Farming Life Starting in Africa

Zhou Weijie nodded, jumped onto the small boat, started the engine, and sputtered upstream against the current. Rosen watched the boat disappear around the bend in the river, thinking that this guy had really chosen a good spot—nobody around, a few big trees standing by the river, and the temperature dropped after the wind blew through the lush low shrubs, turning the sweltering heat into a lazy, warm feeling, quite comfortable.

He looked around, found a large tree near the riverbank, and in an inconspicuous spot, took out a folding deck chair and fishing rod, sat down by the river, and was quite content. Even if the helicopter returned, it wouldn't easily spot him. Anyway, he had nothing else to do, so he might as well fish for a while.

The barramundi in this river are quite large; he just saw one that was over a meter long. The river also has local specialty tilapia, commonly known as African carp, which has good meat. Of course, occasionally some unusual fish species appear—after all, this is a tributary of the Nile, so he wouldn't be surprised if he caught a crocodile.

As Rosen was enjoying his time fishing by the river, dozing off to catch up on sleep, he suddenly caught sight of two lumps floating on the water.

He stood up and looked at it carefully. His face immediately fell, and he muttered, "What bad luck, I can't even find a floating corpse while fishing." With that, he started to reel in his fishing rod, intending to leave as soon as possible.

Two humanoid figures did indeed float down the river. In Africa, nine times out of ten, any motionless humanoid creature floating in a river is a corpse; there's not much to guess.

But just then, one of the "corpses" suddenly moved, followed by a cry for help tinged with water, "Help...please help me!"

The voice sounded like an American, with a thick Western accent. Rosen wasn't in a hurry to go into the water—no kidding, he wasn't some greenhorn. He picked up his fishing rod, walked to the bend downstream, and stretched out the rod. "If you can grab this rod, you're lucky."

The man in the water struggled for a moment, and Rosen then saw clearly that he was actually tied to a piece of wood, and another person was also tied to the same piece of wood, floating motionless beside him, with skin as white as paper, looking like he was in grave danger.

The current was quite strong, and the man desperately reached out, managing to grab the fishing rod tip just as they rounded the bend. Rosen quickly pulled back with all his might, bringing both of them with the current to the riverbank. The man lay on the bank, panting heavily and trembling all over.

Rosen crouched down and looked at him. The guy was a complete mess, soaking wet and covered in mud. "Who are you?"

The man struggled to untie the ropes binding him, lay on the riverbank catching his breath for a while, and said, "My name is Bob Lee Swagger... a U.S. Marine. We were attacked."

Rosen's eyelids twitched upon hearing the name. It reminded him of a superb marksman. He didn't say anything, but walked over to look at his motionless companion beside him; his skin was bluish. "He's dead?"

Swagger remained silent for a long while, then said in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, "Thank you for saving me... Could you take us away from here?"

"You're taking him with you?" Rosen looked around, then at the sky. "In this weather, he'll stink in a few hours. Wild dogs and vultures will be here soon."

Swag hesitated for a long time before finally sitting up, his eyes a little red. "Um... could I borrow a tool? I want to bury him."

Rosen turned and went back to the car, pulled an entrenching tool from the glove compartment, and tossed it in front of him. "Here." Then he squatted down and asked curiously, "What exactly happened to you guys here?"

Swage thought for a moment, then said, "An armed helicopter attacked us."

Rosen pulled a bottle of Rebecca from the car and tossed it to him. "Oh, that one? I just saw it. You're really lucky, you managed to get away with that?"

Swagger took the drink and gulped down a large mouthful. The slightly scalding, sweet taste rushed down his throat, and he felt a little stronger. "Use the gun."

Rosen paused, thinking he'd misheard. "Huh? Say it again?"

"I used a Barrett M82A1 to damage its main rotor."

Rosen stared at him for several seconds. Now he was certain—this was the real-life sharpshooter from *Shooter*, wasn't he? But movies are movies, right? Using a sniper rifle to shoot down a helicopter in real life?

That's ridiculous. Helicopters are constantly moving at high speeds, and the airflow generated by their rotors can deflect bullets. To accurately hit a vital organ... is extremely difficult.

Rosen blinked and changed the subject, "Where are your weapons?"

Swage looked up at the surrounding mountains and silently estimated, "I've hidden myself about ten kilometers upstream."

Rosen's eyes darted around, and he said with a grin, "Let's make a deal. I'll bury your comrades for you, then send you to the Uller, and I'll keep your weapons. How about it? You can't take them with you anyway."

Swagger actually wanted to say that he could come back for it later, so why couldn't he take it with him? But after glancing at the holster on Rosen's side, he changed his words, "...You can."

He considered his situation—he was now abandoned and out of contact; returning directly to the military camp might mean he'd be silenced. It would be better to find the officer who betrayed them, settle accounts, and then return home to retire.

"But I need to keep a long gun," he said. "I have some things to take care of."

Rosen, too lazy to ask what was going on, simply asked, "How many guns did you bring in total?"

Five.

Rosen clicked his tongue inwardly. The Americans were really extravagant; a two-person sniper team carried five guns. But then he thought about Commissioner Smith's way of doing things back home and it made sense—maybe the soldiers bought those guns themselves; damn capitalism!

"Sold!"

After Rosen helped him bury his comrade, Swagger picked up a piece of wood, took out a knife and carved words on it, seemingly wanting to erect a monument for this unfortunate fellow named Donnie.

Rosen couldn't help but say, "I advise you not to put up this sign." He lit a cigarette and said casually, "It means nothing to him. This grave will only prevent him from being dug up by wild dogs and vultures. If you put up a sign, passersby will see it and dig him up to see if he has anything valuable—they won't even leave him a pair of shoes."

Swag listened, his melancholy deepening. He didn't speak, remained silent for a moment, then casually tossed the wooden sign into the river. The piece of wood spun on the surface before drifting away with the current.

"Come on, I'll take you to get the gun." Swagger stood up and walked towards Rosen's all-terrain vehicle.