lovenovelstory Chapter 58 Hush, can we make peace?
Chapter 58 Hush, can we make peace?
"Yes, yes, oh no, no, hey! You're right, you're right."
Only one LED table lamp was lit inside the tent.
The light shone on the unfolded battle map, with the edges hidden in shadow.
Gordon Jose held his phone in his left hand, while unconsciously poking dots on the edge of the map with a red and blue pencil in his right.
The pencil tip had become dull, leaving shallow dents on the paper.
The voice coming from the phone's earpiece had static, spoke very quickly, emphasized each syllable, and had a strong curry accent.
Gordon couldn't hear the specifics, but he could catch a few keywords: "efficiency," "results," and "disappointment."
He was hunched over, his neck tilted forward, and his chin almost touched the table.
"Yes, yes, I understand."
He says,
"Redeployment is underway. Yes, ground troops have withdrawn to establish a defensive line, and engineers are scanning the underground structure. A new plan must be ready before dawn tomorrow."
Then another message came through the receiver.
Gordon's right hand stopped moving. The pencil hovered in mid-air, its tip three centimeters from the red circle on the map representing River Harbor.
"But……"
He spoke, his voice lower than before.
"That would accidentally hurt many people, and we'd have to pay compensation..."
He was interrupted before he could finish speaking.
Gordon closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened his eyes again, his face had once again adopted that formulaic expression, even though the person on the other end of the phone couldn't see it.
"Okay. Understood. Will do as you say."
I listened for another ten seconds.
"Definitely. Don't worry."
busy tone.
Gordon took the phone away from his ear and pressed the power button with his thumb.
The screen went out.
He tossed his phone onto the map, and it slid across the surface, hitting a metal kettle in the corner with a dull thud.
He stared at the kettle for two seconds, then reached out and grabbed the now-cold paper cup from the table.
The cup contains instant coffee, with a thin film of oil on the surface.
He tilted his head back and gulped down the coffee.
The liquid was icy cold, with a sour taste from over-extraction and the strange smell of residual artificial sweeteners.
My Adam's apple bobbed as I swallowed.
"Fuck."
He crushed the paper cup and threw it into the trash can at his feet.
The paper cup bumped against the side of the bucket, bounced, and landed on several torn-up briefings.
Gordon leaned back in his folding chair.
Staring at the top of the tent.
The canvas is military green and has a matte finish under the light.
"Sigh~"
The advantage of information technology is that it allows us to see most of the battlefield in real time.
The tablet was placed on the other side of the table, with the screen divided into four windows:
The drone provides aerial views, thermal imaging scans, information on the distribution of friendly units, and updated casualty statistics.
Every number is jumping.
The downside of information technology is that those who lack brains but wield power can use their own egos to demand that he do a whole host of obviously problematic things.
They just want to win right away, regardless of whether they can win in the future.
But he didn't know.
He couldn't ask.
The consequences of refusing are clear.
The notification about the adjustment to his medical reimbursement limit from last week is still in his inbox.
It's like knowing there's a pit of fire ahead, but you have to jump in, so you squint and pray you can get across.
Even if you know very well that it's impossible.
boom.
The sound came from outside the tent.
Short, crisp, like a pistol.
Gordon didn't move.
He remained in a backward-leaning posture.
I don't know how many times similar sounds have been heard tonight.
There would be a quiet period after each time.
Then came sporadic bursts of automatic weapon fire.
The silence lasted only a few seconds, at most half a minute. Then it returned to silence.
He knew what those sounds were.
Those "elite" soldiers transferred from the Ford, Simpson, and Adams families, those pampered soldiers who had fought in the Middle East and found pleasure in killing their fellow countrymen, needed to vent their frustrations.
Moreover, they neither drink alcohol nor use performance-enhancing drugs, which is surprisingly admirable.
So they look for other forms of entertainment.
They arrested several African American or Mexican National Guard members and brought them to the edge of the camp.
Execution by pistol or knife.
Sometimes they would record audio, capturing the gasps and pleas for mercy of someone on the verge of death.
Gordon listened to it once and never touched the camp’s shared audio channel again.
He dared not say it.
I dare not ask.
Those pampered soldiers' direct superiors were Howard Fogan and Tom Simpson.
Either of his two given names followed by his surname could make him disappear from the industry forever.
boom! boom! boom!
This time it's a three-shot barrage, probably some kind of ritualistic kill.
Gordon raised his hand and rubbed his temples.
You can feel the blood vessels pulsating under your skin with your fingertips.
The sound exploded throughout the camp.
"Fuck, is this never going to end?!"
He finally couldn't hold back any longer.
He reached for a Glock 17 pistol on the table; the holster was already undone.
The instant your fingers touch the handle.
The gunfire stopped.
It stopped abruptly.
It was as if someone had simultaneously pulled all the triggers.
silence.
The only sound was the roar of the generator; there wasn't a single human voice.
Gordon's fingers stopped on the grip.
He held his breath.
He slowly stood up, pressing his left hand against the edge of the table to maintain his balance.
He gripped the gun handle with his right hand and lifted the Glock off the table.
The movement was very light, and the sound of metal rubbing against plastic was particularly clear in the silence.
The tent curtain was suddenly lifted.
Gordon instinctively raised his gun.
"Sir!"
The shout was hoarse, with a distinct Jose accent.
The soldier who rushed in was a young soldier, wearing a National Guard combat uniform but no helmet.
There was blood on his face; it was unclear whether it was his own or someone else's.
The fabric on the left shoulder was torn open, revealing the skin underneath, but no wound was visible.
"Outside," the soldier gasped, "they."
Before he could finish speaking...
boom!
Gundam's body fell forward.
His forehead hit the corner of the table with a dull thud.
Then he slid to the ground, lay on his side, and kept his eyes open.
There was a bullet hole on the back of his head, with clean edges, and blood was gushing out from it, quickly forming a small dark red puddle on the ground.
Gordon stared at the pool of blood.
The tent curtain was still swaying.
A figure walked in.
He was wearing a dark fleece jacket, cargo pants, and boots covered in mud.
He was holding an AKM, with a wisp of very faint blue smoke rising from the muzzle.
Gordon recognized the face.
He had seen it countless times in the briefing photos and in close-ups in the live video.
Carl Jensen.
Gordon's throat was dry.
He wanted to speak, but his vocal cords seemed frozen. His hand holding the gun trembled; his fingers were on the trigger guard, but he had no strength to press down.
Three miles.
In between are defensive lines of at least eight companies, tank positions, patrol posts, and drone monitoring nodes.
Even if everyone stood there as targets, it would be impossible to...
Countless thoughts surged through his mind, and sweat dripped continuously from his forehead.
"Shh, can we make peace?"
His mouth was dry and he struggled for a long time before finally managing to utter this sentence.
"Too bad you're Mexican."
In the blink of an eye, Karl was standing in front of him, one hand gripping the back of his gun, and said with a regretful tone.