Chapter 661: Red Sea Fury (Complete) (Patreon)

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On Santa Monica Beach in Los Angeles, under a sun umbrella, Schiller picked up a coconut, took a sip of its juice, and then shook his head, saying, "This coconut doesn't even compare to the ones on the island."

"These are all fast-growing commercial coconut trees, not even locally grown in Los Angeles. Of course, they won't taste good," Hal replied as he lounged on a beach chair, also holding a coconut.

Lying on the sandy beach, feeling the sea breeze and watching the waves, it was indeed relaxing. However, after a short while, Schiller stood up and said, "An old friend invited me for dinner. Are you coming?"

"No, I'm waiting for the beach party tonight. Los Angeles beach parties are famous. Don't you want to wait a bit?" Hal asked.

"I have no interest in those noisy pop music," Schiller said, and after finishing his coconut, he threw it in the trash bin. Then he drove to a family-style seafood restaurant in Santa Monica.

After entering the restaurant, he gave his reservation number, and the server warmly escorted him to his seat. After waiting for a while, another figure walked in.

Clark took off his backpack, sat down opposite Schiller, and said, "Professor, I'm sorry I'm a bit late."

"No problem, let's order," Schiller replied. He waved to the server, and after receiving the menu, they both ordered a variety of Los Angeles specialty seafood dishes.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I shouldn't have disturbed your vacation, but I am a bit troubled... Well, if you don't want to listen, it's okay. Just consider it a tourist visit," Clark observed the restaurant's decor, which had a distinct West Coast flavor he had never seen before.

When the dishes arrived, the rich aroma captivated him. Clark took a deep breath and noticed Schiller picking up his knife and fork. Only then did he pick up his utensils to prepare for the meal.

"You coming to find me did take me by surprise. After all, it should be the athletics team's training season now, right? Don't you need to train?" Schiller asked while peeling a shrimp on his plate.

"I was indeed training, but suddenly a group of strange people approached me. They said they wanted me to deal with a crisis, to save the U.S.," Clark sighed, wearing a troubled expression. "I thought they were scammers, so I angrily kicked them out, but it turns out they were actually from the CIA."

"Because I unintentionally harmed them the first time, I feel a bit sorry. So, they invited me for a meal. They booked a fancy restaurant, which made me feel a bit out of place. It was honestly the most uncomfortable meal I've ever had," Clark's eyes were filled with conflict, and he seemed to have laid out all his emotions on his face.

Schiller couldn't help but acknowledge that he had a soft spot for patients like Clark. He didn't need to say much; Clark would pour out all the details, even his inner thoughts, without prompting.

"While having dinner, they mentioned the massacre in the village in Mexico," Clark said, his anger intensifying as he brought up the topic. "I saw the previous reports and the images, and it made me really angry. I don't understand how people can be so cruel."

"At the same time, I feel sympathy for the villagers who were massacred. I want to help them. The CIA approached me and said they've identified the culprits behind the massacre. However, because they are cunning, the CIA can't deal with them," Clark's expression became more conflicted, suggesting he found the CIA's words absurd.

"They said that only I can deal with these evil executioners. They hope I'll go to Mexico to save the villagers who could potentially be slaughtered and also save Mexico and the U.S.," Clark sighed deeply. "Bat Cat told me they are completely making it up. He said the logic of these CIA agents is a mess, and they can't even tell a convincing lie. But..."

Clark appeared despondent, repeating the motions of cutting his food. "Well, I know I'm not as smart as Bat Cat, but when they told me about this, I was more concerned about the innocent villagers."

"I know they want to use my abilities, and they might have some evil intentions. I know the most rational thing to do is to completely ignore them, but I just... I feel like if I don't do something, I'll appear too cold-hearted," Clark had lost his appetite completely, putting down his utensils and staring at the seafood feast on the table, even though he had felt hungry just a few minutes ago.

Schiller observed Clark, recognizing that Clark had an unusually high moral standard. It wasn't just a result of his upbringing; it was part of his nature.

He had a strong desire to help anyone he could, and if he couldn't help, he would blame himself. But even Superman had only 24 hours in a day, and he wasn't omnipotent. There would always be people he couldn't help.

Those people might not even know Superman existed, so they wouldn't blame Clark. But Clark would always imagine that if he couldn't help them, they would suffer greater tragedies due to his negligence.

This kind of thinking was a variation of paranoid delusions, excessively estimating the consequences of possible future events and preemptively attributing imaginary harm to oneself.

Human minds couldn't bear the anxiety of both the present and the future simultaneously, and Clark had fallen into this state, even though he knew that the CIA likely had ulterior motives. But the thought of more villagers being slaughtered if he didn't go haunted him.

"So, do you want to go?" Schiller asked.

"My rationality tells me that things might not be as they say, that they want to use me for their own purposes, so I shouldn't go," Clark frowned, his face filled with anguish. His rational and emotional emotions were tangled, making it difficult for him to decide what action to take.

"You have too much uncertainty in your heart. You're uncertain if what they're saying is true, you're uncertain about the villagers' situation, you're uncertain about what's happening in that part of the world, and you're uncertain about what you'll see if you go," Schiller lightly tapped his plate with a fork to get Clark's attention. Then he pointed to a plate of grilled fish in front of him.

"What do you think of this dish?"

"I think... well, it's decent. The fish should be fresh, but I'm not a fan of this preparation. There's a bit too much chili pepper," Clark replied absentmindedly, not understanding why Schiller was asking this question.

"When this plate of food was brought to you, you saw its color, smelled its aroma, tasted its flavor. Based on these facts, you made a certain judgment. In this process, did you feel conflicted?" Schiller asked.

Clark thought for a moment and then shook his head. "No, it wasn't difficult. It's just a dish."

"What you're doing now is equivalent to not seeing this dish, not smelling its aroma, and not tasting its flavor. You're just sitting there, feeling distressed because you can't make a judgment about it," Schiller picked up a piece of grilled fish, examined it carefully, and then said, "But the fact is, if you haven't tried it, you can't make a judgment. It's the same with God; no one can make a judgment about something they've never seen, heard, or experienced, right?" Schiller looked at Clark.

"So, should I go and see, hear, and experience? But even if I have those facts afterward, can I be sure my judgment is correct?" Clark asked.

"That's another question. These facts will give you confidence and make you believe in your judgment. If, even after collecting all the facts, you still lack confidence, maybe it's an issue with your mindset. How do you feel about that?" Schiller inquired.

Clark thought again, then extended his hand and said, "If an ordinary person makes a wrong judgment, they might mess up a job or create a little chaos at worst, maybe end up in prison."

"But if I make a wrong judgment, it could lead to the deaths of many people, even the destruction of a country, or maybe... even the destruction of Earth. I don't know; I can't even imagine..." Clark bit his lip, his expression showing deep concern, teetering on the edge of anxiety.

"It seems you've deeply realized the difference in power between yourself and ordinary people. You consider yourself an outlier, wanting to assimilate into human society by helping others. Yet, you fear the dire consequences of making mistakes. Therefore, you're hesitant to make judgments," Schiller said almost as if talking to himself. Clark's issue was quite complex, and addressing such problems in someone who lived among ants as a lion was challenging due to the fundamental difference in their existence.

"The only advice I can give you is this: whether you can make an accurate judgment after collecting all the facts or not, it's better to gather the facts first. Seeing is believing. Maybe after you've seen it, you'll have a different perspective," Schiller said, putting down his knife and fork and wiping his mouth.

Clark took a deep breath while sitting in his seat. He was good at listening to others' advice, and since Schiller had said so, he decided to go to Mexico first. For him, flying there was a small matter.

The Mexican government and the CIA had considered using aerial power to search for the troublesome individuals. However, the leader of this group had received guidance from an unknown source, and his operations were truly underground, deep within Mexico.

As mentioned earlier, Galardo, the head of the Guadalajara drug cartel, had once angered Congress and the CIA with a massacre of agents. The entire organization had been heavily suppressed, and today, the Guadalajara Organization was on the brink of collapse.

At this moment, another infamous drug lord was emerging, "Shorty" Guzmán. His reputation far exceeded Galardo's, but he had once been a member of the Guadalajara Organization before it split apart.

"The fortunes of Guadalajara had run their course, while a new organization was emerging on the horizon. El Guzmán's success wasn't solely due to his intelligence and cunning; it was also attributed to his clear vision.

His method of drug trafficking was unconventional; he chose land routes over maritime ones.

Many were aware that maritime drug trafficking brought lucrative returns but also carried significant risks. A single blockade could lead to the entire cargo sinking in an instant.

The drugs manufactured in Mexico weren't meticulously packaged, making recovery impossible if dumped into the sea—effectively rendering the cargo as lost.

During the war on drugs, both the CIA and the U.S. Navy seized on this vulnerability. Once a drug trafficker's ship was apprehended, they wouldn't hesitate to discard the entire cargo into the sea, regardless of casualties.

Repeated incidents of this nature, regardless of one's economic might, could destabilize Guadalajara. Moreover, the logistical challenges and expenses of bribing customs officials and inspection teams on land made overland transportation impractical.

Guzmán stumbled upon a novel approach: tunneling.

In the distant eastern nations, this might not have been groundbreaking, but in South America, drug trafficking through underground tunnels was relatively uncharted territory.

Guadalajara, in Santiago, had dug an underground passage for mass drug trafficking into the United States. This was a proven fact, as his escape after arrest mirrored this tactic. His drug trafficking team had dug a tunnel leading directly to the prison, securing his escape.

This subterranean network, aptly termed 'The Mole,' posed a significant challenge to the U.S. government. Initial investment might be substantial, but once established, it became incredibly resilient.

In truth, Oliver hadn't anticipated the success of his own movement. Initially, he had been naively motivated by a sense of guilt, seeking to compensate the farmers who had suffered due to Queen Group's drug business.

At first, his proficiency in Spanish was lacking, requiring him to communicate through a mix of English and sign language. Fortunately, Oliver was highly intelligent, rapidly mastering the essentials of the language. He proficiently conveyed his most important messages to the farmers he met.

Unexpectedly, the farmers from the Sinaloa State were filled with pent-up emotions. The moment Oliver uttered, 'Violence is the only means,' it was as if they had finally unleashed their bottled anger. They began hurling curses in Spanish, followed by a unanimous decision to join the cause.

Later, Oliver realized this was tied to Mexico's recent governmental policies and the local situation.

Before this, Mexico had capital controls in place, limiting foreign investments. However, in 1989, the Mexican government abolished these controls, allowing a flood of foreign capital into the country, including short-term speculative investments.

For those with an understanding of economics, it was evident that foreign capital would offset chronic trade deficits while appreciating the nation's currency. However, with a stronger currency, Mexico's export competitiveness would wane.

The influx of foreign capital led the Mexican government to underestimate the risks associated with chronic trade deficits, perpetuating a cycle of greater deficits and the need for additional foreign capital, further weakening export competitiveness.

When chronic trade deficits reached a certain proportion of the Gross Domestic Product (GDP), they triggered a devastating collapse. History confirmed this, as the 1994 Mexican economic crisis rippled across the globe.

The initial impact of lifting capital controls primarily affected the agriculture-based industries—the lifeline of the local economy. Apart from investing in existing industries, foreign investors sought land, which held paramount importance for the farmers.

Additionally, the Mexican government lacked the regulatory capacity to manage all incoming foreign capital. Oliver's first acquaintance, a farmer, had his land sold without his knowledge. The factory that was built turned out to be a shell; it never commenced operations and didn't provide any employment. Consequently, both he and his wife lost their jobs.

While he sought employment elsewhere, similar stories of displaced farmers were common. Even those with formal employment faced similar circumstances, as local businesses were squeezed out, offering no improved job prospects.

Oliver discerned that these people might not have studied economic theories, but they had independently realized a truth: in their situation, violence was the only recourse.

Oliver introduced his theories and his exceptional wisdom, filling the final gap in their knowledge. Consequently, a vigorous movement among Mexican farmers and workers began.

However, at this point, Oliver wasn't Green Arrow yet. He had spent only a few months on the deserted island, not years. His combat skills hadn't been honed to perfection, and although he temporarily achieved tactical victories through his familiarity with the underground tunnels and the locals, the situation soon became challenging.

The U.S. government, the Mexican government, and even the drug traffickers united to suppress them. Insufficient firepower was their most pressing concern. Oliver had nearly exhausted the knowledge contained in the few books he had, but he knew that blindly following those theories wouldn't lead to success; he had to find his way.

It was precisely at this moment that Clark, who sought to gather facts, arrived on the scene.

To reiterate, Clark wasn't unintelligent; he was incredibly intelligent—smarter than anyone in the world. All he needed was to observe each person's life carefully from above, and he could draw a conclusion: the resistance of the farmers and workers was normal and justified. Given the circumstances, anyone would have resisted.

After reaching this conclusion, Clark naturally wanted to assist them. However, he knew that indiscriminate violence against all drug traffickers wouldn't solve the problem. Consequently, he began searching for a better solution. It was at this point that he discovered the peculiar activities and the underground organization.

When Oliver and Clark connected, it was like two old friends meeting. They soon realized they had been arranged by Schiller, and there was no need for further discussion. They simply set to work.

Clark's arrival rectified the most critical issue—lack of firepower. With abilities such as flight, X-ray vision, immense strength, and heat vision, even as a reconnaissance agent, he held a significant advantage.

In that moment, the tide turned, and Oliver's side transformed into the advancing force. Simultaneously, more local people, who had suffered, joined the movement, fueling its intensity and momentum.

As expected, Congress was in a frenzy.

"What? Withdraw all surveillance assets and allocate them to Mexico? Is Congress out of its mind?" Kayla exclaimed loudly over the telephone. "There are over 300 critical surveillance targets on the entire East Coast. What about the intelligence we've gathered up to this point?"

"Intelligence? Without Mexico, the next target is the U.S. What's the use of intelligence then?" The voice on the other end of the line was cold and indifferent. "We've initiated the highest-level emergency plan. Even many operatives from Moscow have been recalled. Do you think Metropolis is more critical than Moscow?"

"Operatives from Moscow have been recalled?!" Kayla said incredulously. "What about the upcoming conference and inauguration ceremonies in a few days? Don't we need surveillance for those?"

"The big picture is set," the other person on the line stated emotionlessly. "We've completed all the work. If it weren't for an unexpected development in Mexico, the war would already be over."

Kayla took a deep breath and said, "I'll make the arrangements right away."

She hung up the phone, closed her eyes, and murmured, "The big picture is set... Yes, the big picture is set."

"The big picture is set?" Another voice, carrying a hint of amusement, dissipated into the wind on the West Coast, slowly vanishing.

On May 25, 1989, the first Congress of the Soviet Union convened, and Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev was elected as the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union.

On May 26, 1989, there was an attempt on Gorbachev's life. He was shot in the head and killed on the spot."

[Read at www.patreon.com/shanefreak, without ads and support the work.]

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 662: The Victim in Good Condition (Part 1)