A Crisis in Samoa
Charlie Lee reclined on the plush sofa in his suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, his head resting on Garbo's lap. A thin layer of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. In one hand, he held a letter from Samoa, its contents quickly breaking the tranquility of the moment.
"Boss, the aborigines here are savages. They're nothing like our people. Because of my carelessness, seven brothers have left me. How can I explain this to their families? How do I bear the burden of their loss?"
The opening lines of Sammoud's letter were heavy with regret and sorrow. He described in vivid detail how a meeting he had planned with the local tribes turned into a massacre. Expecting smiles and handshakes, his team was instead met with a hailstorm of bullets, grenades, and even rockets.
Caught off guard, Sammoud had no choice but to retreat. But out of the 20 men he had brought, only 13 returned—and all were wounded. The guilt he felt seeped into every word of the letter.
However, Sammoud was not one to wallow in despair for long. The letter soon shifted to the countermeasures he had taken. Utilizing their steel-plated trucks and "Chicago Typewriters" (Thompson submachine guns), and with covert support from the U.S. military, he had led a successful counterattack. They reclaimed two mining sites and fortified their positions with trenches, wire fences, and a minefield sourced through Morgan's connections.
The description of this full-blown war made Charlie Lee's hands tremble. This wasn't part of the plan.
"What are they doing out there?" he muttered under his breath. "Samoa wasn't supposed to turn into a battlefield."
He felt a chill run down his spine as he considered the implications. The tribes weren't acting alone—they were backed by powerful colonial forces: Britain, France, and Germany. Picking a fight with them was like poking a hornet's nest.
His original plan had been simple: send Sammoud and his men to negotiate. If money could smooth things over, he was more than willing to pay. The mines would bring in profits for everyone, and Charlie had believed they could coexist peacefully.
But now, that vision was crumbling. The violence was spiraling, and Charlie couldn't sit idly by. He picked up the phone, his mind racing.
"Has Dwight called back yet?" Charlie asked as soon as the think tank representative answered the line.
"Not yet, boss. Is something wrong?" came Ben's calm voice on the other end.
Charlie sighed. "You're back already?"
"Yes. When I heard about the pensions issue, I cut my vacation short. I must say, boss, your plan was brilliant—though it's a shame…"
"Enough. We'll talk about it later." Charlie cut him off, wary of discussing sensitive topics over the phone. "Just let me know as soon as Dwight gets in touch."
He hung up, his thoughts now on the group of "veterans" he had been planning to deploy. These men, trained killers from his secretive Aegis Bureau, were ruthless but effective. He had initially intended to send them to Africa to handle security for his other ventures. Now, he was reconsidering their assignment.
"If Samoa wants to play hardball, I'll send them some professionals," Charlie muttered. His tone was icy, a stark contrast to the soft hum of jazz playing in the background.
Later that evening, Charlie picked up the phone again, this time calling the Los Angeles branch of his operations. Hans, his trusted lieutenant, answered on the second ring.
"Boss," Hans greeted, his voice steady.
"Hans, we have a situation in Samoa. I need two of our best instructors sent there immediately," Charlie said, his words sharp and direct.
"What's the issue?" Hans asked.
"The locals have turned hostile. We've already lost men, and I can't afford to lose any more. This isn't a negotiation anymore—it's war," Charlie explained, the tension in his voice unmistakable.
"I'll make the arrangements. We've got a few candidates in mind who can handle this sort of thing. I'll send you their profiles for final approval," Hans replied.
"Good. And Hans, make it clear to them—this mission isn't just about survival. It's about sending a message."
"Understood, boss," Hans said before hanging up.
Charlie leaned back in his chair, staring at the letter from Sammoud. His mind drifted to the broader implications of this conflict. If the tribes had the backing of colonial powers, how long before this escalated into an international incident?
He reached for the whiskey bottle on the table and poured himself a glass. As he sipped the amber liquid, a bitter thought crossed his mind: Success always comes at a cost. But was this a price he was willing to pay?
The phone rang early the next morning, jolting Charlie out of his restless sleep. It was Ben.
"Boss, I've got news from Dwight," Ben began.
"Finally. What's the update?" Charlie asked, rubbing his temples.
"The veterans are ready to deploy. Dwight's already briefed them on the situation in Africa, but if you want them in Samoa, they can be rerouted immediately," Ben informed him.
"Do it," Charlie said without hesitation. "Samoa takes priority. I'll deal with Africa later."
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Yes," Charlie added after a pause. "Reach out to Morgan. I want more support—logistics, weapons, whatever it takes. Make sure Sammoud and his men know reinforcements are coming."
"Consider it done, boss," Ben replied before hanging up.
Charlie set the phone down and exhaled deeply. The wheels were in motion, but the stakes had never been higher. This wasn't just about a few mining sites anymore—it was about proving that Charlie Lee was not a man to be trifled with.
As he gazed out the window at the bustling streets of Los Angeles, Charlie couldn't help but wonder: What kind of legacy am I building? A monument of gold—or a mountain of corpses?