Chapter 1320: Chapter 640: The British Mess It Up Again
London, inside the Prime Minister’s office, champagne glasses still held aloft, everyone’s smiles frozen on their faces, leaving only a deathly silence and the “zzz” noise emitted by the snowflakes on the screen.
The Prime Minister’s complexion changed from red to white, then from white to blue, and finally became a pallid gray.
World opinion was in uproar!
The media that had just been praising “British standards” and “the dawn of humanity” were rendered speechless by this bloody live broadcast!
“Medellin’s ‘Liberation’ becomes ‘Massacre’? British troops ambushed in blood upon entering the city!”
“Screams before the live feed cuts: BBC reporter experiences the British Army’s moment in Hell”
“Medellin drug traffickers turn their guns on their new masters!”
“‘Safety channel’ becomes a death trap, British strategy suffers a fatal blow!”
Each headline was more shocking than the last, full of immense satire.
In the National Palace office, Casare looked at the real-time images sent back via satellite and the explosive global news headlines. His previous anger vanished completely, leaving him stunned, then bursting forth with a satisfied laugh: “Hahaha! Boss, did you see that?! Those British! Their entrance ceremony—God, it’s more entertaining than the best comedy! Did they think they were picking peaches? Instead, they stepped right into a meat grinder! Serves them right! Let them taste the prowess of the Medellin sewer rats!”
Casare’s laughter echoed in the spacious office, filled with a sense of gleeful satisfaction. Victor stared at the chaotic screen frozen before the snowflakes; the previous knot in his heart undeniably eased quite a bit. Though unethical, seeing the other side suffer was admittedly quite satisfying.
He spoke steadily, “Those aristocrats in London, and those commentators in studios spouting about humanity and order, they don’t understand Medellin at all. They think with shiny military boots and peace flags they can transform the wolves here into docile sheep?”
“Western’s saintly tone will only make these rats entrenched in the sewers feel an opportunity to exploit, thinking of weakness as prey; they recognize only one thing.”
Victor turned around, his gaze sharp, “Fear forged by blood and fire. Only by making them pay an unbearable price will they understand who the true master here is. Mercy? That only leads to encroachment.”
He tapped on the keyboard on the desk, fingers swiftly hitting the social media interface.
Seconds later, a brief yet powerful message was sent out:
“True men know how to correct their mistakes. Clearly, Medellin’s drug traffickers lack this; they should all be sent to see God.”
This message did not directly mention the British Army, nor did it celebrate victory, yet it landed like an invisible slap on the face of the British government and the media advocating for control.
It reminded everyone: what you provoked is by no means something easily disciplined by international standards.
Meanwhile, on the “Liberator Avenue” in Medellin, which had turned into Purgatory, the communication channels were filled with desperate screams and electric noise:
“Falcon! Falcon! This is the advance team! We’re pinned down at the crossroads! Heavy casualties! Repeat, heavy casualties! We need air support! Immediately! Now!”
“Mortar! Three o’clock direction! Take cover!!”
“Medic! We need medics here! Damn it! The stretcher got shot through!”
“Ammo shortage! Anyone got rifle magazines?! Hand grenades, anything!”
The deathly silence at 10 Downing Street in London was shattered by hurried footsteps and shrill telephone rings. The Prime Minister’s face looked grim, his lips trembling, the earlier self-satisfaction had long disintegrated, leaving only an incredulous panic and a shameful anger of being stripped bare in public.
Aides were like headless chickens, the phones at the Foreign Office were blowing up, and the Department of Defense’s command center was in chaos.
“Contact the Yanks! Don’t they have a base in Panama?!”
“France! Spain! They have forces in the Caribbean too! Hurry!”
“What about the Colombian Government?! Get them to send troops! This is their land!”
Yet distant waters cannot quench nearby thirst, the Colombian Government’s response was ambiguous and feeble.
Someone amidst the chaos mentioned that name:
“Mexico! Mexico is also an ally! They’re the closest! They have the capability to intervene!”
This suggestion pierced through the Prime Minister’s last semblance of dignity like a needle.
He slammed the table suddenly, his voice sharp with emotion:
“No! Absolutely not! Go ask the Mexicans?! Absolutely not!”
“To wag our tails and beg Victor, that butcher?! Bow our heads to the one who just humiliated our entire country?! Just hours ago, the whole world was watching us take over Medellin! Now you want me to beg him? Impossible!”
He threw a punch at the heavy mahogany desk, causing the crystal ashtray on the table to buzz loudly, “My dignity? No! The dignity of all Great Britain! We haven’t lost! A damn ambush means nothing! Street fighting is full of surprises!”
“Get the Department of Defense to figure something out! Immediately! We have strength in spades!”
The aides stayed muted like cicadas in winter, looking at each other in dismay.
British Defense Minister Malcolm Rifkind spoke with difficulty: “Prime Minister, reinforcements need time. Airborne troops would need at least 24 hours to organize a substantial deployment, plus the complexity of the Medellin urban area makes it hard to precisely eliminate those scattered attackers, civilian casualties would…”
“I don’t care!” The Prime Minister rudely interrupted, “I want to see action! Immediately! Get the troops in Panama ready! Contact our friends in Colombia, get their people to step in! Solutions are always more than difficulties! But going to the Mexicans? Don’t even think about it! That’s disgraceful!”