Novel Name : Mercenary Black Mamba

Mercenary Black Mamba - Chapter 208

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The Ministry of Interior had mobilized all of its military police. They had enforced fingerprint checks and allowed immediate kills on the scene when arresting terrorists. Despite the strong countermeasures, the terrorist organization’s activities didn’t wane.

The terrorist organization had begun taking hostages, kidnapping, threatening, and assassinating people. They had also started targeting public places such as bus stations, theater entrances, and train stations.

Mitterrand had grown a horn and declared war on the terrorist organization, which targeted France and its citizens. The department of National Defense had mobilized three divisions of their army and lifted some of the burdens from the director of Border Police. Illegal immigrants were immediately deported or killed.

France’s internal defense was the responsibility of the National Police Department and the Military Police. The Military Police had spearheaded the war against terrorist organizations with GIGN at its forefront, while the National Police Department had arrested over 100,000 illegal immigrants.

Anyone that had caused trouble of any kind or was deemed capable of cooperating with the terrorists was deported. The plan to uproot the weeds had been a success. The rate of terrorism had decreased.

It was too early for the French departments of defense to raise their cheers. A wooden boat had been found by the military police, and it had sunk as it tried to secretly approach Liano beach. The representative of the Ministry of Interior had declared that a smuggled terrorist bombed a drifting yacht. The representative had further explained that they were tracking the terrorist since their escape from Syria’s Latakia airport.

A few days later, corpses of women and babies were salvaged along the La Spezia coast around the Ligurian Sea. Italy had announced that the people on the yacht, which France had sunk, weren’t terrorists but family members. It had led to a wave of criticism from the citizens.

Mitterrand had campaigned for moralistic politics. He had stepped back due to the blemish on his image. The search for illegal immigrants had stopped, while the tanks and armored vehicles were recalled from the borders. The terrors began to occur once more with the presented opportunity.

That was the summary of their war against terrorism, a year after the Marbeuf explosions. The most annoying farming crop was millets. Millets and rice were cousins. They were difficult to distinguish from one another. That was why picking out terrorists from cities was as hard.

Mitterrand, who had attacked all sides, ordered the minister of Interior, Manuel Pione, to find a way to stop all the terrorist activities.

Pione was frustrated. How could he stop the terrorist activities with his hands and feet tied together?!

He was basically ordered to catch a robber in a house with open doors. That was the reason why Pione was pulling out his hair. Three counter-terrorist representatives racked their brains but found no solution.

“Commander Majif, do you know how fast cockroaches breed?”

Army Military Police director, commander Allen Majif, had been wiped out for the past 30 minutes. He replied petulantly to the unexpected question, “Minister, I’m not Fabre.”

“One female cockroach can breed 800 eggs in three months and 100,000 eggs in a year. If we don’t shove DDT into the cockroach’s lair, France will turn into a cockroach den.”

Cockroaches were a derogatory term for Arabians. It wasn’t something a high-ranking government official should say, but no one cared, since the ANO [1] cell members were more capable of breeding.

“I’m about to go mad because of the unending amount of terrorists. We’ve already lost 15 soldiers.”

“However, we can’t pull our feet out of their war as per their request.”

ANO had made a final offer to stop all terrorist activities once all of France’s oil fields were given to President Assad. This meant that they were backed by Syria.

“That cannot be done. If we don’t get our fuel from Syria, 15 percent of our oil has to be imported from Saudi Arabia. That will cause an astronomical loss. We can never give them up.”

“That’s why we need a plan. I need to report to the president tomorrow. At this rate, not only mine, but all of our heads will be gone.”

Neither Majif nor Ordo had a specific plan. They straightened their necks and closed their mouths. They hated Syria for backing those terrorist organizations, but they couldn’t send armed forces into a country of their governance either. Besides, the ANO wasn’t an enemy that could be easily handled by a few special forces.

Both the DGSE and the Ministry of Interior had confirmed the plan to destroy the ANO’s training grounds as their last escape route but had wavered as there was no way to go about it. They had found an exit, but it was a useless one. They were so agitated that their hands almost crawled out of their throats because the terrorist producing company had been in Syria.

Syria was a country that secretly funded those terrorist training grounds through the secret police. France was in a f*cked-up state in which one had to intrude a neighbor’s front yard to strangle their pet to death.

Syria and France weren’t in a good relationship. Syria had fallen under France’s governance after its defeat in the 1920 Franco-Syrian War. France had taken Syria as its mandate and became its true ruler for 25 years until 1946.

Syria had gained its independence, and the French military retreated. However, the situation had changed with the development of oil fields. Since 1956, the northeast oil fields of Suwayda, Karatchok, and Rumeilan were developed by French investors.

Syria was one of the main countries that showed unexpected violence, like North Korea. Their way of governing was also similar. They ruled through surveillance and violence.

The way that Dictator Assad and his Ba’ath Party had controlled Syria’s citizens was through the secret military police. There were over 120,000 secret military police members in a country populated with 17,000,000 citizens.

If Assad had gotten pissed and declared a nationalized oil industry, things would have become complicated. There were other problems besides its existence as an oil supplier in the economy that made one reluctant to touch Syria. One was the Soviet Union.

After the Soviet Union had appointed Syria as a bridge to the Middle East in the mid-1960s, its military, political, and economic standing had strengthened. If one had touched Syria rashly, it could fall into a complicated situation such as a battle of wills with the Soviet Union.

“Monsieur Ordo, did you find the location of their training center?”

“According to the information provided by the DGSE, it’s located 36 kilometers northeast of Aleppo city, in Kaparja Valley.”

“Near Turkey, I see. What if we send in the GIGN through Turkey?”

“That isn’t possible. They are the ANO, a fundamentalist group of Islam’s terrorist organizations. Their group alone amounts to 2,000 members. We predict there are at least 400 resident members in the Kaparja Valley training center. That place must be the actual headquarters. We’ve been informed that their training members have increased, which means their overall numbers have increased.”

“What if we send in the entire GIGN?”

“That cannot be done, nor can we succeed even if we do so. Those b*stards are equipped with weapons of mass destruction from the polar bear’s aid. We need to send in the airborne regiment to wipe them out so that there’s an aerial backup.”

“Damn, just send a nuclear missile and be done with it.”

Pione was honest. ANO was the most horrifying among terrorist organizations. They would choose random targets. They had exploded a bus in Marseilles just yesterday. Three innocent civilians had died, and 15 were critically injured.

“Those b*stards are becoming more fearless. There’s no guarantee that they won’t throw explosives at the Louvre or the Palais Garnier and open fire randomly.” Commander Majif came up with horrible scenarios.

“We’re going to have to declare war in Syria at this rate. A damned four dollars’ worth of scenery…”

Pione sighed. Commander Majif and Chief Ordo’s faces similarly dimmed. They faced a higher risk of losing their jobs compared to Pione.


The phone rang. Pione pressed the anti-wiretapping button and raised the phone.

“Minister, it’s director Bonipas.”

“Switch the phone.”

“It’s Pione.”

“Minister, Consul Dijolle was kidnapped at Beirut.”

“Damn b*stard, he talks like a waiter rattling off a menu,” Pione thought as he resisted his urge to shout.

“Damn, it’s the ANO, isn’t it?”

“Yes. They’re demanding 10,000,000 francs for his body and the handover of the oil field in Suwayda to Syria.”

“Huh, they’ve finally lost their minds. Exactly what did Assad feed them for them to act out this way? What should we do?”

“There’s no point in catching the cockroaches in front of our eyes. We need to burn their den.”

“Uh-huh, you think I don’t know that? There’s no way.”

“Didn’t I give you a solution last time?”

“A solution?”

Pione tilted his head. Pione had taken over Joseph Tuiran’s position as the Minister of Interior. Pione, who was previously a Canal+ news anchor, didn’t know much about the code name Black Mamba.

The Oecophylla smaragdina, who were shipped to the Sahel as a body recovery team, had almost died. FROLINAT didn’t dare touch the airborne regiment due to their completely restricted power. Their problem had been the Sahel’s harsh climate. With extreme temperature changes, sandstorms, and attacks from the herds of mosquitoes, the old men had withered and crumpled.

Minister of Interior Tuiran had joined the retrieval team later after upholding all responsibility towards GIGN’s initial mission failure. Tuiran was unlucky. He had stepped on an FM6a mine that the Ratel team had installed during the battle of Djourab Erg. There was no consequence without a cause. Black Mamba had basically promoted Pione to minister.

“Isn’t there the Ange de la Mort?”

“Ange de la Mort?”

“I’m talking about code name Black Mamba.”

That was when Pione remembered the name Black Mamba. He had seen it in one of the many files he had received. It was something a minister should know.

“Look, Director, I know Black Mamba. This isn’t a playground. The Aleppo invasion is a problem, but what can a single person called Black Mamba possibly do?”

“I see, there was poor handover from the previous minister. I suggest you read Black Mamba’s file again. Now.”

The phone clicked off.

“Commander, do you know anything about Black Mamba?”

“He’s a person known as the undefeatable Eastern Swordsman. Information about him is strictly limited to those related to him and specially cleared people. Wouldn’t his files be accessible to you, with your security clearance, Minister?”

Majif avoided mentioning him. The Chad plan had succeeded, but his military police were largely affected in turn. He didn’t want to talk about Black Mamba’s achievements that he, himself, couldn’t believe.

Pione opened a safe and took out Black Mamba’s original files. A long time passed.


Pione placed the file back on his table and raised the phone.

“Connect me to Director Bonipas.”

“Bonipas here.”

“Is everything in the file true?”

“It’s a file written by the DGSE’s Technical Design Division and Intelligence Department.”

An offended voice traveled down the wire.

“It’s just hard to believe.”

“You have to. Sending Black Mamba is the only way to break through this situation.”

“I understand. Since there’s no other way, I’ll trust you, Director.”

“I’ll vouch for him. If Ange de la Mort solves this, you’re in my debt.”

“Of course.”

“Then, immediately send out a coded notice for Black Mamba, no, Ange de la Mort’s return, please.”

“Very well.”

“For your reference, don’t call him Ange de la Mort if you happen to meet him. You cannot call him a corn killer either. Our company’s manager had to retire from being disabled after calling him Ange de la Mort.”

“Ha, he’s a monster, just like the file mentioned. I understand.”

Corn killer was a fictional character that the French Department of Defense and the DGSE had created to hide Black Mamba’s identity. Back then, each corn that Monsanto had exported to France had an average of 988 seeds.

The number of corn seeds was equal to the number of corn hairs. Adding the seeds and hairs together made up 1,996. The number of FROLINAT guerrillas that Black Mamba had cleared was 1,996.

That was the story behind the DGSE’s nickname for him. Now, he had another humorless nickname besides Ange de la Mort, corn killer.

The 31st of July, 1983.

Mu Ssang frowned after opening the Daily Chiwoo news. The newspaper was continuously delivered from the day he had returned. Of course, it wasn’t a newspaper that he had paid for or asked to be delivered.

There was a short, two-sentence advertisement on the classifieds page.

[Looking for an escaped son. He considers himself an ear of corn with 1,996 seeds due to a delusional disorder. Will reward after contact.]

It was the DGSE strategic division’s code for Mu Ssang to work for his food. Of course, the phone number listed was fake.

“That damned serpent b*stard, an ear of corn with 1,996 seeds with a delusional disorder, huh? Is this your cheesy revenge for letting some money fall out of your pockets?”

Mu Ssang crumpled the newspaper in his hands and gritted his teeth.

“Those b*stards are in a rush, aren’t they? Sending in a private plane of all things. Why are there so many tackles anyway?”

Looking for a lost son meant that they wanted him to come to the DGSE headquarters. A reward meant that they were sending him a private plane. If he was sent on a mission, not only was his exam going to become a problem, his plan to get rid of the sh*t sticks would have to be pushed back. He would also have to delay the search for his mother.

“Should I get a lackey to find my mother instead? Those National Security Agencies would make a fuss,” he wondered.

Mu Ssang’s worries added on.

“Teacher, I’ll be overseas for a while.”

Black Mamba, no, Mu Ssang lowered his head.

“Haha, are you going to earn some money?”


“Be safe. Earn lots, too.”

Monk Dae Woo’s face was serene. It wasn’t any different from how he had greeted Mu Ssang when he had left for the markets to sell herbs.


The snakehead roared as it rushed down the mountain.

“It’s become a world where Asura is needed. Namu Amita Bul! I have to deal with my weak back, watch the television, and ride the Fiat while my apprentice goes around wiping evil deeds. Eh!”

Monk Dae Woo climbed back up towards the main temple as he complained. He wanted to enter Nirvana, but his apprentice kept creating trouble.

[1] Abu Nidal Organization.
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