Several miles from the Americans, a purple container stands on the same endless salt flat.
A spray-painted Chinese flag and a large white number two identifies the container. Like the American container, there is also a string of five random numbers stamped into the steel—89054.
The doors of the container are open. Abandoned close to the container are the Chinese's purple Humvee, dirt bike and quad. They have been destroyed.
Five dead uniformed Chinese lie next to their vehicles. They have been shot. In the distance are another three dead fallen Chinese.
Nearby is a bright Barbie-pink Humvee, Honda quad and KTM dirt bike. The vehicles have the South African flag and a number-one spray-painted on them. They are manned by eight fully armed South Africans, all dressed in pink uniforms.
A giant of a South African Boer, Nick Botha, stands in the Humvee's gun turret. Botha's uniform barely contains his muscular frame. His neck is bulldog thick. His beard is fashionably trimmed and matches the color of his cropped thick hair, white-blond. For a man in his early fifties, apart from a deformed and scarred left hand that is missing two fingers, he is in excellent physical shape.
Close to his feet, Botha guards two cases. One case is pink, the other case purple. He holds a pistol in one hand and a remote control in the other.
He leans back on the Humvee's metal gun turret, looks down at the purple case, and reads off the numbers, "Eight, nine, zero, five, four," at the same time entering them into his remote. After the last number is keyed, the remote emits a loud beep.
Botha calls down to one of his team, Pieter Botha, "Pieter."
"Yes, sir."
"The collars—how many lights now?"
Pieter glances at some of his teammate's neck collars. "Two. Two blues are lit."
"Good."
The digital clock on Botha's own locked collar continues to count down: 08.08.17, :08.08.16, :08.08.15 . . .
Botha bends down and opens the purple case. There are thick bundles of ten-thousand-dollar notes inside. He closes the case and throws it down to Pieter. "Count it."
Pieter places the case on the ground, opens it and counts each bundle. Some of the teammates gather around him. They watch, hypnotized, at the sight of the neat wads of American dollar bills.
Botha becomes bored and steps down from the gun turret and turns his attention to a long rope attached to the Humvee. At the end of the rope is a ragged purple-clad body covered in dust, dirt and blood.
Pieter finishes the money count, excited. "Fifty packs—we have another one hundred million."
Botha walks over to the body. "A good start, Pieter."
Pieter joins Botha and stands over the body. "For the glory of Suid Afrika."
Botha looks down at the body. "Does she still breathe?"
Pieter kneels down and examines the lifeless form. He turns the body over to reveal a mutilated Chinese female. "She's dead."
"Unhelpful, but then again, her screams were becoming tiresome."
Pieter pulls out a knife and is about to cut the body free from the rope.
Botha stops him. "Leave her. At least she'll distract the flies." He issues another order. "Bring me the last one."
Pieter walks toward the container. He shouts over to two South Africans, who stand guard over a thin, small Chinese man. "Bring him."
The Chinese man collapses and falls to his knees. The South Africans pick him up by his arms and drag him forward. His legs scrape over the hard ground.
The guards hand their prisoner over to Pieter. He digs a pistol into the whimpering man's neck, then grabs him roughly by the shoulder and yanks him to a halt in front of Botha. The Chinese man does not look up—he stares at the ground.
Botha, judge and jury, wants some answers. "My friend?"
The man still looks down.
Botha tries again, louder. "MY FRIEND."
The shaking Chinese man raises his head but fails to look Botha in the eye.
"We are not here to hurt you. Do you understand?" Botha asks.
The Chinese man nods.
"Dying is for fools. Your comrades were fools. You agree?"
The Chinese man nods again.
"So now we understand each other. I will ask you the same question, but this time, I want a different answer."
The Chinese man speaks in broken English. "Myself, I not know."
Botha draws his pistol and aims it at the Chinese man's heart. Pieter takes a step backward. He has more than enough blood on his uniform from his recent gruesome torture of the Chinese woman.
"Why are we here?" Botha asks.
"I not know, Mister—sir. I tell you everything."
Botha brings up his finger to his lips. "Shhhhhhhh."
The Chinese man sobs. "I not know. I tell you—again. I not know anything. I—"
"One last time, my friend. Why are we here?"
The Chinese man shakes his head. "Please. I tell truth. I not kno—"
Botha pulls the trigger and kills the Chinese man.
He turns and addresses his subordinates. "Another inadequate failure with no answers for us. But now we have two codes. And more money. So we keep going onwards. No one will stop us. We will win. Whatever this place is—whatever this situation is—I promise you that if you follow me, that if you listen to me, we will be victorious. Do you understand me?"
"Ja." The South Africans nod their heads.
"So we will die for each other. We are brothers. We are South African brothers born and raised on the pure soils of the Transvaal. Are you ready to conquer for me?"
The South African team all call out, "Ja!"
"Louder."
"JA!"
"Louder, my brothers!"
"JA! JA!"
"And you will kill for me again!"
"JA! JA! JA!"
