Working as a police officer in Mexico

The difference between paramilitary organizations and military organizations, if articulated in professional jargon, would be very dry.

Let's summarize: Intense firepower, fierce personnel, high morale, and good welfare.

You wield an AK47, and I admit you're tough, but I'm not afraid of you.

But if you say you have a 152mm howitzer, and even a scarce air force, and tell me you're a paramilitary organization…

Er, it doesn't seem like a big deal, Pepsi next door now has the world's sixth-largest navy.

17 warships protecting carbonated beverages.

It's simply a joke.

The couplet above reads: A life devoid of integrity; below: A race to the bottom in depravity, with the horizontal scroll reading: World's Greatest Contrarian!n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Upon receiving orders from "Base Camp," Group 17 quickly assembled, with the help of American advisors, and dressed in green military uniforms with Soviet SSH-40 helmets on their heads and AK47s in their hands, the drug traffickers looked even more like an army than the Mexican Army!

On the arm of their uniform was also embroidered a skull, against a dark blue background, the skull wearing a facemask, above which was written the acronym for the North American Drug Syndicate: WBDZ!

Rather classy.

And on the chest of the uniform: If you're against us, then let me execute you personally!

Just sustaining "God's Battalion" cost over a million US dollars per month, and if a war started, one didn't need to say how money would pour out like running water.

Guzman was in an arms race with Victor.

The artillery battalion's 24 pieces of 150mm+ caliber cannons were lined up on one side of the Fuerte River, and even in the dark, you could sense the sheen of metal.

"Bearing XXX, coordinates XXX! Ready."

"Fire!"

Voice came through the intercom, the drug trafficker handling the cannon launched the shell, bombing toward Sonora State.

What does a 155mm caliber mean?

Blast it, and flies within 30 meters will have to reincarnate, even at 50 meters, just the shockwave could rip clothes to shreds, if used with a proximity fuse, the coverage area of a single shell is about the size of a soccer field.

"Boom!"

"Boom!"

"Boom!"

An airport that had just been constructed in Sonora State was directly subjected to artillery fire, with the bright lights of the explosions visible clear as day miles away.

Group 336 Commander Vasili, with binoculars in hand, crouched in a half-pit-like command post.

He wore a one-star police rank on his shoulder; he was one of the few locals in Mexico with real power, mainly because he joined with a salary, turning the entire Mexican Army's 112 Group into Group 336, and he had remained firmly on side in the recent rebel incidents.

"The drug traffickers' artillery has been upgraded too quickly, just over a month ago, they didn't have such equipment," Vasili watched the nearly flattened makeshift airport, his eyelids twitching.

But luckily, after the conflict erupted, all logistical personnel had evacuated, so there were hardly any casualties; worst case, they could force prisoners to do the repair work later.

"At least 150mm caliber," his aide-de-camp remarked, taking a breath.

Experienced officers could almost tell just by the sound of the shells' whistle; the Anti-Drug Force possessed similar calibers, often seen and gotten used to; it's thrilling to have such weapons, but if the enemy also has them, it's truly tormenting.

This caliber was enough proof that the drug traffickers now had the capacity to breach defenses, damn it, if they pushed into Sonora State, they could directly threaten the Capital.

"Report this to Tijuana, General Victor is in negotiations with the Americans; knowing the drug traffickers have such weapons could potentially be advantageous for us," said Vasili with a gleam in his eyes.

General?

This title...

In the Latin American region and Africa, it carries different meanings.

In fact, within front-line troops, it's an internal term of address; calling someone police chief or director doesn't sound lofty enough, it feels petty; whose police force has such intense firepower?

General, that has style.

Of course, Victor knew that "brothers" addressed him this way, but he only smiled, without rejecting, accepting or resisting; a typical "playboy."

Now he's called General, later he might be called Duke.

"The shelling stopped!"

Suddenly, the sound of explosions tapered off.

"Looks like the drug traffickers aren't so rich after all, shooting cannons in the middle of the night is just trying to scare ghosts," Vasili scoffed with a smirk, "Two companies advance into Chihuahua State!"

"Take Madella!"

"Commander, the Joint Command's intent is to focus on Sinaloa State, but we…"

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"War isn't about being rigid, after taking Madella, the other three groups will attack Sinaloa State directly; we can contain each other and occupy more territory. Madella is less than 600 kilometers from the nearest Chihuahua City. Do you think the drug traffickers want Sinaloa or Chihuahua State more?"

This area, bordering New Mexico and Texas to the north, a source of funding, if taken by the Anti-Drug Force, would be a heavy loss to the drug traffickers, who certainly wouldn't give it up without a fight.

They would have to dispatch troops from neighboring states to initiate a battle here, to see whose fist is harder.

Group 336 would be under much more pressure.

They could possibly face encirclement on three sides.

But if one group could entangle tens of thousands of drug traffickers...

This would undoubtedly provide a temporal advantage to the other brother forces, to push through next-door.

Once the artillery targets Madella, frontline troops were already prepared, and upon orders, they advanced straight into Chihuahua State.

"Run! Run! Victor's men are coming, run!"

As rain began to drizzle, refugees scurried along the muddy road, burdened with large and small bags, and accompanied by children. The young toddlers didn't understand what was happening; they were just blankly led by their parents.

"Hurry, Victor's troops are cannibals; if you don't want to be eaten, you better run," an old man in a raincoat shouted loudly.

Hearing his words, many showed fright in their eyes.

Although Victor understood the advantages of a propaganda war, with TV channels almost daily looping the benefits of anti-drug enforcement, even bringing victims to talk about the harms of drug use. But in drug trafficker territories, they have their own tactics.

For instance, block the television signals in Baja California and Sonora State, then spread propaganda about the Anti-Drug Force's cruelty, using snippets of bloody footage, claiming they are there to enslave and exploit the common people.

Moreover, under advisement from some, Guzman was even considering reforming schools within his controlled territory, starting with brainwashing the children.

In those remote mountain villages, the people believed wholeheartedly in the propaganda.

They thought Victor was bad news!

The power of propaganda is quite peculiar, just like some cults. Do those so-called 'saviors' look like they could save anything?

Uglier than sin and yet they can still dupe people into following them.

Some things are just a matter of faith.

Pyramid schemes operate on the same principle.

If this were Victor's territory, they would all have been fed to the sharks by now.

But that's an aside.

In the dark, the refugees moved towards the big city like ants, unaware whether they were heading towards life or death.

Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora State.

It's very close to the border.

So close that the faint sound of artillery fire was audible, and some even felt the vibrations.

"An earthquake? An earthquake?!"

Many people panicked, rushing down the stairs.

The memory of the massive earthquake in Mexico City a few years back still haunted many, prompting them to flee at the slightest tremor.

Neighbors looked at each other, wondering what was happening.

Right then, they heard the rumble of helicopter blades overhead and looked up to see them flying past.

"Bell 212! And Mi-8s too."

Some observant citizens took note; were they gearing up for a confrontation?

Under their gaze, six Bell 212s and two Mi-8s flew off into the distance.

"Ghost, this is Soap, come in if you hear me."

In one of the Bell 212s on the left wing, a man adorned with a skull-patterned balaclava, tactical headset, and crimson sunglasses responded calmly to the radio call, "Soap, couldn't you just use the tactical headset?"

"Uh... sorry."

"Are you clear on our plan's objective?"

Simon Riley: "Of course, a 70-year-old woman, you sure she'll cooperate?"

"Then break her legs. Her son is Guzman, a big drug trafficker, a real bastard. Think of your brother, if you hadn't helped him quit, he'd be dead by now. She's not just some old lady; she's the mother of a big drug trafficker, and for that alone, she deserves to die!"

"Ghost prides himself on having a professional ethic and a touch of OCD. If he can't handle it, pass it to me," another voice came through the radio.

"Shut your pie hole, Archer, thank you!" Simon Riley retorted, his eyes cold and fierce, "I've sworn in front of Victor's statue that I'd kill every drug trafficker and their families!"

"Great job, buddy. Other groups, proceed as planned. This is our debut, so make it good. I might even apply for a raise."

John McTavish turned off the radio, gazed into the night, and pulled out a necklace he had brought along, praying silently.

The helicopter formation escorted them into Sinaloa at low altitude, circumventing the town of Los Mochis and flying specifically over a small grove of trees.

"Two kilometers ahead is Kandahar. Weapon systems on, spread out in formation, and commence indiscriminate bombing!"

"Falcon, copy that!"

"Vulture, copy that!"

...

The squad leader's command came over the intercom from the helicopter pilots, and then they strategically split into three parts when they were one kilometer away.

"Indiscriminate ground assault!"

The Mi-8s took the initiative instantly.

AT-3 Sagger anti-tank missiles targeted the ground and exploded, with each armed helicopter capable of carrying dozens of them—and there were eight in total.

Whoosh~~

A missile accurately smashed through the window of a small western-style building and exploded upon hitting the wall inside, blowing half the building to pieces before the occupants could even discern whether they were male or female.

It was a devastating strike from above that stirred up a thick fog of debris.

The unprepared village of Kandahar suddenly faced the threat of annihilation.

In this village, Guzman had placed about 50 drug traffickers living in a four-story building, well-compensated and housed luxuriously. These "high-rises" were the priority targets. Four rocket-propelled grenades sent the building collapsing...

The sleeping traffickers were dead in an instant.

The pilots were skilled, circling the village and repeatedly strafing the area. Kandahar spanned only about 3 square kilometers, and with such relentless bombardment, all the other western-style buildings crumbled.

Only the central one still stood.

This was where Guzman's mother resided, deliberately spared from the missiles.

They needed to capture her alive!

From the outside, the residence glimmered with opulence.

"Go! Go! Go!"

After two rounds of bombardment, the members of Task Force 141 swiftly rappelled down. Archer led the sniper team to a high point, crawling onto a small hillside, where his thermal imaging scope laid out the entire village clear as day.

The remaining team members spread out, moving in combat groups to eliminate the other villagers.

Simon Riley, known as "Ghost," charged towards the residence of Guzman's mother.

Heh heh heh!

Here I come.

...