Chapter 97: Visit Plan Altered

"Hey, guys, want a beer?"

Henry, holding a Styrofoam cooler in the trunk, asked Bernie, the oldest member of the security team.

The retired Green Beret noncommissioned officer glanced at his comrade Mark beside him and nodded: "Henry, pass me one."

Henry pulled out two aluminum cans of beer from the ice-filled cooler and tossed them over, then grabbed one for himself.

All three cracked open their cans at once, took a sip simultaneously, and exhaled together—the icy beer, as if charged with magic, banished the African heat.

Not far away, Lady He Ben was playing with children from a child protection agency, accompanied by UN personnel and Somali local officials.

But the only one truly attentive to the children was Lady He Ben herself; the UN staff and Somali officials, after taking photos, stepped aside to talk.

The topic was their unease over the domestic situation—Henry overheard it with his super hearing. Others could only see the worried expressions on both sides.

To make them smile again or treat the children kindly, all you'd need to do is hold a camera in front of them—far more effective than any plea.

Henry had just finished a roll of film; taking the chance to return to the car to change it, he joined the two private security guards beside the vehicle for a beer to chase away the heat.

He noticed the local guide and several Black men in uniforms—whether soldiers or police—watching them with envious eyes. Henry pulled out enough chilled beers from the cooler and walked over.

In the Somali he'd just learned, Henry said: "Hey, friend, it's scorching out—how about a cold gift from a good buddy?"

"You're too generous, friend," the Black men grinned, taking the beers.

Henry, who had crammed Somali before departure, stumbled through his words with them.

The language from textbooks simply wasn't the same as local speech; when Henry first spoke textbook Somali to the Black guys, they laughed their asses off.

Now he could converse smoothly with them—that was the result of his efforts to connect.

In truth, with Henry's abilities, speaking like a native—including perfectly mimicking the distinctive trilled accent—was no problem at all. But such rapid learning would've been too alarming, so he played dumb again.

After chatting a few minutes with the Black guys, Henry returned to the car and asked Bernie: "Where are Brian and the others?"

Hearing Henry's question, Bernie replied: "They're preparing for tomorrow's mission."

Henry grumbled: "Yeah. Before we left, we swore not to change the plan—yet the moment we arrived, everything went to hell."

"No one expected Somalia's situation to deteriorate this badly," Bernie chuckled bitterly. "We thought this was just a simple job—take a stroll, then head home."

Henry didn't believe a word of that complaint. If not for these CIA folks stirring the pot, would this African nation have sunk this far?

But Henry obviously couldn't say that. He followed Bernie's line: "I heard Somalia invited us themselves. But once we got here, we realized how chaotic things were—no reports back home mentioned any of this."

"I'm starting to think President Barre didn't invite us for more child foundation funding—he just wanted peacekeeping troops to prop up his regime."

Bernie agreed: "You're right. We've known for a long time how sneaky those niggers are. No wonder those plantation owners only ever used whips to make them work, never sat down to negotiate."

Henry shrugged indifferently at this blatantly racist remark—he wouldn't dare accuse the man of anything.

After all, this wasn't the era of political correctness; these white guys' speech hadn't been fully suppressed yet. Even in the future, such language was merely suppressed—not gone.

To some idle bystander watching the drama unfold, it was just putting a lid on a pressure cooker, slowly heating it beneath, waiting for the lid to blow off.

But right now, Henry complained matter-of-factly: "The next site on our itinerary is already in chaos. Yet the Somali authorities insist we go—even said Lady He Ben doesn't have to go, but the peacekeeping force absolutely must."

"When I heard that demand, I nearly laughed out loud. Is that president, who looks down his nose at everyone, treating us like his own soldiers he can just order around?"

"Pfft, 'looks down his nose'? That's a good one," Bernie laughed. "That nigger doesn't even lift his head that high—his nostrils are just big."

"Yeah, thanks to him, we've had to change our schedule on the fly and split into two teams," Henry sighed. "Honestly, I'd rather convince Lady He Ben to cancel the rest of the trip and go home early."

"No one can talk sense into that movie star, can they?" Bernie was unfazed. "Look—even Brian quietly accepted the change and's already arranging the follow-up."

Henry murmured: "You know how movies always go—once a team splits for any reason, one group always gets screwed, even wiped out. Otherwise, there's no drama."

"Ha, Hollywood guy," Bernie chuckled. "You said it yourself—it's movie logic. Reality doesn't work that way. Otherwise, which commander would ever split his troops for a two-pronged attack?"

"Besides, the place we're going tomorrow was already on the backup list. Brian had a plan all along—just needs to adjust deployment and confirm the new location. With us here, your safety's guaranteed."

Henry muttered under his breath like any ordinary scared young man.

Not far away, Lady He Ben waved to Henry; the assistant instantly understood, grabbing a box of candy and cookies from the trunk.

Henry told the men beside him: "The lady's calling me—I'm heading over."

"Go on, kid. I've got your ass covered," Bernie said, then both he and Mark burst into laughter.

Henry didn't mind these old vets hiding their CIA identities. He figured they couldn't stay there long—intelligence agencies were stinking cesspools, incompatible with soldiers' nature.

But he couldn't resist firing back: "Then make sure when someone comes charging at my ass with a big fucking thing, you stop it with your mouths—then you won't have to worry about your own asses!"

"Whoa! Nice one, kid," Mark, who'd been silent until now, praised.

(End of Chapter)