474: Chapter 474 Blockade of Sabah Cuts Off Supply Lines

Old Chen turned to run. The plastic shell of a gasoline drum smashed into the back of his head, his knees hit the concrete stairs, half a front tooth was knocked out, and his nasal cavity was filled with the smell of gasoline. The third young man pulled a machete from behind his waist; the blade gleamed with a grayish-black color in the reflection of the gasoline—that was the color of dried, oxidized blood.

"No need to run. Your compatriots in West Malaysia owe forty-two lives, and you Chinese in Sabah will help them pay it back."

Old Chen crawled on the ground. His knees scraped against the sharp edges of the concrete steps, the skin ground down to raw, upturned flesh. He crawled up three steps before his lower back was pinned down by a military boot. The back of the blade measured against the back of his head—the person holding the knife was calculating the angle for the strike.

From the old Chinese medicine clinic next door came the sound of shattering glass. Then, a short, sharp scream—Dr. Lin, seventy years old, had run a bone-setting clinic in Sandakan for forty years. After the scream came a dull thudding sound, a wooden club striking flesh, one blow after another, seven times in total.

"Stop screaming. We're not here to kill—we're here to register the household records. The Chinese register first. Once you're registered, you'll know who's in charge of this land."

The back of the blade measured against Old Chen's head once more. Gasoline dripped down the shelves, landing on the concrete floor next to his knees. The pungent odor drowned out the metallic tang of blood seeping from his broken tooth.

Lahad Datu.

A small coastal town 130 kilometers from Sandakan. At 4:00 AM, an unmarked fishing boat docked, offloading thirty-seven armed men in plain clothes. Their duffel bags contained disassembled sniper rifles, portable radios, and stacks of crisp US dollar bills.

The local militia leader meeting them was named Arif, formerly a fishmonger at the Lahad Datu fishing port who had been wanted by Malaysian customs for smuggling half a year ago. After fleeing into the jungle, he had raised a forty-man armed force. He asked the white mercenary leader in broken English: "Are you Americans?"

The other party didn't answer. He simply spread a map out on an oil drum at the fishing port. The map marked all Chinese settlements within a ten-kilometer radius of Lahad Datu—seven in total. Next to each marker was a number, representing the number of households. The largest settlement was a Chinese new village on the outskirts, housing sixty-two households, approximately three hundred people.

"Start with this one." The mercenary captain tapped the coordinates of the new village with his knuckles. He wore a black tactical shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a faded tattoo on his left forearm—the Blackwater bear claw logo, the claw tips stained with three drops of blood.

When the satellite images were transmitted back to Naypyidaw, the tablet in Li Lanzhi's hand nearly slipped.

Sandakan, Lahad Datu, Tawau—the Chinese communities in these three coastal cities of East Malaysia had been subjected to systematic attacks within thirty-six hours. It wasn't sporadic looting by thugs, but organized ethnic cleansing. Grocery stores were burned, clinics smashed, the gates of Chinese primary schools pried open, and the desks and chairs from the classrooms piled up on the playground, doused in gasoline, and set ablaze like a bonfire. A Chinese Christian church in Sandakan was blown up, the pastor tied to the cross on the pulpit, the words "Communist Bandits" sprayed in red paint on his chest.

The footage of the Lahad Datu Chinese new village froze at 4:30 AM. Of the three hundred people, at least forty-two had been executed, their bodies lined up on the basketball court at the village entrance. Each person had a piece of paper pinned to their chest, written in Malay with the same sentence: "Myanmarese informant." Among the dead were an eleven-year-old boy, an eighty-six-year-old woman, and a woman seven months pregnant—on her paper was written "Future informant."

Li Lanzhi's fingers slid across the tablet, pulling up more intercepted satellite images.

"The latest frame is time-stamped twenty minutes ago. It's a real-time data stream from the US military satellite KH-13—they are packaging and providing panchromatic and multispectral imaging data of East Malaysia to these people. They know exactly which street, which building, and what time every Chinese household comes and goes."

Old K marked the confirmed massacre sites with red dots on the situational map. The red dots spread along the East Malaysia coastline, extending from Sandakan all the way to Tawau.

"We have no ground troops in East Malaysia," he said. "We only have two intelligence stations, both in downtown Kota Kinabalu, which cannot cover the inland jungles. The Shadow Blade team has finished their mission in Kuala Lumpur and can be deployed to Sabah within forty-eight hours."

"Forty-eight hours." Zhang Cheng repeated. Forty-eight hours ago, he had projected a holographic display over Kuala Lumpur, announcing the opening of the humanitarian corridor. Now, the humanitarian corridor was still running, and the number of civilians evacuated from Kuala Lumpur had exceeded 110,000. But East Malaysia—

The holographic projection couldn't reach the rainforest canopy of East Malaysia. The evacuation numbers for the humanitarian corridor were jumping in Kuala Lumpur, but the Chinese communities in Sabah were not part of that number. There, there was only gasoline and machetes.

Li Lanzhi's tablet popped up an encrypted video call from Zhao Gang. She glanced at Zhang Cheng, and Zhang Cheng nodded.

Zhao Gang appeared on the main screen. In that familiar, simple office, an enamel teacup rested on the corner of the desk, a small chip missing from the rim of its lid. His expression was tighter than usual.

"President Zhang, the higher-ups in the Dragon Kingdom express grave concern regarding the situation in East Malaysia." There was no small talk, getting straight to the point. "The satellite images we possess are consistent with the data intercepted by your side. The ethnic Chinese communities in Sabah and Sarawak are suffering systematic attacks. The intensity of these attacks—cannot be explained by local conflicts; someone must be providing intelligence support and logistical backing behind the scenes."

"The CIA is transporting weapons through the southern Philippines, with remnants of the Malaysian Army's 3rd Division responsible for execution, assisted by UMNO Youth and local militias. The weapons list includes javelins, stingers, night-vision equipment, and encrypted communication devices. The 'Volcano' anti-ship missile system has already been deployed on the east coast of Sabah—quantities unknown."

Zhao Gang was silent for a few seconds, his fingers rubbing along the rim of the enamel cup.

"The Chief asked me to convey the exact words of the Southern Theater Command of the Dragon Kingdom." He opened an encrypted telegram and read it word for word: "'If the situation in East Malaysia continues to deteriorate, the Dragon Kingdom will not rule out taking unilateral action outside the framework of the United Nations.'"

He closed the folder, the bottom of the cup tapping lightly against the desktop.

"'Unilateral action'—President Zhang, you should know the weight of those four words better than I do. In the diplomatic history of the Dragon Kingdom, the number of times this term has appeared can be counted on one hand. Additionally, the Southern Theater Command has raised the alert level in the Spratly Islands. If the US Seventh Fleet makes any unusual moves, your early warning time will increase by twenty minutes."

Zhang Cheng stood up and walked to the situational map. The terrain of East Malaysia unfolded on the screen—the total area of Sabah and Sarawak was 1.5 times that of West Malaysia, but there was only one coastal loop road; the interior was entirely primitive rainforest, dense with rivers and rugged mountains. During World War II, the Japanese were trapped in a three-month war of attrition in the jungles of Borneo. After the war, the British spent two years mopping up guerrillas, and only managed to barely control the situation through political negotiations.

The US military didn't want to fight a positional war. They wanted to turn East Malaysia into a second Afghanistan.

"What is the current position of the main force of the South Sea Fleet?"

Old K pulled up the naval situational map: "The destroyer 'Bhamo' has completed its escort mission in the waters off Sitiawan and is returning. The amphibious assault ship 'White Elephant' and the aircraft carrier 'Dawn' are in the waters near Labuan—less than one hundred nautical miles from the west coast of Sabah. The 'Hope' carrier strike group has completed joint exercises near the Spratly Islands and can enter the waters around Sabah within forty-eight hours."

"Recall the 'Bhamo' to the fleet. 'White Elephant' and 'Dawn' are to blockade the east coast of Sabah. 'Hope'—" Zhang Cheng drew an arc across the South China Sea shipping lanes with his finger, "—cut off the Philippines supply lines."