The Middle East: From War Correspondent to Middle Eastern Influencer

In the Gobi Desert of Libya, waves of scorching heat rise from the blazing sun.

The Hilux pickup truck bumped along the wasteland. Ali was driving, Wu Hen was in the passenger seat, and Muhammad was already asleep in the back, clutching the heavy DShK machine gun.

"Mr. Wu, once you cross that rocky hill ahead, you'll reach the territory of the Beni tribe," Ali said, pointing to a high ground ahead.

It's 20 kilometers south of Benghazi, which is a very delicate distance.

It avoids the most brutal street battles in the city center, and is on the edge of the influence of peripheral armed groups like the Crow. For small tribes like the Beni, this 20-kilometer radius is the red line for survival.

As the pickup truck entered the Shek Kong checkpoint, two figures emerged from the cracks in the rocks.

They carried ammunition belts slung across their shoulders and AK-47s with cracked buttstocks and severely worn blued barrels.

"It's me! It's me, Ali!" Ali quickly poked his head out and shouted loudly in the local language.

After confirming Ali's identity, the two sentries relaxed slightly, but their eyes remained warily fixed on Wu Hen's face for a long time.

Upon entering the settlement, the scene before Wu Hen was vastly different from what he had imagined.

It was more of a refugee camp than a tribe.

Dozens of tents and several small huts temporarily built with mud bricks were scattered around, with about forty young and middle-aged men scattered around.

The equipment of this armed force can only be described as miserable. Wu Hen glanced at it and even saw some people carrying Mosin-Nagant rifles from World War II. The automatic rifles in the hands of most people had thick layers of grease and grime around their ejection ports, and the sound of the recoil springs was chilling.

A burly, white-bearded old man strode over. He was dressed in a clean white robe, and although his face was haggard, his presence was distinctly different from the young men around him.

"Mr. Wu, welcome to the Beni tribe." Suleiman stepped forward. "Ali has already told me that at this time, only friends are willing to sell us real weapons."

"Chief Suleiman, you're too kind," Wu Hen said with a smile. "In this country, politeness doesn't bring security; only bullets can."

"Your goods are far superior to the scrap metal on the black market that could explode at any moment," Suleiman said, looking at Wu Hen. "Mr. Wu, the Beni tribe is peaceful. We don't seek dominance; we just want to protect this wasteland. We need a long-term, stable arms supplier. In return, we don't have many dollars, but the Beni people control a nearby dry riverbed with some accumulated gold dust and flocks of sheep."

Gold, or physical objects.

With the Libyan dinar now practically worthless, this is indeed a more robust payment method than the US dollar.

Wu Hen did not rush to agree; his gaze fell on the old guns that were jammed in the hands of the young soldiers beside him.

"The prerequisite for cooperation is that you must survive first."

Wu Hen walked toward a soldier who was squatting on the ground, looking troubled by the AK that he couldn't pull the trigger of.

He held out his hand, gesturing for the other person to hand him the gun.

The young soldier paused for a moment, looked at Suleiman, and Suleiman nodded.

Wu Hen took the gun, flicked the receiver cover lightly with his fingertip, and made a dull sound.

He pressed down the receiver cover catch with his thumb, opened the cover, pulled out the recoil spring guide rod, and removed the bolt carrier.

"The carbon buildup was too thick, the recoil spring had lost its tension, and sand was stuck in the pull handle washer."

He took out a bottle of gun oil from his tactical vest, bit off the cap with his teeth, dripped a few drops onto the guide rail and piston rings, then picked up a thick iron wire from the ground, wrapped it with a small piece of rag, and inserted it directly into the gas tube.

With a screeching sound, the dark red sludge was forcibly pushed out.

"Click, click!"

He pulled the lever, and the crisp sound of the recoil spring striking the receiver was truly pleasant.

"Give it a try." Wu Hen threw the gun back.

The young soldier caught the gun and tried firing it in the air; with a crisp, powerful "snap," it went off.

This gun-fixing skill gradually transformed the initially skeptical Beni warriors' gazes into respect.

In Benghazi, there are many people who can kill, but very few who can repair guns.

However, amidst this harmonious atmosphere, a discordant voice suddenly rang out.

"So what if it's fixed? In the end, he's just an opportunistic foreign merchant."

A young man in his early twenties stepped out of the crowd. He had a headscarf wrapped around his head, two short-handled daggers tucked into his waistband, and a fierce look in his eyes.

Amir, the radical leader of the Beni tribe, felt a surge of hostility as he looked at the worshipful gazes of his fellow tribesmen toward Wu Henna.

"Uncle Suleiman, why should we trust a foreigner?" Amir scoffed. "Just because he can repair guns doesn't mean he's benevolent. What if these guns are bait that the Ravens deliberately had him sell us?"

Suleiman's face darkened: "Amir, you mustn't be rude to our distinguished guest!"

"On this battlefield, dignity is earned with the gun in your hand, not with words," Amir said defiantly, looking at Wu Hen. "Since you sell guns, you must know a lot about them. Don't you dare to have a contest with me? If you win, I, Amir, will call you 'Commander' from now on. If you lose, take your beat-up car and get out of the Benny tribe!"

Wu Hen stopped what he was doing and looked at Amir.

He knew that to gain a foothold among these tribal militias, technology alone was not enough; you had to be ruthless and precise than them.

"How do you want to compete?"

"See that stone tower over there?" Amir pointed to a dilapidated watchtower a hundred meters away, with three wooden stakes wrapped in sandbags standing on the crossbeam at the top.

"100 meters away, three bullets, let's see who can hit the head." Amir snatched a relatively new AK from a soldier and confidently raised his chin.

100 meters is a warm-up for a sniper, but for these tribal soldiers with their worn-out AKs, it's the limit of their shooting range.

Wu Hen didn't take his fine M4A1. Instead, he turned around and picked up an old AK from the pile of newly repaired weapons.

"I'll use this one."

"The rear sight of that gun is crooked!" someone whispered a reminder.

Suleiman looked at Wu Hen with concern, wanting to dissuade him, but was stopped by a look from Wu Hen.

Amir sneered, "Since you want to lose face, then so be it."

Amir was the first to raise his gun. Instead of the standard prone position, he chose a standing position to show off his skills.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Three shots rang out. Amir's recoil control was indeed top-notch in the area. The first bullet hit the edge of the sandbag, the second slightly off-center, and the third hit the middle of the sandbag.

Although it didn't hit the head completely, in the Gobi Desert where the wind was quite strong, hitting the target three times was enough to win cheers from the onlookers.

Amir whistled triumphantly.

It was Wu Hen's turn.

He was an expert in firearms; he could immediately identify the weaknesses of a gun and how to avoid them.

"Da da da!"

It wasn't three single shots, but three bursts!

This old-fashioned AK has a lot of recoil in burst mode, and the muzzle rise is very serious, but Wu Hen controlled it very well.

On the distant stone tower, a cloud of dust exploded from the top of the sandbag in the middle.

Three bullets, in less than 0.5 seconds, all accurately hit the same spot!

Because the impact of the bullet was so concentrated, the entire upper part of the sandbag was sliced ​​off!

Amir froze on the spot. 100 meters away, a broken gun, three bursts, all hitting the head.

This marksmanship is beyond the comprehension of these indigenous militias.

Wu Hen casually put the still-warm AK back in the distance.

Amir's face turned pale and then red. Finally, he lowered his head deeply, took a step back, and sheathed the dagger at his waist.

Suleiman watched this scene, a fiery glint in his eyes.

He strode forward and grabbed Wu Hen's hand: "Mr. Wu! You are a benefactor sent to us by God! Amir was right just now, the crows are a scourge on this land. Three days ago, they robbed our caravan, stole our camels and guns, and killed two of the Benny family's children! I know where they are! They are hiding in that abandoned chemical plant!"

Suleiman stared into Wu Hen's eyes: "Mr. Wu, if you can help the Beni tribe reclaim their supplies, even if it's just one instance of support, the Beni tribe swears that as long as there's a single sheep left in this Gobi Desert, you'll never lack meat; as long as the Beni people have a breath left, we will always be your allies!"