Chapter 448 Suppression of Tibetan Remnants

Old Sun made such a loud noise when he pushed the door open that He Yuzhu instinctively pressed down on the gun in the drawer.

"Nepal has been bombed." Old Sun pushed the telegram over, his fingertips turning white. "They summoned the ambassador and said we 'blatantly invaded.'"

He Yuzhu didn't answer the telegram. He stared into Lao Sun's eyes. There was resentment, anger, and a hint of weariness that he couldn't hide.

"Civilians were accidentally injured."

Old Sun froze, his lips trembling. "...What?"

"I'm asking you, did we kill any civilians?" He Yuzhu's voice wasn't loud, but it sounded like sandpaper scraping against an iron plate.

Old Sun lowered his head. "One. A herdsman, the tent was 300 meters from the target. Shrapnel hit."

Silence. The clock on the wall ticks. Tick, tick, tick.

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The sandstorm from the Gobi Desert lashed against the glass, crackling and popping. He recalled the footage he'd seen from the command vehicle the previous night—thermal imaging from a drone—showing several blurry human figures moving inside a tent. He gave the order to fire. Then, it exploded.

"Is it confirmed?"

"Confirmed. The investigators entered the site this morning and found the bodies outside the rubble. There were five Tibetans and one Nepalese. The bandages from the military first-aid kit were used on the Tibetans, but not on the Nepalese."

He Yuzhu tapped his fingers twice on the windowsill. "Compensation. According to international standards, $50,000. Transferred through the Red Cross, bypassing the Nepalese government."

"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs..." Old Sun hesitated.

"I'll talk to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. You get the money ready first." He Yuzhu turned around; Old Sun was still there, clutching a stack of photos. "Anything else?"

"This was taken by a drone in the ruins. Take a look."

The photos were blurry, black and white images converted from thermal imaging. Several twisted corpses, a burned tent, the wreckage of a truck. He Yuzhu flipped through them one by one, until he reached the last one, at which point his hand stopped.

Three long, green, cylindrical objects lay askew in the scorched earth. Their shape reminded him of something he had seen on another battlefield.

"enlarge."

Old Sun handed him a magnifying glass. He Yuzhu leaned closer to look. The English number on the tube was blurry but legible—XXXXX-78-M. It was the US military equipment numbering format. He put down the magnifying glass, a lump forming in his throat.

"Stinger. Portable anti-aircraft missile."

Old Sun's expression changed. "They took this thing..."

"Infiltrate Tibet and shoot down our helicopters." He Yuzhu slammed the photo on the table, pressing it down with his palm. "Given by the Americans. Passed through India. Nurturing Tibetan remnants, nurturing them for so many years, from giving them money and guns, now giving them missiles."

He walked back to the window. The wind had stopped, the dust had settled, and the lights of the distant assembly plant shone through the hazy air like a blurry flame.

"Old Sun, how do you write an operation report?"

Old Sun opened the folder. "Five Tibetan separatists killed, one seriously wounded and died, leader Tenzin Wangchuk confirmed dead. Twelve American-made rifles, two mortars, three Stinger launchers, and six missiles were seized. No casualties on our side."

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. "Let's add one more thing—one Nepalese civilian was accidentally injured, and the compensation plan for their family has been finalized."

Old Sun jotted down notes. "The protests from the Nepalese government..."

"The protests are for show back home. They can't control the Tibetan relics on the border, so we're doing it for them. We might make a few noises, but we don't feel guilty." He Yuzhu turned around and took a manila envelope from the drawer. "Compile these photos, along with the missile serial numbers, into a report. Send it to the Americans through diplomatic channels and ask them—are these things yours?"

"They won't admit it."

"We don't need their approval. We'll be open about it, and the whole world will see."

Old Sun took the envelope. "What was the ambassador's wording?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment. "China expresses regret and apology for the accidental injury to Nepalese civilians and is willing to compensate. Tibetan separatists have established military camps in Nepal, threatening China's national security; China has the right to defend itself. We hope Nepal will strengthen border control to prevent similar incidents from happening again."

"It's hard."

"Hard. But if we don't, they'll dare to do it again next time." He Yuzhu tugged at his collar; the dryness of the Gobi Desert had made his lips chapped. "Old Sun, the herdsman's family... we've found out who they are. Our people will go there and apologize in person. I'll go."

"Director He—"

"I'll go." He Yuzhu interrupted him. "I gave the order. I approved the missiles. I killed the man. I'll go."

Old Sun opened his mouth, then finally nodded.

There was a knock on the door. Yang Xiaobing entered, his face stained with dark red scars, and he was carrying a plastic evidence bag containing several charred fragments of circuit boards.

"Director He, the data from the drone's black box has been recovered. The fuse of the last missile malfunctioned during flight, detonating ten meters prematurely. It was only after the shrapnel flew out that it killed the herdsman." He placed the evidence bag on the table. "It wasn't a problem with the dispersion; it was a problem with the fuse's quality."

He Yuzhu picked up the evidence bag and examined it against the light. The weld points on the fragments had melted, obscuring their original shape.

Who at the arsenal is responsible for these fuses?

"Workshop Three. The director's surname is Liu, and his name is Liu Jianguo."

"Replace the person. Rework the entire fuse production line. If qualified products cannot be delivered within three months, Workshop 3 will be shut down." He Yuzhu threw the evidence bag back onto the table.

Yang Xiaobing then pulled out another envelope. "Tenzin Wangchuk's identity has been confirmed. He is a minor leader in the Tibetan remnant armed forces, trained in Dharamshala, India, personally instructed by US military advisors. The funds for building this camp were also transferred by the CIA through Bhutanese accounts."

"Bhutan?" He Yuzhu looked up.

"Bhutan. A small account, receiving three thousand US dollars a month. The name wasn't Tenzin, but someone called 'Kelsang.' It took us two years to find out."

He Yuzhu leaned back in his chair. Two years ago. Back then, Pu Zheng hadn't been caught yet, and the Tibetan remnant's trail was still in Myanmar. Now Pu Zheng is dead, the Tibetan remnant's camp has been bombed, but the hands behind them are still moving. Americans, Indians, Bhutanese. A net, stretched from Washington to Kathmandu.

"Keep investigating. Find 'Gesang.' No matter which country he's hiding in, find him."

Yang Xiaobing nodded. He Yuzhu told him and Lao Sun to go out first. The door closed, leaving him alone in the room.

He opened the drawer and took out the dagger. It was the same one he'd brought back from the battlefield years ago, the lacquer on the scabbard mostly worn away. He retrieved the fragment of the drone's black box from his system space and placed it on the table, side by side with the dagger. One made of iron, the other of steel. One from a cold night eight thousand meters above the ground, the other from a desolate valley in a snow-capped mountain three thousand meters high. Different battlefields, the same smell—ash, smoke, and blood.

He dialed the phone number of the Baotou factory.

"Chief Engineer Sun, the progress on the miniaturization of microwave weapons that we discussed last time needs to be accelerated. The 'Stinger' missiles provided by the Americans have appeared in Nepal, and they may appear at the Kunlun launch site next."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. "Dean He, miniaturization will take at least another three months."

"Two months. Battery life can be cut, firing range can be cut, but the weight must be reduced to a level that a single soldier can carry. The special forces are getting new gear next month; I can't wait three months."

"...Okay. I'll give it a try."

"It's not a trial. It's a necessity." He Yuzhu hung up the phone.

The lights were on outside the window. The ship was still waiting, waiting to be fitted with wings, waiting to be fitted with weapons, waiting to fly into that dark depths of space. Meanwhile, on the ground, people were digging foundations, delivering missiles, and raising bandits.

He Yuzhu sheathed the dagger and stored it in his system space. He also stored the fragments of the black box inside. He stood up, turned off the light, and walked out of the office.

One by one, the lights in the corridor came on. He walked slowly, but his steps were heavy.

Tomorrow, he's going to the herdsman's house to apologize in person and personally hand over the compensation to the family.

The road is long. But some roads, no matter how long, must be walked.