488: Chapter 488 Signature Downvoted

The background audio of this voice message was the sound of a family talking—a woman and two children, speaking in Hakka about what they were having for dinner.

Zhang Cheng's voice rang out again over the walkie-talkie:

"Your family is waiting for you to come home. That is, provided you are still alive."

The machine gunner placed the walkie-talkie on the sandbags. He looked at his comrades in the bunker, then at the tank approaching outside the barricade. The tank was less than fifty meters from the barricade, its gun barrel gleaming coldly in the morning light.

He took a deep breath, stood up from the bunker, raised his hands high, and walked toward the tank.

Behind him, his comrades laid down their weapons one by one.

At 7:20 AM, large-scale resistance in the Kuching urban area had basically ceased.

Several stubborn strongholds were taken out one by one by tank cannons and high-explosive shells—the fiercest firefight occurred at an abandoned concrete warehouse in the west of the city. Sixteen Western mercenaries had gathered there, equipped with javelin anti-tank missiles and automatic grenade launchers, attempting to hold their ground by relying on the building.

Lin Xiao Special Forces-4 led the team to neutralize this firing point.

No rocket launchers or thermobaric bombs were used. He used coordinates guided by Vega—the number four sniper had been lying prone on the rooftop of a grocery store across from the building for thirty-six minutes, marking the positions of the two shooters with an optical sniper scope.

Subsequently, a soaring dragon drone dropped a laser-guided bomb, which drilled into the top of the building, pierced through three floors, and detonated in the basement.

The shockwave blew the tin sign with the slogan on the building's outer wall across the street—the sign had originally been spray-painted with the words "Long Live Malaysia," and it cracked into two pieces when it hit the ground.

At 9:11 AM, Kuching Riverside Park.

The morning mist over the river had not yet dissipated, and a few local Chinese fishermen were rowing small boats, gathering nets in the river channel. On both sides of the rostrum, two hundred Titan Division officers and soldiers stood in formation.

Zhang Cheng was wearing a dark green military service uniform, with a baobab leaf badge and a silver commemorative medal pinned to his left chest. He did not use a prepared speech.

"Three weeks ago, at the Lahad Datu Chinese New Village. Forty-two ethnic Chinese civilians were murdered—Lin Xiu'e, seven months pregnant, fell before the blockade line; twelve-year-old Lin Zihao died clutching a basketball under the hoop; and the six-member family of Lin Desheng was locked inside their home and burned alive. Those who carried out this massacre were the extremist organization entrenched in Kuching—the coup forces of the 12th Division of the Malaysian Army, and their commanding officer, Major Black, who signed off on it."

He turned sideways and pointed to the dome of the Parliament Building on the other side of the river.

"Thirty-three years ago, a British colonial official stood in that building and signed a decree declaring Malay the sole official language, banning Chinese-language education. Lim Boon Keng of Penang was imprisoned and died for disseminating Chinese teaching materials. Two days ago—outside the Penang Parliament Building, Lim Boon Keng's daughter, Lin Meihua, knelt in the rain for five full hours, holding up her father's remaining teaching materials. She wasn't seeking revenge; she was trying to find printing funds for her father's teaching materials."

The fishermen rowing on the river retracted their oars, and one of the old fishermen took off his conical hat.

"Last night, the legitimate Prime Minister of Malaysia, Anwar, resumed his duties in Putrajaya and signed a decree abolishing discriminatory language policies, making Chinese and Malay co-official languages. Chen Shunfa, a fisherman from Armenian Street in Penang, launched his newly built boat this morning—embedded in the boat's keel is his father's Mazu talisman, and the boat is still named 'Shunfa.' The boat the British confiscated a hundred years ago was also named Shunfa; it was his grandfather's fishing boat."

He clasped his hands on the rostrum.

"The Malay Peninsula and the western half of Borneo have returned to peace." He paused for a moment. "But for Sabah, which is still stubbornly resisting, I will not stop my advance."

Applause broke out below the stage.

Zhang Cheng did not acknowledge the applause; he turned around and looked at the dome of the Parliament Building across the river. The fishermen rowed their oars, and the small boat silently cut through the water, heading downstream.

Li Lanzhi walked up from behind the rostrum and stood side by side with him.

"Chen Shunfa's boat has been launched. Zhao Yuxun's northern route has already secured the entire line from Miri to Bintulu, and Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng's fleet has blockaded all outlets on the east coast of Sabah. The remnants of Shafiq's forces have retreated to the southwestern slope of Mount Kinabalu, numbering about a thousand, mostly UMNO Youth and Philippine separatist armed groups. Their supplies have been cut off for two weeks; they are relying on hunting wild boars and digging for cassava to survive. After Black was killed, the mercenaries lost unified command, and each squad is fighting on its own."

"It's just as well that he died," Zhang Cheng said. "But the roots haven't been dug out yet. Seventeen Western mercenaries from West Malaysia were intercepted and captured while fleeing to the high seas; they confessed that their communication records with Black included several CIA Sarawak station chiefs. One of them was hiding in Kuching last week. Find him."

Before he had finished speaking, a new message popped up on Li Lanzhi's tablet.

"He has been found," she said. "An abandoned warehouse in the east of the city—Vega intercepted the last encrypted telegram between him and Barrett, with a signal source positioning accuracy of three meters."

"Notify Lin Xiao Special Forces-4. I want him alive, and I want the documents."

At 3:00 PM, Kuching Port.

Three Panamanian-flagged cargo ships were intercepted by the Myanmar Navy. The cargo ships attempted to use the rainy weather as cover to sneak out of the port, with sealed shipping containers hidden below the waterline—inside the containers were forty-three Western mercenaries, seventeen of whom were carrying weapons and equipment bearing Blackwater logos, including javelin missile launchers, M4A1 rifle families, and encrypted radios.

Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng stood on the bridge of the Bhamo, looking down at the captives being escorted onto the deck.

The leader was a brown-haired white mercenary with a stubbly face, wearing an Australia Special Air Service Regiment patch on the shoulder of his combat uniform. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, and he was escorted in front of Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng.

"What are you going to do with us?" he asked in English.

"Send you to the Dawn Reform Center. Then return you to your respective governments—along with photocopies of your Blackwater employment contracts," Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng said, taking a sip of tea from his enamel mug. "The amounts on the contracts are public tender prices; I'm sure the taxpayers of your countries will be very interested."

The captive's face turned whiter than the sea mist at that moment.

It wasn't because they were being repatriated, but because the repatriation came with the contracts—every clause on the contracts was written clearly, from the hiring fees to the number of kills, from weapon serial numbers to CIA safe house code names. Repatriation didn't mean going home; it meant returning to the defendant's bench.

At dusk, an abandoned warehouse in the eastern suburbs of Kuching.

When Lin Xiao Special Forces-4 kicked open the iron door, the CIA Sarawak station chief, Henry Meyer, was crouching in the corner, the flame of his lighter already licking at the corner of the first page of paper.

He was burning the page with Barrett's signature—he recognized that signature. Two months ago, in a secret room in Manhattan, he was present when Barrett took off his metal-framed glasses and signed that name with a Montblanc fountain pen.

The lighter was knocked away by a rifle butt, and the flame flickered twice on the concrete floor before going out.

Meyer lunged to grab the document back, but Lin Xiao Special Forces-4 stepped on his wrist. He applied just the right amount of pressure—just enough to make the bones creak slightly under the sole of his boot, but not enough to break them.

Lin Xiao Special Forces-4 bent down and picked up the charred page.

Meyer saw that the charred part was exactly the end of Barrett's signature—the crossbar of the letter "t" was still there. Two months ago, he watched Barrett sign that name; now, he watched it being trampled under the boot of a Myanmar special forces soldier.