Chapter 484: The Game in the Shadows: the CIA

The sun on the Red Earth Plateau is so scorching it feels like it will strip a person's skin.

In the mining area, the men in dark‑blue work clothes were bustling with activity. In just two days the wasteland had changed. The drainage ditches were as straight as if measured with a ruler, rows of makeshift houses rose from the ground, and even on the sun‑facing slope of the camp, two rows of newly planted bok‑choy seedlings stood upright, vigorous.

Ding Wenjiang clutched his beloved canvas bag, his head covered in red earth, and rushed into Lu Qingshan's tent like a madman.

"Director Lu! Director Lu!"

Behind old Ding's thick glasses, his eyes shone terrifyingly. He slammed a fist‑sized rock onto the table with a "clang", his hands trembling.

"Not just diamonds! This is a by‑product ore! High‑grade associated gold!" Ding Wenjiang pointed at the clear gold veins on the rock, spittle flying, "I just measured the strata strike; beneath us is a vault! The gold content is higher than that of our Zhaoyuan mine!"

Lu Qingjun was squatting nearby, chewing sugarcane. Hearing that, he forgot to spit out the fibrous bits, his eyes bulging, "Gold? Director Ding, you're saying we're sitting on a gold mountain?"

"It's more than a gold mountain!" Ding Wenjiang's face flushed and his neck swelled with excitement, "If we mine it properly, the annual output of this district could match our country's entire foreign‑exchange reserves from last year!"

Lu Qingjun slapped his thigh, laughing so hard his back molars showed, "Brother! It's happening! This time it's really happening! Let's hurry…"

"Shut up."

Lu Qingshan sat on the marching cot, clutching the black Satellite Phone that had just been hung up, his face showing no joy, his brows knit as if pondering an extremely tangled endgame.

The call had just come from David in New York.

Something was stirring over Wall Street. A huge sum of unknown money was flowing through several Caribbean offshore accounts toward the area around Angola. David had pulled every connection he had, and at last only uncovered a code—"Vulture".

That is the CIA's Africa division's operation code.

"Brother, what's wrong?" Lu Qingjun sensed the shift in atmosphere and tossed the sugarcane from his hand.

"Someone's nose is sharp, they've caught a scent." Lu Qingshan stood up and walked to the tent entrance.

In the distance, a white Jeep marked "International Humanitarian Rescue" kicked up a cloud of red dust as it sped toward the mine gate. Before the vehicle could stop, the door swung open and a white man in a khaki tactical vest and Ray‑Ban sunglasses stepped out.

He chewed gum, a briefcase in hand, eyeing the laborers digging trenches, a smug sneer curling his mouth.

"I'll go have a word with him." Lu Qingjun rolled up his sleeve.

"Go ahead." Lu Qingshan nodded, "Remember, don't lose any of the Lu Family's people."

At the camp entrance.

The white man removed his sunglasses, revealing gray‑blue eyes. He looked at the approaching Lu Qingjun and, in a thick Texas drawl, said, "I'm Smith, representing the International Humanitarian Rescue Organization. I heard civilians here need aid, so I came to see."

"Rescue organization?" Lu Qingjun sized him up, noting the bulge at his waist that looked like a gun holster, "Do you rescue groups now issue Colt M1911s?"

Smith was unbothered, laughing, "In Africa there are many beasts; it's for self‑defense. Young man, are you the person in charge here?"

"I guess so."

"Very well." Smith got straight to the point, handing over his briefcase, "Inside is US Dollar 50,000, a token of our organization's goodwill. We hope to set up an observation post in your mining area and that you'll share recent geological survey data. After all, it's for the benefit of all humanity."

Fifty thousand US Dollars.

In a country where per‑capita daily income is under one US Dollar, this is a fortune.

Lu Qingjun took the box, opened it for a glance. Neatly stacked green US Dollar bills exuded an alluring ink scent.

Smith watched Lu Qingjun's expression, his contempt deepening. In his view, there was no amount of US Dollars these Easterners would refuse; if there were, it would simply be not enough money.

"Young man, take the money and lead your people out of here." Smith lowered his voice, his tone threatening, "In Africa, without a nod from us Americans, you can't ship even a single diamond. Angola's skies can be closed to you at any moment."

Lu Qingjun slammed the lid shut with a "pop".

He flashed a brilliant smile at Smith, "Is this money really for me?"

"Of course."

"That's great." Lu Qingjun hoisted the box, turned and headed to the side where Old Money's men had just built a pigpen, housing two black‑hair pigs bought yesterday from local villagers, snorting and rooting in the mud.

Lu Qingjun stood at the edge of the pen, in front of Smith, opened the box again, his wrist trembling.

Whoosh—

Fifty thousand US Dollars fell like a green rain, all landing into the pig pen.

The two black pigs, startled, squealed and scrambled through the money pile, quickly trampling the bills bearing Franklin's portrait into the pig‑filled mud.

Smith's smile froze, his whole body looking as if struck by lightning, his eyes nearly popping out.

"You… you're crazy?!"

Lu Qingjun clapped his hands, a disdainful expression on his face, "Mr. Smith, I'm truly sorry. Our pigs have had poor appetites lately; Old Money said we should improve their feed. This American feed looks quite premium; I'm not sure if the pigs will like it."

"You're courting death!" Smith's façade shattered completely, his hand instinctively reaching for his waist, "Do you think this is somewhere else? One call from me and tomorrow this mining district will be razed to the ground! You cannot bear the wrath of the US Government!"

"US Government?"

A plain voice came from behind Lu Qingjun.

Lu Qingshan, hands behind his back, sauntered out. He wore a faded Zhongshan suit and black cloth shoes, looking at Smith as one would at a stray dog by the road.

"Smith, you're a Level‑One operative of the CIA's Africa division, reporting directly to Langley. Your superior is Wilson, the fat man who made his fortune on the black market of arms in the Vietnam war."

With each sentence Lu Qingshan uttered, Smith's complexion grew paler.

"How do you know…"

"Go back and tell Wilson to spare himself this idle curiosity." Lu Qingshan stepped in front of Smith, lacking any overbearing aura, yet making Smith feel an unprecedented pressure, "Also, don't use blockades to intimidate people. If you block one road, I can open ten. If you provoke me, I'll print flyers exposing the locations of your secret prisons in Congo and the dirty deeds you've done in Africa over the past years, and scatter them from the Middle East to Washington."

Smith's hand trembled; instinctively he stepped back half a pace.

"Go back and greet your boss, tell him the game has changed; the Banker is different." Lu Qingshan extended his hand, smoothing the sweat‑dampened collar of Smith's shirt, his motion gentle as an old friend's, "You're not welcome here. Leave."

Smith clenched his teeth, his complexion shifting between pallor and a sickly hue. He stared deeply at Lu Qingshan, his gaze full of venomous resentment.

"You'll regret this. This is Africa; steel and gunpowder are the hard truth."

Having said that, he jumped into the Land Rover, the door not even fully closed, and gunned the engine, as if a ghost chased him.

Watching the dust trail behind the departing vehicle, Lu Qingjun was somewhat worried, "Brother, that foreign devil surely didn't hold his fart. Should we be on guard?"

"Guard?" Lu Qingshan scoffed, "He's just borrowing a knife to kill someone."

…

Luanda, the Soviet Union military advisory team's base.

Smith sat opposite the silver‑haired Soviet advisor, a glass of vodka in hand, his face grim.

General Ivanov, those Chinese are too overbearing. They're making moves on the border; this is a challenge to the Soviet Union's authority in Angola.

General Ivanov is a typical Slav, towering as massive as a polar bear. He stared at the inconspicuous red dot on the map, the spot where one of his elite reconnaissance squads vanished a few days ago.

"Americans, put away your sowing‑discord tricks," Ivanov pressed his cigarette butt out in the ashtray. "But you're right. Whoever dares to dig under my very nose will pay the price."

He grabbed the Red Telephone on the table.

"Order the Guard Tank Battalion to full alert. Load those two Doe helicopters with rockets. Before sunrise tomorrow, I want to see the mine turn into a sea of fire!"

……

Night fell, and the mine was terrifyingly silent.

Manuro and his guard burst into Lu Qingshan's tent; his blackened face turned deathly pale, both legs shaking.

"Mr. Lu! It's over! Completely over!" Manuro's voice trembled. "Our line from Luanda just reported that the Soviets are going all‑out! T-62 Tank Battalion! And the Doe helicopters! Those are flying tanks! We must run, retreat to the Congo border while it's still dark!"

On this African soil, Soviet‑made tanks and armed helicopters are synonymous with death. When Manuro's troops previously faced such a setup, they wouldn't even fire a shot, scattering outright.

Lu Qingshan is playing chess with Qian Weiguo.

Hearing Manuro's howl, Lu Qingshan didn't even lift his head; he simply moved a pawn forward one space.

"Run? Where to run?"

"Anywhere works! Staying here is waiting for death! That's a tank!" Manuro pounded his thigh in panic.

Qian Weiguo, who had been silent, suddenly laughed.

The old man flung his chess piece onto the board, stood up, rubbed his calloused hands, and his eyes flashed green—the excitement of an old hunter spotting a plump prey.

"T-62? Good stuff," Qian Weiguo licked his lips. "Sturdy and durable. Perfect—we still need a few iron plates for the freshly dug ditches."

"Qian, are you confident?" Lu Qingshan asked.

"If the Americans bring their M1A1, this job will take some effort. But the Soviet's T-62..." Qian Weiguo chuckled, a grin that made Manuro feel more nauseous than a Soviet tank. "We've mastered this thing on Treasure Island. Blind, deaf, lame—full of flaws."

Qian Weiguo turned, gazing at the map on the wall; the kindly old farmer that had been there was gone, replaced by a battle‑scarred iron‑blooded general.

"Transmit my orders!"

"Tell those boys to put down their spades and bring out all the gear! No more hiding!"

"Tell Ding Wenjiang to load explosives onto the measured blast points. Give me a full charge!"

Manuro heard it through a fog of confusion: "You… you want to go toe‑to‑toe with a tank?"

Lu Qingshan rose and stepped out of the tent.

The night wind howled, and in the distance a muffled rumble of tracks crushing the earth could already be heard.

"A head‑on fight? That's a brute's work," Lu Qingshan said, eyes on the black night sky, his voice cold. "Manuro, watch closely. Tonight, we'll teach you a lesson."

"The name of this lesson is—Enter the jar."

"Don't fight head‑on; open a gap and let them in to fight," Lu Qingshan turned, looking at the bewildered Manuro. "Let the whole world see, in this jungle, who truly is the ancestor of guerrilla warfare."