George Bush’S Great America [EN]: Chapter 171

Listening to some old rock music on the radio, I yawned. The possibility of government forces or heavily armed police storming into Tuareg territory was always there, but that was a problem for later, not now.

Just then, the sky began to darken. At first, I thought it might rain, but I quickly realized it was no ordinary cloud.

“What is that?”

For a moment, I was too stunned to understand what was happening, simply staring at the sky. It wasn’t until I saw them disappearing over the horizon that I snapped out of it. I was so flustered that I hesitated, unsure whether to press 1 or 2 on the internal phone.

Let’s rewind a bit. Ten minutes should do it.

Inside the Tuareg tribe’s traditional tent—little more than a leather and wood structure designed for easy relocation—the hostages were bound. They were valuable enough to be tied to chairs, after all. However, coming from concrete jungles, they were far removed from the desert, making the environment less than ideal for them.

“In the beginning, you see.”

Clang. Clang.

Metal struck metal, spitting sparks repeatedly. A Tuareg man was there, honing a large knife against a small metal plate on his tactical vest. Whether he was actually sharpening the blade was debatable, but it was undeniably sharp enough to slit a throat.

He sat across from the hostages, leaning back in his chair as if conducting an interview. His accent was quite unique, sounding more Middle Eastern than African. Since only one person spoke English, it was hard to tell if his accent was unique or typical for this tribe. What mattered was that this man with the peculiar accent held the hostages’ lives in his hands.

“I was hoping to make a good deal with the government, but they aren’t responding to negotiations, perhaps because you’re foreigners.”

The man was dressed in traditional Tuareg attire. The hostages didn’t understand the Tuareg language, but the way he commanded his subordinates with simple gestures made it clear that he was in charge of the hostage camp, or at least the leader here.

The cloth wrapped around his face was an Asensoter [a traditional blue cloth worn by Tuareg men to protect their faces from the desert winds], mostly covering his face, similar to a hijab. However, there was one crucial difference: traditionally, in this matrilineal society, it was the men, not the women, who veiled their faces.

“Frankly, I’m very disappointed. Seven of our Tuareg warriors died trying to capture you.”

The PMC [Private Military Company] fought valiantly, but they couldn’t protect their clients against technicals [pickup trucks mounted with heavy weapons] equipped with heavy machine guns and anti-tank weapons, employing a war of attrition reminiscent of end-of-the-century raiders. Especially since this man was exceptionally skilled with firearms, and four PMC members had lost their lives to the AK in his hands.

“Seven of them!”

Yes, seven. A whole seven. Seven young men in their prime had died. It was a minor loss on a national scale, barely a scratch, but in this small village, it was a significant blow.

Putting aside the grief and despair from the loss of loved ones, simple math showed that it took ten years for a warrior to fully come into his own. Losing seven such warriors was nothing short of a strategic tragedy.

“Are you worth those seven lives?”

The man’s voice grew louder, and as his tone rose, the hostages became increasingly fearful and silent, wanting to live a little longer. But the man seemed displeased. He approached the nearest hostage, leaned in close, and said,

“I’ll give you a chance to prove it.”

“W-what kind of chance?”

The hostage was involuntarily overwhelmed by the man’s presence and spoke without thinking. Perhaps he simply found the man’s face uncomfortably close.

“I’m giving you the chance to contribute to the revival and glory of our Tuareg tribe.”

The man boldly took another step toward the hostage, both mentally and physically. He placed one foot on the hostage’s thigh. Just having it there was painful enough, as the heavily armed man’s military boots made it feel like medieval torture. The hostage couldn’t help but groan in agony.

“Is it that hard to understand? Or…”

He pressed the large knife against the hostage’s neck. Even though he had just been sharpening it, the hostage could feel the sharpness through his thick skin. Thanks to this, even though the blade hadn’t touched him yet, in his imagination, his cold sweat had become blood escaping from his arteries, and the spots where the cold sweat had been were now bloodstains.

He wasn’t usually this weak. On average, he was quite resilient. However, having just witnessed the mass production of corpses of PMC members who had been shot in the head by a heavy machine gun just hours ago, and knowing that the man before him valued people not as human beings but as assets, and was a terrorist who had no qualms about taking lives, anyone would suffer a nervous breakdown.

“Does this make it easier to understand?”

It was the most universal language he knew. After all, wasn’t the point of language to communicate? In that sense, violence was the greatest language in human history, and weapons were the greatest invention in linguistics. From toddlers to the elderly, everyone understood its meaning.

“Damn it! I understand! I understand, so please, put that knife away!”

The man was greatly satisfied by that answer and returned the large knife to its sheath. The hostage felt the blood flowing back into his veins.

“How much will it take?”

“Finally! Now we’re talking!”

He clapped his hands, overjoyed.

In fact, the conversation they were having now wasn’t new. Similar conversations had taken place hours ago. And the results of those who failed to offer a satisfactory number were outside the tent, cooling off with only their heads above ground to allow for a brief respite.

…Or perhaps they were getting hotter.

“Chief!”

“Ah, right when it was getting good.”

He finally removed his booted foot from the hostage’s thigh. The hostage finally felt the blood flowing back into his thigh.

“What is it!”

“It’s a Code One situation.”

A Code One situation meant something that threatened the very existence of the tribe, not just this village. This was not something to joke about. With the thought that things had seriously gone wrong, he scratched his head vigorously and stepped out of the tent.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Watch the broadcast. Something big has happened.”

No matter which channel he turned to, it was all the same story, with real-time French subtitles, the official language of Mali. Although he was more familiar with English, he knew both languages to some extent, so he had no trouble watching and listening to the broadcast.

In short, they were saying that if all the hostages weren’t returned to the United States within 12 hours, they would be killed. Naturally, the Malian government welcomed this with open arms. The United States was offering to take care of one of their biggest headaches, which was like having someone else blow your nose for you.

Of course, they outwardly stated that they would not tolerate foreign troops stationed on their territory, but that was just for show. After a lengthy self-justification, they concluded by saying that they would actively cooperate in the capture of the terrorists.

“Are the hostages we captured perhaps American politicians or something?”

As soon as he saw that, the chief felt a tingling sensation in the back of his head.

“Are these bastards using fake identities?”

Of course, they had already identified all the hostages’ occupations and activities. Passports and the internet were enough to identify them within an hour. If they were famous, their personal information was freely available to third parties to the extent they allowed. This was a side effect of the information age.

The reason they bothered to investigate was that they also checked who they were dealing with. If they were politically problematic, it would only cause trouble for the Tuareg tribe.

“Chief!”

“Bombers are flying at low altitude over our village!”

“What?”

He thought these idiots must have mistaken reconnaissance planes for bombers, but when he looked up at the sky, he saw that bombers were indeed flying in formation.

‘This is bad. This guy is crazier than I thought.’

He had expected the Malian government forces or police, but the US military? It was something he hadn’t even imagined, let alone considered. Of course, rationally speaking, since there were hostages here, the probability of those bombers dropping bombs was close to zero, but there was no guarantee that a madman who sent bombers wouldn’t actually drop bombs.

Since Mali was a landlocked country, any entry would require foreign airspace, and Algeria, Libya, and Morocco had long since fully opened their airspace as soon as the request came in, wanting to maintain their regimes for a long time.

They had told the media that they would never open it, but that was just talk. They had to survive first. How could they stand against the world’s strongest military when they couldn’t even stop the insurgents active in various regions?

However, it should be noted that it wasn’t that the African governments were incompetent and pathetic. It was because the Europeans had messed things up so badly that ordinary administrative capabilities couldn’t handle it. It was definitely not the fault of the African governments.

Some people, ignorant of Africa and still seeing it as a backward and uncivilized continent in the 21st century, often cite the existence of dictatorial governments when pointing out Africa’s uncivilized state, but even that was because the European powers had completely ruined things and fled.

In any case, the issue of airspace rights was not much different even if it were a European government rather than an African government, but the response was somewhat seriously swift because of the precedent of Afghanistan. Their commonality was that they were anti-American countries that felt guilty.

Anyway, the very flustered chief rushed back into the tent. He was so flustered that he tripped while entering the tent, scraping the skin off his chin. Dripping blood, he randomly pointed at one of the hostages.

“Hey you! What do you do?”

“Me?”

Whether by coincidence or fate, the person he happened to point at was the one who had caused the US President to make a large expenditure.

“I make MP3 players.”