Port of San Diego. Pen, fun, and www.biquge.info

George. Claude is directing dock stevedores to load dozens of metal boxes with hazard warning signs into the hold of a passenger ship.

"Be careful!" He kept shouting, reminding the workers, "Don't let the boxes run around!" Or just a frustrated yell: "Fools, do you all want to die!" ”

Just a few dozen yards away, a fat guy who looked to weigh at least three hundred pounds kept an eye on Claude's movements, and kept stuffing his mouth with a bagel - until he swallowed the last bagel in his stomach, the guy licked his lips and walked towards Claude.

"Mr. Claude." He held out his right hand, "Benny. Jones, head of the local dock union. ”

"The head of the dock union?" Claude glanced at Benny with contempt. Jones glanced. What he meant was that he was the leader of a gang of gangs - the few unions in San Diego had been gangsterized, otherwise there would be no way to survive - but Claude remembered that the gang leader who controlled the San Diego pier was a Spaniard......

"Carlos ran away to Mexico to avoid the limelight, the boss's orders." Seeming to see his doubts, Benny. Jones explained, his hand still outstretched.

Claude glanced at his stubby fingers stained with breadcrumbs and frosting, furrowed his eyebrows slightly, but shook Jones' hand extremely reluctantly, and asked, "What did he do?" ”

"Nothing was done, but that's the crux of the matter." Jones spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders, "Carlos forgot to participate in the event held the day before yesterday in which Hispanic immigrants protested against the atrocities of the Spanish government in Cuba and the despicable act of blowing up a U.S. Navy warship. Sadly, he has a record at the police station. ”

"Oh." Now Claude finally understood. Having not attended an event to express his love for the United States and being targeted by the police department, it was undoubtedly the most appropriate decision for Carlos to take refuge in Mexico, otherwise he would end up like some other unlucky guys.

"Yesterday, a fool who drank too much shouted in Spanish in a bar and was beaten up by the others and arrested by the police as a Spanish spy." He calmly recounted a tragedy he had seen.

"Idiot." The head of the dock union rubbed his hands excitedly, "If I were there, I would beat him too." Then he suddenly raised his voice, "I love democracy, I love America." ”

"You should go to the town hall and shout."

"The police won't let me in." Jones said regretfully, then turned to what he really wanted to say, "So, Mr. Claude, let's talk about work." ”

"I'm willing to listen." Claude smiled.

"It's about our stevedores." The union chief gestured to his men, "You know, they're all the best stevedores in San Diego, so I don't think there's any need for you to yell at them." After a pause, he changed to a more earnest tone. Believe me, Mr. Claude, they know what is best for them. ”

"Actually, I don't think they know, Jones." Claude pointed to the metal box, "They don't know what's in there." ”

"What's in the box?"

"A new weapon that can kill everyone here in an instant."

"Are you kidding?" Jones found Claude's answer a bit unbelievable. A new weapon that can take out everyone on the docks in an instant? He didn't think there could be any new weapon that could have such a terrible effect. "The most powerful explosives I've ever seen in the world......"

"You think it's explosives?" Claude smiled dismissively, "You made a mistake. There are many things in this world that are more dangerous than explosives, and the company I work for happens to produce some, right in those boxes. ”

The metal boxes contained only two things, a fifty-liter steel cylinder and a 120-millimeter mortar shell, but inside they were filled with the same substance, a mixture of mustard and Lewis gas - a terrible tool for killing, a dangerous toy for the SWAT detachment, but not very stable.

So, if one of the high-pressure cylinders or shells is hit and ruptures...... Especially for those high-pressure gas cylinders, fifty liters of highly compressed mixture of poison sprayed everywhere in a matter of moments, killing every unlucky person who touched it.

"I suppose you don't want to see yourself covered in horrible blisters and screaming in the hospital until you see God, do you, Mr. Jones?" Claude stared at the head of the union, a cruel look in his eyes. But in reality, he himself was just as afraid.

If it had been possible, Claude did not want to take on this damn task at all, directing the dockers to put poison gas into the ship's hold. This is the job of SWAT. But Qin Lang didn't want his secret weapon to be exposed too soon, nor did he want to cause a riot in San Diego, so he found a reason to put him responsible.

Face to face with death - he didn't like the job a lot, but as a senior employee of the Grand Viper Weapons Company, Claude had no choice.

He could only ask the dock stevedores to be cautious so that they would not kill him together.

Benny. Jones didn't want either. "I'll keep my people cautious." That's what he meant. After imagining the scenario described by Claude for a moment, the head of the union felt that he had better heed the warnings - not because he believed that such a scenario would actually happen, that such a scenario could not happen. Benny. Jones was just convinced that the metal box contained some kind of high explosives, and that it was extremely unsafe and easy to explode, which was why a guy working at an arms company was so nervous.

So he'd better heed the warnings, because if the whole dock was blown up to the sky because of the mistakes of a few workers, he would be in some trouble.

But he didn't want to get in trouble.

"Be careful, you guys!" The head of the dock union shouted, and then quickly ran away.

"It's too late." Claude really laughed and looked at the passenger liner. The door to the cargo hold is closing, and the stevedores have moved all the metal boxes inside.

His job is over.

But to Lawrence. For Fisborne, his work has only just begun. Laboriously putting himself into a sweltering hazmat suit and putting on his gas mask, he followed the SWAT Squad Commander into the cargo hold, whining in a low voice. "Hell, Rose, do we have to dress like this?"

He tugged at his gas mask so hard that he felt like he was about to suffocate.

"It's not necessary, but it's better to be on the safe side." SWAT Commander Ross. McCain's distinctly New York-accented voice resembles the buzz of mosquitoes, but it can still be heard. "Those things aren't stable, Lawrence."

"You mean they're going to squirt out at any moment?" There was a sudden freeze in the security director's movements - he had seen dead rabbits in the lab and knew how terrible poison gas could be. So now it's another issue to worry about. "Is this goddamn suit going to hold those things?"

"For a while, yes." The SWAT detachment commander turned around and gestured to him to reassure, "And our job here is to keep them from squirting." ”

There's already a SWAT squad busy in the cargo hold. Fifty "monsters" wearing gas masks, chemical suits, and the four letters of SWAT on their backs were divided into several groups, and the metal boxes were opened one by one, and the pressure gauges on the gas cylinders were checked, the numbers were recorded, and the boxes were closed. Although I couldn't see their expressions, from their movements, Fisborne felt that these meticulous guys were actually nervous to death.

If you think about it, anyone who knows that he is standing in the middle of a horrible pile of weapons that can kill 50,000 or even 100,000 people, and that they are unstable and could go wrong at any time, will be extremely nervous.

It's like George. Claude – Everyone heard him shouting on the docks.

If he hadn't put on his hazmat suit, Fisborne felt like he would have been shouting too. Talking is one way to get rid of tension – and the other is to keep eating. But now, he obviously can't eat, and the head of the security department can only use his mouth to dispel his fear. "You're going to do that for the whole voyage?"

"Every two hours, we do a thorough check." McCain replied.

A thorough inspection means opening all the metal boxes, looking at the pressure readings of the high-pressure cylinders, and if the pressure of a particular bottle is too high, finding a way to lower it. The mixture of mustard gas and Lewis gas is so troublesome in terms of safety management, the pressure will continue to rise, and the pressure must be constantly reduced.

"What about the shells?"

"The same is true."

Check the shells? "Seems to be troublesome......"

"We got the gas canisters out of the shells." A SWAT player who happened to walk past them...... Look at the sign is a commander, paused and explained to Fisborne. But then came the accusations. "The people at the factory are putting together the shells and poison gas, and they are simply causing us problems."

"The people in the ammunition factory did not know the characteristics of the gas." McCain waved his men away and asked, "What is your security department responsible for?" ”

"Prevent spies from causing sabotage." It was only then that Fisborne remembered his mission. He turned slowly, letting his eyes sweep over each SWAT player. Of course, this is meaningless, no matter how good his vision is, it is impossible to tell whether a guy in a chemical hazmat suit is a saboteur or not.

He could only ask McCain. "You don't have Spaniards in your detachment."

The commander of the SWAT detachment shook his head. "Nope. There was no one in the crew. ”

Of course, this is not a deliberate precaution. Because of the danger of the weapons they operate, all 160 members of the SWAT detachment have higher education than ordinary mercenaries, a quarter have earned degrees, half of them have attended professional colleges, and the rest have completed high school. It's not easy to get together such a group of people -- usually, a person who finishes high school doesn't want to join the military, whether it's an army, navy, or mercenary — and because of the level of education, the vast majority of the team members are from the northeastern New England region, where Hispanics are rare.

As for the crew, after the explosion of the "Maine", the owner fired all the Hispanic crew members on board, but this had nothing to do with Umbrella.

At the time the owner was doing this, Umbrella had not yet decided to charter the passenger ferry.

"So, that's a really good thing, it saves me a lot of trouble." Fisborne nodded. "But," he added, "I'm still going to talk to your guys." Questions, Rose? ”

"No problem, Lawrence." McCain replied, "You can meet with the players of the Kim team first. ”

"Team Kim?"

"I have three squads, the red team, the blue team, and the gold team." The commander explained. SWAT detachments are grouped in a completely different way than ordinary mercenary squadrons. In addition to the ten men in the command, the remaining one hundred and fifty members formed three squads, each with fifty members, including three commanders and forty-seven soldiers. In actual combat, the entire detachment will be reinforced in the form of a squad to each regimental combat team.

"Looks like you're missing two squads...... Why the Gold team? ”

"You see it." McCain pointed to the team members who were doing the inspection work and said, "It's the red team that is checking the gas cylinders, and the blue team will be the next shift, so only the gold team has plenty of time." ”

Fisborne looked at it for a moment, then nodded. "Where are they?"

"Cabin." The Commander then reminded, "You'd better hurry, though. The ship was to depart in six hours. ”

"All I need is five hours."

With that, the head of the security department walked out of the cargo hold quickly—but instead of rushing to meet the members of the gold team, he was eager to take off his hazmat suit.

He couldn't take it anymore. (To be continued, if you want to know what will happen next, please log in to the www.qidian.com, more chapters, support the author, support genuine reading!) (To be continued.) )