Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1629: 747: You Think I’m Running a Charitable Hall?

Chapter 1629: Chapter 747: You Think I’m Running a Charitable Hall?

Three days later, Indiana, night.

The cold enveloped the country road.

A military convoy stretched for several kiloters, slowly inching through the darkness.

This was the 11th Infantry Division, hastily transferred from a nearby military district, composed of a diverse mix, with a significant proportion of Black soldiers and Latino immigrants, sent as reinforcents heading toward Gree City to replace severely depleted troops.

Even within the U.S. Military, there were grades and hierarchies.

Deer also discriminate against each other.

The lead vehicle suddenly stopped without warning, its brake lights glaringly bright.

The convoy, like a centipede choked at the neck, ca to a halt segnt by segnt.

In one of the command Humrs in the middle, Major General William Bill Carson was rubbing his throbbing temples as the stagnation report from the intercom made him frown.

He picked up the handset, his tone impatient: “What’s going on up front? Why are we stopping? We must reach the designated position before dawn!”

The response was first a burst of hoarse static noise, followed by a soldier’s heavily accented, sowhat distorted voice: “The road… the road is blocked…”

“What’s blocking it? Clear it! What the hell are the engineers doing?” Carson asked irritably.

Suddenly, the intercom’s public channel exploded with a starkly different, furious shout, drowning out all other noise: “Not moving! Damn it, not moving!”

This shout was like a signal, and imdiately, uproar spread from all directions!

Shouts, curses, and the loud banging on vehicle armor instantly surrounded the convoy!

Major General Carson sat up straight, looking out through the bulletproof window, his heart skipping a beat.

In the dim light, countless soldiers were jumping off the transport trucks, unard but waving their fists, their faces a mix of anger and a desperate determination, surging like a tide toward the position of the command vehicle!

“Get out! Get out!”

“Pay up! Give us our wages!”

“Five months of back pay, you bastards!”

“You want us to die for you? Pay us the blood money first! Bonuses! Right now!”

“No money, no one moves!”

The chaotic shouting converged into a suffocating wave.

Major General Carson’s face turned ashen as he grabbed the intercom, switching to his personal guard company’s channel: “Guard company! Get to my vehicle imdiately to maintain order! Disperse these people! Did you hear ?!”

The intercom crackled with static, then the panicked and hesitant voice of the guard company leader: “General, there are too many of them… we’ve been surrounded too…”

“What?!” Carson could hardly believe his ears.

At that mont, his adjutant, a major, grabbed his arm as he was about to open the door, “General! You can’t get out! Absolutely not!”

The adjutant whispered urgently: “Do you rember General Hammond at Fort Knox? He was shot from behind by his own n when he tried to reprimand mutineers! And that lieutenant colonel at Fort Hood, run over by an out-of-control armored vehicle—going out there now is too dangerous!”

Major General Carson’s hand froze on the door handle.

The bloody precedents ntioned by the adjutant extinguished the anger that had just flared up in him like cold water.

He looked at the twisted, angry faces outside the window, listening to the deafening shouts—what if he went down and ended up “suicided”?

He didn’t want to die, and certainly not die so worthlessly at the hands of his own n.

“Drive!” he almost shouted to the driver, “Reverse, find a way, get us out of here! Hurry!”

The driver, also terrified by the scene outside, slamd into reverse, the engine roaring harshly, and the command vehicle roughly crashed into a blocking Jeep behind, trying to break out before being surrounded.

Seeing the commander’s vehicle trying to escape, the crowd went into a frenzy!

“He’s trying to run!”

“Stop him!”

“The bastard is running away!”

Soone picked up a rock from the ground, hurling it at the window, the bulletproof glass thudding dully, while more people tried to block the way with their bodies, but the Humr command vehicle, like a startled beast, reversed at speed, forcing its way through.

Amidst the chaos, soone shouted hoarsely over the intercom’s public channel: “He ran, the officer ran, brothers, we’re done! We’re done! Whoever wants to fight this war can fight it themselves!”

This shout was like lighting the final fuse.

With the highest commanding officer’s figure gone, the long-suppressed grievances exploded completely. So soldiers began climbing onto trucks, uncovering tarps, distributing the rations and supplies ant for the front lines; others jumped into Jeeps, firing guns in wild abandon; while more stood idly by, or simply ditched their equipnt, disappearing into the darkness by the roadside in small groups… At this mont, the 11th Infantry Division, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist.

…

The White House, Residence.

The deep night’s tranquility was shattered by an urgent pounding on the door. Little Bush nearly jumped out of bed, his heart racing, as he composed himself and croaked, “Who?!”

“Mr. President! It’s , Carl! It’s an ergency! Urgent!” ca the Chief of Staff’s voice from outside the door.

Little Bush threw on his robe and opened the door.

Rove stood at the doorway, his hair disheveled.

“What’s going on, buddy?”

“The 11th Infantry Division in Indiana has mutinied, demanding their pay.”

Rove’s voice was dry and hoarse, “Just half an hour ago! Major General Carson, he abandoned his troops and ran off, and now the entire division has fallen apart! Weapons, equipnt, supplies—all gone!”

Little Bush felt a rush of blood to his head.

“Mutiny?”

A few seconds later, an uncontrollable fire of anger ignited as he grabbed Rove by the collar, although his height did not give him an advantage, the force of his grip made Rove stagger.