Chapter 54

Olympic Hotel in Mogadishu, the epicenter of the city's activity, saw dictator Aidid enjoying afternoon tea with his Chief Financial Officer, Omar Sharon, and their External Spokesman, Monhami Hassan Aywa. Aidid, though unassuming in appearance, exuded a sinister air, his right pinkie finger marred by a missing joint. He spoke with a soft but menacing tone, "I've heard about three arrivals from Mogadishu Airport—a transport plane? Have you got any details?"

"It's a transport plane registered under an American company called 'The,'" replied Omar, who understood Aidid's temperament all too well. They had been associates for over a decade, starting when Aidid was a general in the Somali government. Omar knew the three primary facets of Aidid's character: Beast, Greed, and Viciousness.

While rumors persisted that Aidid had engaged in cannibalism, Omar had no doubt it was factual. During the Ogaden War, Aidid's cannibalistic tendencies had emerged, even leading to skirmishes within his own ranks. Someone close to the situation had once mentioned, "Human flesh tastes salty," sparking Aidid's fury upon hearing it.

Aidid's face lit up when Omar hinted at a possible background connection to external organizations. "Other organizations? Are you referring to the American Consortium?"

Aidid's current position was precarious, and despite his arrogance, he was no fool. He knew the importance of monitoring the changing landscape around him. Since becoming the 5th president, he had adopted increasingly brazen actions—pillaging UN humanitarian aid, intercepting and killing peacekeepers, assaulting diplomats from various nations, and opposing the United States. He was astute enough to recognize the fragility of his situation.

Omar continued, "I can't discount the possibility that those Il-76 transport planes are affiliated with other nations. The Soviet Union, for instance, operates a limited number of these aircraft, and their market value is quite high. South African Airways even attempted to negotiate with them, but the Soviets demanded $50 million per plane." As Aidid's financial steward, Omar had a keen sense for money and remained up to date on current affairs, such as this incident, which had been reported in the South African Daily.

"$50 million each? That's over $100 million in value for those three planes alone?"

Hami, Aidid's assistant, couldn't help but gulp, then felt his reaction was impolite and quickly lowered his head.

Aidid, momentarily unconcerned with the valuation, was engrossed in the numbers. He had various methods of amassing wealth as the leader of Somalia, yet he couldn't afford even a single plane with his entire net worth. This realization left him feeling somewhat despondent.

"General, perhaps we can investigate these newcomers further," Omar suggested, noticing Aidid's interest in the planes. He was cautious, knowing that Aidid harbored intentions of seizing this opportunity but also held some apprehension.

"Other organizations, you say? Like the American Consortium?"

A look of greed gleamed in Aidid's eyes. He might be audacious, but he was no fool. He understood that his current position was far from secure. His newfound infamy as the 5th president of Somalia had driven him to increasingly reckless actions, including the interception of UN humanitarian aid, attacks on peacekeepers, violence against diplomats, and direct confrontations with the United States.

Aidid grumbled, "But my birthday is months away."

Omar, ever resourceful, reassured him, "No, General, you can celebrate your birthday whenever you like. In Mogadishu, 'Aidid' is the only name that matters. You have the power to decide when to celebrate."

Aidid gradually understood the implication. He patted Omar's shoulder with a grin, a grin that made his already menacing eyes appear even more sinister. Amongst the Olympic Hotel staff, nobody dared to meet his gaze. It was one of Aidid's tactics—to make the commoners bow in his presence, never making direct eye contact.

...

Namibia. Belial Wave!

The interaction between rebel forces and government troops intensified due to political reasons. Gould, with bullet casings in his ears, clutched a G41 automatic rifle. The rifle, once black, was now practically indistinguishable beneath the layers of earth-colored grime. His face was smeared with dirt, and a cigarette hung precariously from his lips. In his trembling hand, he clutched a box of matches.

"Cursed hell!"

Gould cursed under his breath, his voice barely audible, still rattled by the near miss of a sniper's bullet. The bullet had struck just above his forehead, narrowly avoiding a fatal outcome. But the ordeal had left his legs trembling and weak.

Throwing the matchbox aside, Gould expelled the cigarette. After a moment's hesitation, he reached for his underpants, placing the fabric beneath his nose to check for any foul odors. Luckily, there were none.

"Boss! Boss!" At that moment, Barcelo, the deputy leader of the dog-headed mercenary group, rushed over, shouting.

"What are you saying? Louder!" Gould demanded. He could see Barcelo's lips moving but could hardly hear his words over the cacophony of warfare.

Barcelo removed the empty cartridge from Gould's ear, held it in his hand, and handed over the phone. "Someone's looking for you."

"Who is it?"

"Robert Lee."

Gould immediately thought of the Chinese contact who had been supporting their group financially each month. Could it be that he received a letter or some important message? With that thought, he slapped the dust off his pants and squatted down, pressing his left ear with one hand, and with a raspy voice, he said, "What's your order?"

"I'm having afternoon tea, surrounded by quite a few people, quite lively," came Robert Lee's voice.

Barcelo blinked, tiptoed to peer out the window at the war-torn streets. Afternoon tea in this chaotic environment? Their leader certainly had a unique way of describing things.

"What? You want us to come to Somalia? You want to hire us?" Gould mumbled into the phone, considering the offer. "I'll need some time to think about it. I'll call you back after half a day. Is that alright?"

Gould tossed the phone to Barcelo, who looked intrigued. "Boss, are we going to Somalia?"

"The Chinese guy is willing to hire us, but I need to think it over," Gould replied.

"Somalia sounds better than here, and there's money to be made. That guy must be crazy," Barcelo remarked.

Gould picked up the discarded cigarette from the ground, sniffed it vigorously, and gave Barcelo a look as if he were an idiot. "Do you think arms dealers look for safe places? Chaos means more business. Besides, those Chinese folks are devil believers; they'll be unlucky wherever they go."

"Then why don't we go?"

"Why don't you go!" Gould retorted, leaving Barcelo scratching his head in confusion. Gould then picked his nose, rubbed it on his hand, and said after a flick, "But we don't believe in God, we believe in dollars! Money."

For mercenaries, their primary motivation was to abandon everything for the sake of money, except their own lives.

"Gather the guys; we're leaving for Belialpo. I feel like I'm starting to get moldy here," Gould ordered, walking along the wall, slightly hunched over. He called out to Barcelo, who was about to leave, "And tell that Wei Te as well, our distinguished guest has arrived in Africa."