473: Chapter 473 Anyone who dares to touch Chinese people will be immediately annihilated.

"Funds?" Abramovich pushed up his rimless glasses.

"Route it through the offshore accounts of the Claremont Defense Group. Disguise it as losses from palm oil futures trading." Barrett took an encrypted hard drive engraved with the emblem of Council of Elders from the drawer, wiped its face, and inserted it into the master console's drive slot.

The emblem of Council of Elders was a circle of starlight surrounding a closed eye. The eye reflected a cold light under the dim illumination.

The hard drive finished loading. The entire operational concept document for "Plan B," fund flow charts, weapon delivery schedules, and target lists spread out across the holographic screen, overlaying the satellite map of East Malaysia. The supply lines started from Mindanao in the Philippines, crossed the Sulu Sea, landed on the east coast of Sabah, and then distributed inland along the river network. The target list detailed the unit designations, commanders, current locations, and armament requirements of seventeen resistance groups. Five were remnants of the original Malaysian Army, six were local separatist militias, four were scattered UMNO Youth armed groups, and two were pure mercenaries—retired personnel from Blackwater who had just pulled back from the Makhmur front in Iraq last week.

Barrett tapped the coordinates of Kota Kinabalu, the capital of Sabah, with his finger: "This man doesn't want a trial—he wants reconstruction. Rashid is already a lost cause; don't waste any more time on him." He said to Haskins in a deep voice.

Then he stood up and pointed at a series of dashed lines marked "Unsurveyed" off the coast of East Malaysia, saying: "We are going to turn East Malaysia into a trial—not a trial for Rashid, but a trial for Zhang Cheng. Let the whole world watch his tanks rust in the jungle, and let him judge his own ambition himself."

At the Naypyidaw command center, Zhang Cheng received three pieces of intelligence simultaneously.

The first was a summary of encrypted communications from the US Central Command intercepted by Vega-3: The US military is transferring weapons through the Philippines toward Sabah, codenamed "Plan B." The second was from an unofficial signal collection ship deployed in the Philippines: Six unmarked cargo ships departed from Zamboanga port in Mindanao last night, all exceeding the speed standards for merchant vessels. The third was an eyewitness report sent through circuitous channels by the local Chinese community in Sabah: Armed personnel wearing Malaysian military uniforms have set up checkpoints in the suburbs of Kota Kinabalu, requisitioning Chinese shops as command posts and blocking roads to the interior with barbed wire.

Zhang Cheng drew a line on the situational map—from Kota Kinabalu south along the coastline to Tawau, then extending inland to the river junction in Sarawak. The combined area of Sabah and Sarawak is one and a half times that of West Malaysia, but there is only one coastal loop road, and the interior is entirely primeval forest. If the US military fights a war of attrition here, the supply lines would be short and the costs low. For the Federation of Myanmar, the pressure on supply lines and force projection would be immense.

"Phase Two," Zhang Cheng said, his finger tapping on the coastline of East Malaysia, "Codenamed 'Clear Sea.' I want to completely eradicate the extremist cancer on this land supported by external forces, regardless of what banner they wear—religious, ethnic, or separatist. All of them."

Old K noted a preliminary mission draft below the map: naval blockade of the Philippines-Sabah route; air force strikes on armed training facilities in the East Malaysian interior; Marine Corps landings in coastal cities to establish forward bases, in order to coordinate with jungle infiltration units to conduct counter-guerrilla operations in the rainforest.

The remarks column on the last line of the draft was blank.

Zhang Cheng filled in three words: "Be fast."

Haskins placed a document marked "Plan B Phase One" on the table, pressed his finger on the cover, but did not open it.

"The remnants of the 3rd Division have all moved into their designated positions," he said. "Shafiq may have escaped, but one-third of the 3,700 people he took with him scattered along the way. The actual assembled force is now about 2,400, and adding the local militias and UMNO Youth remnants, the total is about 5,000."

Barrett did not look up. His fingers tapped on the desktop, the rhythm faster than usual.

On the holographic screen, the kill report of the Lin Xiao squad was still hanging in the top right corner—nine kills in twelve hours; Viper was dead, the supply line was broken, and the last batch of javelin missiles from the Philippines had sunk off the coast of Tawau. Shafiq's satellite phone had not been turned on for forty-eight hours.

Heat source signals in the interior of Sabah spread out densely. In the three areas of Sandakan, Lahad Datu, and Semporna, the density of armed personnel had tripled in the past seventy-two hours.

"Enough. We aren't having them fight a positional war. A 5,000-man guerrilla force in the jungle is more troublesome than two divisions on the plains."

He raised his hand and swiped open the document. The core content had only one point—utilizing the jungle terrain of East Malaysia to establish a long-term guerrilla base, dragging down the military resources and political will of the Federation of Myanmar through a war of attrition. Supporting measures included establishing permanent supply lines through the southern Philippine islands and deploying "Volcano" anti-ship missile systems to blockade coastal shipping lanes.

Haskins flipped to the third page of the appendix and stopped.

The two characters for "Cleansing the Countryside" were marked in red. Following it was a note: "The ethnic Chinese community is the natural fifth column of the Federation of Myanmar in East Malaysia. Before establishing a stable base in the guerrilla zone, all potential intelligence sources must be cleared. The specific method of execution is to be decided by the local armed forces themselves."

Haskins had worked at Langley for twenty-seven years. He had seen all kinds of dirty paramilitary operations, seen documents use "enhanced interrogation" to replace torture, and "collateral damage" to replace civilian casualties. But the word "Cleansing the Countryside"—

He placed the document back on the table and tapped his finger on the two characters for "Cleansing the Countryside."

"1971, My Lai Massacre. You remember the aftermath."

Barrett picked up the cold coffee on the table and took a sip. He stared at the kill report in the top right corner of the screen—Zhang Cheng would not make a mistake. At least not within the timeframe he could wait for.

"Shafiq's men will do for us what is inconvenient for us to do," he said, his voice lower than before. "They have javelin missiles, stinger missiles in their hands, and the inventory shipped out from the Kuantan base—the batch Farid delayed wasn't finished, but the two hundred units already shipped out are still in their hands. These weapons aren't good for hitting tanks in the jungle. But for hitting Chinese shops and churches—"

He crumpled the kill report into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket at the corner of the table.

"—they are more than enough."

The bottom of the cup hit the table with a dull thud.

"Zhang Cheng wants to be the protector of the Chinese. Then let him be." Barrett stood up, walked to the holographic screen, and tapped his finger on the coordinates of Sandakan. "Every Chinese shop burned in Sabah, every ethnic Chinese dragged out of their home and executed, will become a crack in his political promise. His army can take Kuala Lumpur in forty-eight hours—but protecting every Chinese village in the jungle? He doesn't have that many troops, nor does he have that much time."

Haskins said nothing more. He flipped the document to the last page and did not sign it.

Sandakan. Two in the morning.

Old Chen was awakened by gunfire on the second floor of his grocery store. The gunfire was very close—not the muffled thuds from afar, but the shrill scream of metal tearing as the iron rolling door downstairs was pried open.

In the darkness, he felt for his reading glasses on the bedside table, put them on, went barefoot down the stairs, and lifted a corner of the curtain leading to the storefront.

Three young men wearing Malaysian military uniforms were pouring gasoline onto the shelves. Embroidered on their headscarves was the UMNO Youth emblem, and their sleeves were rolled up to their elbows, revealing rough tribal tattoos. When one of them looked up, he locked eyes with Old Chen and grinned.

"A Chinese grocery store—not closing the door to keep out robbers, and still sleeping with the lights on?"