The situation was quickly clarified.
Due to the US Army's temporary military operations in the direction of Ramadi, surrounding and eliminating an armed organization entrenched in that region, this area was to be temporarily closed, prohibiting entry and exit.
The cook had no choice but to order everyone to stand by where they were.
But unexpectedly, this wait turned into four hours.
By nearly one o'clock in the afternoon, the queue of vehicles on the highway got longer and longer, but there was no sign of the checkpoint letting anyone through.
It was then that the cook began to feel a sense of urgency.
"What's going on?! Haven't they finished fighting yet?!"
Looking around, the cook suddenly felt the pressure.
Because all around them were cars and people, jamming the entire highway so tight that nothing could pass through.
Most of them were poor civilians, and there were some military personnel among them.
As for which military group they belonged to, it was impossible to tell.
The situation in Illiguo was exceedingly complicated at the moment.
There were many factional militias.
Most factional militias, so long as they were pro-American, would be integrated into the police forces or ICDC, with the elite of the former government army being incorporated into forces like the ISF.
Many locals, unemployed and without jobs, would also join the ranks of mercenaries. To be exact, they hardly even qualified as mercenaries but were merely private bodyguards. Buying a shoddy AK47 from the black market and some bullets, they would start their business.
These low-level bodyguards mostly served slightly wealthier local employers, many of whom couldn't get a gun license from the Temporary Management Committee, resulting in many operating without a license.
In Illiguo, the control over weapons was quite strict at the moment. One needed a gun license issued by the Temporary Management Committee to carry a weapon, or else if the Coalition forces or groups like the ICDC or ISF caught you without a license, they'd at the very least beat you up and take you away for detention.
If they were in a bad mood, they might simply shoot you dead without any need for an explanation.
Song Heping noticed that several people within the flow of cars had weapons, although generally speaking, anyone bold enough to follow the convoy to the checkpoint and not flee was unlikely to be a member of a resistance organization.
But who knows?
Every minute spent here was a minute of increased danger.
Especially here, where the daytime temperature was extremely high, nearly 50 degrees Celsius, people were most prone to irritability under such conditions.
The cook, accompanied by Grey Wolf, went to the checkpoint to see what the situation was.
If the conflict in the direction of Ramadi wasn't intense, the cook planned to continue with the convoy; after all, waiting any longer would probably cause delays.
It was uncertain how long the Coalition forces would be operating here; surely there had to be an end, right?
It wasn't like they could fight for days and have the convoy wait for days.
Otherwise, the meeting between VIP Angel and the informants tonight would fall through.
And with that, they could forget about the reward.
Before even reaching the checkpoint, they saw several British reporters urgently surrounding the American soldiers at the checkpoint, clamoring for them to open the gates and let them in, claiming they had an emergency reporting mission.
The exchange between the two sides was extremely hostile, thick with the smell of gunpowder.
Perhaps it was the high temperature or maybe the British inherently had little affection for Americans. Although on the surface they were allies, in the eyes of these British aristocrats, America was just a nouveau riche.
"We are journalists, journalists, do you understand?! You have no right to stop us!"
"If you have the guts to stop us here, why don't you go into Ramadi? Have the guts to go in! What's the point of stopping us here?"
"Yeah, you bunch of pigs, if you've got the guts go into the city of Ramadi and see if those Alibabas won't knock your teeth out and blow your heads off! You only know how to show off in front of journalists and civilians! What kind of heroes are you!"
The British reporters were quite agitated.
Perhaps in their view, they felt that their right to report and their British passports were supreme.
In the end, one of the British reporters even cursed, calling someone a "cunt".
Americans particularly detested this word.
Immediately, the atmosphere tensed up.
One American soldier turned his gun towards the group of British reporters, his face flushed with anger as he shouted, "What did you say?! What did you say?! Say it again!?"
Before the British reporters could retort, suddenly they heard yelling from the Humvee in front of the checkpoint, where the machine-gunner responsible for surveilling the direction of Ramadi began to shout loudly.
"Stop! The vehicles in front, stop! Stop! Stop right now!"
As they followed his gaze, they saw several old sedans coming from the direction of Ramadi, now less than a hundred meters from the checkpoint.
Even though there were barriers in front of the checkpoint, if those cars intended to crash through, or if they were laden with something like TNT or even a simple IED made from a 152mm artillery shell, the explosion could potentially send half of the checkpoint sky-high.
A translator with the army, using a bullhorn in the Illiguo language, also started shouting for the cars to stop.
Perhaps the people inside the cars didn't hear clearly.
Perhaps they were fleeing the warzone, and their emotions were in utter chaos.
The cars didn't slow down and headed straight for the checkpoint.
At a distance of fifty meters, the heavy machine-gunner on the Humvee finally gave in. Looking at the four approaching sedans, he couldn't afford to hesitate anymore, haunted by dreams of his comrade who had been killed by a suicide attack just a few days ago.
And so, the trigger was finally pulled.
Ratatat—
Ratatat—
Ratatat—
The distinctive dull sound of the M2HB machine gun arose, vomiting flames of death.
The first white sedan in the convoy had its glass shattered in an instant, followed by countless bullet holes riddling the body, blood splattering, turning all the windows red.
The car finally lost power and crashed into the roadside, with scalding radiator water spraying out and wafting steam.
The cook cursed softly in Russian, "Fuck!"
The following three sedans stopped one after another.
Five or six locals in long robes, looking like civilians, two of them women, got out of the cars. They were howling and screaming piercingly as they ran to the first sedan, pulled open the door, and dragged out a man whose flesh was mangled beyond recognition. They then pulled a teenage girl out from the passenger seat...
Everyone who had been bustling around the checkpoint suddenly fell silent at this moment.
The journalists from Da Ying stopped their clamor as well.
One of them raised their camera and began to click away.
The others even started rolling their video cameras immediately, someone pulled out a microphone, and began to broadcast live...
The US Army soldiers were thrown into chaos.
Some tried to block the journalists, while others tried to pull away from the wailing women...
Just then, a woman pulled out a child from the backseat of the bullet-ridden sedan.
Very small.
Holding it was like holding a toy doll.
It had long lost any sign of life.
It was a baby...
Even someone as hardened as the cook couldn't help but turn his head away.
"Let's go, let's head back,"
he said, turning on his heels without looking back.
The cook returned to Song Heping's Humvee and knocked on the window.
Song Heping opened the door to let him in.
As soon as the cook got in, he removed his helmet, wiped off the streaming beads of sweat, and then said, "We can't get through the front, I guess the battle could last who knows how long. Miss Angel, would you prefer to keep waiting, or take a detour?"
Upon hearing this, Miss Angel looked at Song Heping, then at the cook.
She seemed to have absolutely no idea, and eventually said, "I don't care which route you take, what I want is safety first and punctuality second!"
The cook glanced at Song Heping and said, "Song, come down a moment."
After speaking, he pushed the door open and got out.
Song Heping told Miss Angel, "Miss Angel, you stay right here and don't get out of the car. Understand?"
After receiving a definite affirmative from Miss Angel, Song Heping then got out of the car.
Grey Wolf and the cook were already waiting by the road, and Song Heping quickly walked over to join them.
"We can't get through the front."
The cook said.
"Those Da Ying dumbass journalists have been making a fuss and haven't let anyone through. Did you hear the gunfire just now? The US Army soldiers have killed a few women and children again. Fuck their mothers, we would probably get shot if we try to force our way through, we have to take a detour.
Otherwise, I'm afraid if we wait any longer and decide to take a detour when it's too late, everything will be over."
"Which way?"
"Head south to Amiji Castle, then turn north to Haditha, and pass through there to get to Krasa Town."
As he spoke, he took out the map and showed it to Song Heping.
After looking at the map, Song Heping pondered for a moment and said, "That's at least a hundred kilometers more."
The cook said, "There's no better way now. We have seven hours until eight o'clock tonight, at worst we don't stop at Victory Camp, and we go straight to Krasa Town."
"Okay," Song Heping said, "it's better than just waiting to die here."
The cook's arrangement was also born out of helplessness.
Since Miss Angel refused to recontact her informant to arrange a new meeting time, this was the only option.
Of course, no one would have thought that this minor temporary decision would act like a fallen domino, triggering a chain reaction that would affect the entire situation.