Chapter 1324: Chapter 642: Getting Used to Beatings, So There Must Be Experience!
The chaos in London and the desperation in Medellin move forward synchronously on the timeline.
Defense Minister Malcolm Rifkind’s “strategic coma” came at just the right time.
If I can’t solve the problem, can’t I at least handle myself?
Buckingham Palace and 10 Downing Street found themselves in an unprecedentedly awkward position, as decisive actions were urgently needed after the defeat at the frontline; yet the chief officer had suddenly fallen “seriously ill” and was lying in the hospital’s special care ward, with the doctor’s vague diagnosis report citing “nerve shock due to extreme fatigue, recovery time uncertain.”
The issue with the brain is the most troublesome; if you play dead, can anyone dare to harm you?
The next 24 hours became a classic display of the inefficient workings of the British bureaucratic system.
The Cabinet convened emergency meetings over and over, and various forces launched intense and extremely selfish tug-of-war over the selection of the new Defense Minister.
Nobody wanted to take office in this mess, fearing becoming the next Malcolm on the grill.
Disputes, shirking responsibilities, weighing the pros and cons, precious time swiftly slipped away in protracted meetings and behind-the-scenes political dealings.
While London was still bickering over who should sit in that scorching seat.
The remaining British Army and BBC team surrounded in Medellin for over 72 hours had reached the limits of both mental and physical exhaustion.
Out of ammunition, cut off from food and water, permeated by the smell of rotting corpses, desperation pressed upon everyone’s nerves like a palpable substance.
In one shelter shaking from artillery fire, a young soldier finally broke down, unable to bear the fear of becoming the Drug Lord’s “live broadcast material,” he used the last bullet to end his life before his comrades could react.
“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t!!”
This gunshot was like the last straw that broke the camel’s back, the comrades beside him didn’t even have time to stop him, or perhaps didn’t have the strength to do so.
Almost simultaneously, at another isolated stronghold, a few ammo-depleted, heavily injured soldiers chose to lay down their weapons and raised their hands, facing the armed militants with eyes like beasts closing in from the surrounding ruins.
Their eyes were hollow, and their cheeks were famished.
The drug trafficker militants also understood the importance of media warfare.
They quickly set up simple yet effective live broadcasting equipment, and though the footage was crude and shaky, it was clear enough to showcase their trophies.
They shouted, mocked, and flaunted their victory to the camera in heavily accented Spanish and awkward English.
The British Army prisoners, crestfallen with bruises and blood on their faces, were captured on camera with their torn uniforms and unfocused eyes, and finally, in deliberate cruelty, the camera lingered long on a few bodies of fallen British soldiers left haphazardly, their postures twisted, uniforms stained with mud and dark red, silently speaking of the defeat’s brutality.
A figure suddenly dominated the screen, he waved a captured British Army rifle like waving a ridiculous stick of firewood.
Shouting to the camera:
“Look! Open your damn eyes and look at London’s elites!” He yanked a prisoner’s hair, forcing the bloodied, terrorized, and humiliated face to face the camera, “Is this your Sun Never Sets? Ha!! A bunch of unweaned sheep! Softies!”
Beside him, others erupted in shrill laughter, one even spit at the prisoner.
Another took over, prodding the cold body on the ground with a gunstock, his tone filled with extreme disdain:
“Look at this pile of garbage! Is this Great Britain’s image on land? Where’s your tanks? Your planes? Your ‘SAS’ (Special Air Service)? Hiding under the skirts of women trembling?”
“Bring your Queen over here with a rocket launcher!”
He mimicked British Army soldiers scrambling with exaggerated gestures to the camera, provoking another burst of wild laughter from his companions.
“Trash! You British, your combat power is nothing but a pile of nauseating trash!”
The first speaker roared again, spittle nearly hitting the lens, “Us? We only have junk guns and scrap cannons, plus unafraid bones! With just these, beating you fancy-dressed aristocratic soldiers to pieces all over the ground! As easy as crushing bedbugs!”
He deliberately paused, leaned closer to the camera, each line distorted by laughter on his face clearly visible, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight, his aim pointing straight across the ocean:
“London! Heard that? You’re a bunch of cowards! Liars! Sending these wastes to die while you hide in palaces sipping tea! Where’s your honor? Where’s your ‘Sun Never Sets’? Pah! Trampled under our dirty shoes! Trash army meets trash government! Hahahahaha!”
Wild laughter, crude curses, the visual impact of corpses, and the dizzying effect brought by the shaky camera together formed a humiliating feast with significant impact.
They weren’t just showcasing trophies but using the most primitive, most brutal way to hammer home the conclusion of “British Army combat power is trash.”
This although most people already knew.
Yet speaking it out, don’t they need face?!
The gents responded swiftly to their own pride, immediately starting global signal blocking and content deletion, but this bloody and humiliating live broadcast footage crazily spread like a virus in network gaps and encrypted communications.