TIA 2

The last of the militia retreated toward the narrow gap in the northwest valley, scrambling to escape along the muddy road that led out to the outside world. Relief briefly flickered across their faces — the dreaded hunting god behind them hadn't caught up. But then, a far deadlier terror roared to life: the unmistakable, bone-chilling power of Soviet armored forces.

The trees lining the road trembled violently, sending startled birds flapping into the gray sky as if a monstrous beast were tearing through the jungle. Low branches snapped under the merciless weight of steel tracks grinding forward. Before the militia could even react, a BMP infantry fighting vehicle surged ahead at a terrifying 45-degree angle, crushing everything in its path. A choking cloud of dust blinded every eye.

"What kind of monster is that?" whispered the militia, many never having seen such a beast before. To them, this was no mere machine—it was a devil incarnate.

Those who had only ever aimed their rusty guns at unarmed civilians were now confronted with the brutal reality of Soviet infantry-tank coordinated assault. The 30mm 2A42 autocannon tore through the ranks like a scythe through wheat. Hidden soldiers sprayed bullets from the underbrush. The militia, caught off guard and with no time to flee, collapsed like ripe stalks cut down by a harvester.

Gordon stood frozen, helpless, as bewildered African children fell before his eyes. He wanted Alkasha to call off the assault, but the bloodthirsty soldiers showed no mercy. Men, women, children—none escaped the merciless hail of bullets. The gunfire slowed, then stopped. As the dust settled and the fog lifted, no one was left standing.

The air hung heavy with the acrid stench of gunpowder and sulfur. The entire slaughter was over in less than a minute—a surgical decapitation, flawless and brutal. The Soviet paramilitary forces suffered zero casualties.

"Check for survivors," Alkasha ordered, his right hand steady on his Kalashnikov, while his left motioned for the troops hidden in the bushes to move in and finish the job.

Gordon walked along the road littered with bodies—some militia fighters, some unarmed villagers, and some children no older than eighteen. Their eyes stared blankly into nothingness, pupils wide and lifeless, announcing their fate.

"Oh my God… what have we done?" Gordon whispered, grief weighing down his voice. He dropped his weapon and knelt beside a child still faintly breathing. The boy's Kalashnikov lay discarded nearby. A bullet had pierced his abdomen, blood soaking through his tattered clothes as his body twitched in agony. His lips moved weakly, struggling for words.

Gordon pressed his hands to the wound, shouting to nearby soldiers, "Is there a medic? We have a survivor here!"

Alkasha, still communicating via radio, turned at the sound and saw Gordon desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He shook his head coldly, approached, and — with a chilling calm — drew a pistol from his holster.

Before Gordon could react, Alkasha fired a single shot to the child's temple. Blood splattered across Gordon's face. The boy's life ended instantly, mercilessly.

"Bastard! What are you doing? This violates the Geneva Convention!" Gordon shouted, grabbing Alkasha's collar in rage, raising a fist to strike. But Alkasha's grip was iron, holding his wrist firm.

"Don't be naive," Alkasha said quietly, eyes hard as steel. "These people are not protected by prisoners of war agreements. Neither are we, really."

He nodded toward the bodies behind Gordon. "You think you're saving him, but do you know what that boy was trying to do before he died?"

Gordon turned slowly, and saw the dead child's finger had barely loosened from the trigger of his rifle. If Alkasha had hesitated, Gordon himself might have joined these lifeless figures.

Before Gordon could respond, Alkasha pulled him by the collar and led him toward the valley's edge. "You want to see the truth? I'll show you."

A foul stench hit Gordon's nose even before they reached the edge—a mass grave, festering and swollen in the heat. Faces contorted in death stared up from the pit. Swarms of flies buzzed, and writhing white maggots feasted on the decomposing flesh of men, women, and infants alike.

"These were the people taken from the mines months ago," Alkasha said, lighting a cigarette, his voice eerily calm. "After torturing the women, they dragged them and the useless babies here, then shot them. The men mostly died of disease or exhaustion, so they just threw them in too. They had endless slaves—few lives mattered."

He glanced at Gordon. "And the executioners? Child soldiers. There is no Madonna in Africa—only death and war. The West, untouched by such horrors, clings to its illusions of innocence and morality. You stand on some high ground, condemning us, but these people don't understand why others kill for food or power. We're here to restore order to chaos. You didn't kill a child. You killed a victim of a brutal civil war."

Gordon sank to the ground, overwhelmed. Years of communist ideals and Soviet propaganda shattered as the grim reality settled like a lead weight.

Alkasha continued, cigarette burning low. "A few days ago, a peace activist flying over opposition territory was shot down with an RPG. His team was stripped and hung on a tree. What good does kindness do in this war?"

He flicked ash into the pit and patted Gordon's shoulder. "Remember what I told you when we met? TIA—This is Africa. Change your thinking. This place is violence incarnate. Democracy and votes mean nothing here. The people listen only to the warlord with the biggest guns and armies. Until there's an iron fist, Mozambique will fall."

Gordon remained silent, head bowed, wrestling with his shattered beliefs. Then he looked up, extending a hand to Alkasha.

The commander understood and helped him to his feet.

One last glance at the pit, and Gordon said flatly, "Then let's finish off the rest of the resistance."

Alkasha smiled and handed over his pistol. "Gladly."

After a brief treatment for his wounds, Drakama was brought before Colonel Kozie. Pale from blood loss, he was forced into a chair by soldiers. His confidant Moreira, however, was not so fortunate—his body thrown into a mass grave to be burned, erasing all evidence.

Colonel Kozie lounged back, cigar clenched between his teeth, smug as he tossed a box of cigars before Drakama. "Sir Drakama, care for some Cuban cigars? But first, let me introduce myself. I'm Colonel Kozie, a Russian, sent by the government."

Drakama reached for a cigar but was startled by a sudden volley of gunfire behind him. Turning, he saw captured militia lined up and executed one by one by a cold, methodical man—as casual as if it were routine.

"This isn't some glorious operation," Kozie said smoothly. "We want no survivors except you. In fact, we want no one to even know you're alive. But look what I found."

He dumped a small black bag on the table. Diamonds spilled out, glittering cruelly in the sunlight.

"This is only part of it. I'm surprised you amassed so many blood diamonds. They'll pay for our entire operation—and then some. Thank you, Drakama."

Drakama sneered. "And then? You'll kill me, seize the mine, then cozy up with the government? Politicians are scum—always stabbing each other in the back."

Kozie smiled thinly. "The government says we get mining rights only after you die. But…" He leaned closer. "We won't kill you. Your life is leverage. If the government refuses to hand over the mines, we'll back the resistance."

Drakama stared, stunned by the candor. The enemy who'd just slaughtered his army was now bargaining at the table, willing to flip sides on a whim.

"Don't you call yourself Communist International?" Drakama scoffed bitterly. "Machel was your ally, part of your camp, yet you abandoned him instantly. How do other socialist countries see you now?"

Kozie's eyes darkened, sharp and cold as a predator's. "You surprise me, Drakama. I thought all opposition leaders were short-sighted frogs in wells, but your insight is impressive. Since we're discussing allies—let me tell you about them."

"We invested heavily in Siberia—oil, gas, aluminum. Soviet-built cities with kindergartens, hospitals. No more freezing winters or selling furs. And now, they want the Communists out of their land."