the nickname ‘Vulture’—I’m your direct contact for this mission. No need to know my real name, ha ha, that’s the rule of the organization.”

Duan Tianya seemed long accustomed to Vulture’s overt familiarity. He did not linger, but turned and boarded the aircraft. As the cabin door was about to close, he suddenly called out, “Chen Cao!”

Chen Cao turned to look at him.

Duan Tianya squinted against the wind whipped up by the rotors, his eyes dry. When he opened his mouth, the gale rushed down his throat, choking back a thousand unsaid words. He simply waved and shouted, “We’ll be waiting for your return!”

Chen Cao nodded. With a metallic clang, the cabin door shut and the helicopter rapidly lifted off.

Vulture’s plump face creased with another broad smile. “All right, my elite. Time is tight. Next, we need to give you a little makeover.”

Chen Cao spread his hands. “I’m in your hands now—do as you see fit.”

With Vulture’s hearty laughter filling the air, Chen Cao followed him into the depths of the small town.

That night, in a battered pickup truck, Chen Cao sat in the passenger seat. Vulture didn’t bother with elaborate cover stories but simply tattooed a blazing “¤” on Chen Cao’s arm—the symbol of an underground cult in the small East Asian nation of Gabon. His new identity was the eldest son of this cult’s leader, Matsumoto Shuren, sent to provide military aid to the embattled Aodelu resistance.

Drawing ever nearer to the front lines, the scent of gunpowder hung in the air.

The driver was a young man raised in the desert, a typical local. There was a pistol on the dashboard and a Czech submachine gun within easy reach, a testament to the dire state of security in the region.

As they drove, the young man softly hummed a tribal tune in his native tongue, the gentle swaying of the vehicle lulling its passengers toward slumber.

By now, Chen Cao had passed through countless smugglers and inspections to reach this point—it had taken three days in all. With Vulture’s arrangements, most obstacles had been smoothed over. Clearly, Vulture had built a strong network here. Chen Cao idly wondered if Vulture might once have been a trainee of 0611; if so, how formidable must the organization truly be?

Suddenly, the young black driver slammed the brakes, jerking Chen Cao from his reverie.

He babbled at Chen Cao in his native language before jumping out of the truck. Chen Cao noticed he took no weapons with him, but continued to shout and gesture, demonstrating by placing his hands on his head and bending over the hood.

Chen Cao understood: they had reached the first checkpoint.

Outside, the night was pitch-black. All around were withered yellow wild cacti and other nameless drought-resistant plants. Under a faint beam of light, several gun barrels were already aimed at the young driver. Chen Cao realized he had arrived at the organization’s territory.

He glanced at his military watch—right on time. Smiling faintly, he jumped out of the truck, his face contorted in a look of terror. Raising his hands, he shouted a string of Gabonese phrases.

A man who appeared to be the leader approached, wielding a deadly AK assault rifle. Grabbing Chen Cao by the hair, he glared at him with evident satisfaction, then slammed his head against the window.

With a crash, Chen Cao’s head struck the door, stars exploding in his vision, and he collapsed to the ground.

Laughter erupted from the resistance fighters, their taunts chillingly callous.

Chen Cao was not angered. Instead, he forced a nauseatingly ingratiating smile, wiped the blood from his brow, and reached inside his jacket.

The minor leader immediately raised his weapon, aiming it at Chen Cao’s head, warning him with harsh words not to make any sudden moves.

Still smiling, Chen Cao suddenly knelt with a thud, raising both hands in surrender. In his hand gleamed a golden fountain pen.

The resistance members were startled by his bizarre behavior, but their eyes quickly filled with greed when they saw the pure gold pen.

The minor leader’s eyes lit up. In the desert, where war and poverty reigned, most fighters were half-illiterate, the populace rarely reading, and even sacred texts were passed down orally. Only the nobility learned to write, and their meager supplies rarely included anything more than pencils. A fountain pen, especially one of pure gold, was a rare treasure.

Evidently, this minor leader had some education. He snatched the pen, turning it over and over in his hands, grinning broadly and slapping Chen Cao on the shoulder in delight, entirely forgetting to help him up.

Chen Cao stood on his own, dusted off his trousers, and smiled as if the blow to his head moments earlier had been nothing. He produced a letter of introduction, already prepared, and handed it to the thrilled minor leader.

The letter was, of course, in the local language.

The minor leader glanced suspiciously at the paper, but his earlier goodwill toward Chen Cao prevailed. He shouted instructions to the other fighters, who immediately lowered their weapons, though their eyes still lingered greedily on Chen Cao’s wristwatch.

With a cracked, perpetually parched mouth, the leader smiled and gave Chen Cao a hearty embrace, patting him three times on the back, then performed a traditional desert greeting. “Ula!” he called.

Chen Cao understood—the word meant “welcome.” Rolling up his sleeve, he smiled slightly, showing no signs of minding the earlier hostility.

When the leader saw the blazing red sun tattooed on Chen Cao’s arm, he grew even more respectful, bowing low. Though he knew Chen Cao was the son of the East Asian underground cult’s leader, come to supply weapons and support, his attitude remained deferential as he carefully slipped the golden pen into his sleeve.

Chen Cao pursed his lips, massaging the throbbing bump on his forehead. This place was desperately poor, he thought, but that just made things easier.

Flame King 37 – The Flame King, Full Free Read – Chapter 37: In Aodelu, Update Complete!