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"To be honest, our mission this time is to settle scores with the Americans. But we need to pass through the tribal zone. At the very least, we want to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings. Once the job is done, we'll pull out and won't interfere with your business!" Mohammed Zia Ake relayed this message to Dudarev, who nodded and replied directly.
Dudarev glanced at Colonel Hank Han and the others, then sneered, "Heh—honestly, I'd love to see China's special forces go head-to-head with the Americans. Watching those Yankees get beaten would make my day! But I wonder if your guys can actually take them on!"
Colonel Hank Han replied, "Well, I think you'll find out soon enough!"
Dudarev laughed, "Oh, really? Then I'm looking forward to it! I heard China's army special forces are the best in the world—if you guys really throw down, it'll be a hell of a show. I can't wait! But with the way you're dressed, getting through the tribal zone safely won't be easy. Even with my connections, I can't guarantee there won't be trouble. So, here's the plan: you and your team come with me to the village, change into local clothes, and I'll inform the tribal elders and pass the word along. That way, you can go head-to-head with the Americans without a hitch!"
As he spoke, Dudarev gestured to the heavily armed Afghans nearby. They quickly dispersed, vanishing into the mud-brick houses of the village as if they'd never been there at all.
"Heh—follow me! Welcome to the most beautiful place in Afghanistan!" Dudarev grinned mischievously, waved for everyone to come over, and turned to lead the way down a winding path into the village. Mohammed Zia Ake gave Colonel Hank Han and the others a knowing look, and the group followed Dudarev into the mysterious, eerie tribal zone.
After crossing a small hill behind the village, the sight that greeted them left everyone stunned. Below was a sprawling, makeshift open-air market, bustling with people. Many shoppers carried assault rifles and various weapons slung over their shoulders. As Dudarev led them through the market, the team was amazed—this place was a smuggler's paradise. Two types of 'goods' dominated the market. First, the weapons and ammunition stalls displayed a dazzling array of firearms and ammo from around the world. There were pistols, rocket launchers, even portable shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles! It was like a military expo.
The other hotspot was the drug buying stations. Many Afghans—even the elderly and children—carried bags of raw opium wrapped in plastic, trading with the market's drug dealers. Black opium and crisp dollar bills exchanged hands. In the corners, countless addicts puffed away, gaunt yet lost in bliss as they got their fix. It was as if, even if they were headed straight to hell, they had to savor this fleeting high. Most disturbing of all: children, disturbingly adept at using opium pipes, huddled in the shadows. Witnessing this, Colonel Hank Han and his team felt a wave of inexplicable gloom and sadness.
Up ahead, Dudarev suddenly said, "Afghanistan's been at war for more than twenty years—first the British, then us Russians, now the Americans. The fighting never ends. If Afghans relied on growing regular crops like other countries, they'd never survive. People have to live! With little medicine and few doctors, only opium from poppies can ease most of their pain and suffering. So don't be surprised. If you want to blame someone, blame their fate—and the Americans!"
Dudarev's words struck the team deeply. Suddenly, they understood why Afghanistan produced more than half the world's drugs: poverty, war, and famine. In a country with almost no tomorrow, hope for survival came from growing poppies. As long as they could live, things like ethics, the harm of drugs to humanity—those grand ideals—meant nothing here. Drug dealers and arms dealers were the most sought-after people, because the former gave hope for survival, and the latter provided weapons to protect their poppy fields. It was really that simple, and that's why anti-drug agencies worldwide were powerless against it!
"Heh—look, this is what paradise looks like—beautiful, isn't it?" Dudarev led the group through the open-air market and up a hillside. As they reached the top and looked down, the villages below were scattered, but what truly stunned them was the scene before their eyes—
Every house, front and back, was surrounded by poppies. The rundown farmhouses nestled in seas of dark red, pink, or white poppy flowers had an unusual beauty. All around, the hills were covered with poppies—some already bearing heavy pods, others in full bloom. The graceful, vibrant flowers sent waves of strong fragrance through the air.
Everywhere they looked, poppies stretched across the hills, filling the team with a sense of despair.
On the edges of the poppy fields, armed militants stood in small groups, while Afghan farmers harvested poppy pods. Makeshift devices boiled raw black opium right there in the fields. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and the pungent smell of refining opium.
From a distance, they could see landmines made from old artillery shells buried beneath the poppies—enough to blow off the legs of anyone who stepped on them. With jihadist groups or armed drug traffickers behind the poppy fields, even elite special forces and international anti-drug teams risked hitting mines or running into ambushes during raids.
Dudarev took a deep breath of the floral-scented air, squinted, and said slyly to the group, "This—this is our most beautiful paradise. Gorgeous, rich, dreamy, absolutely enchanting! I love this place to death! Heh—"
That's right—this is paradise. A paradise for drugs!!