October 2, 1997, off the coast of West Africa, international waters.

The moon was obscured by thick clouds, the sea was pitch black. Only the monotonous sound of waves hitting the hull and the harsh noise of rusting metal.

The "Far Seer" used to be a Norwegian refrigerated cargo ship, now the markings on its hull were long blurred.

It drifted slowly like a weary whale on the water about fifty nautical miles off the Guinea Gulf shoreline. Rotten fishing nets and empty oil barrels piled up on the deck as camouflage, but beneath the rusty deck, in the illegally modified cargo hold, there was another kind of "cargo".

Nicknamed "Black Mamba," Idriss Diawlo stood on the narrow bridge, staring through the salt-encrusted porthole into the darkness outside.

He was tall, wearing an ill-fitting captain’s uniform, with a gemstone ring snatched from the corpse of a French colonial officer on his finger.

There was a deep scar on his left cheek, which was left during a territory battle in Congo years ago.

At the moment, his gaze was fierce and menacing, filled with the light of a beast cornered to the extreme.

Mamadou’s downfall was like a basin of ice water waking him up.

He realized that a "kingdom" built on violence, drugs, and crude control like theirs was as fragile as a sandcastle in the face of real national power and transnational capital.

The "bosses" behind Hendrick could easily abandon Mamadou, and one day might also abandon him, "Black Mamba".

He had to find a new path, or at least have enough chips to make those big people reluctant to discard him easily.

"How much longer?" he asked hoarsely.

The Chief Officer was a former Nigerian navy officer wanted for arms smuggling.

He looked at the shabby nautical chart and GPS: "At this rate, we can reach the rendezvous point before dawn. But boss... are we really going to do this? To touch Europe? That’s a lion’s den."

"Lion’s den?"

Black Mamba sneered, his face’s scar twisting in the dim light of the dashboard, "Did you see what happened in Sangar Town? Lions? Now they’re a pack of old dogs, tearing each other apart in their backyard, still being watched by hunters outside. London is overwhelmed, Paris and Berlin are busy bargaining with Mexicans, Madrid and Rome... hum."

He turned around, facing the core leaders in the bridge.

Some of these people were former military, some were tribal militia leaders, each with bloodstained hands, and eyes filled with greed for wealth and power, and a hint of fear for the unknown.

"Why did Mamadou die? Because he only wanted to be a petty emperor, planting his opium, guarding his small piece of land."

Black Mamba’s voice echoed in the enclosed space, "The era has changed. Simply selling ’Black Pearl’ in Africa isn’t enough. Our goods are of better quality than those from Colombians, Mexicans (meaning the old drug lords), and cheaper. Why should the market be monopolized by them? Why should the money go into their pockets?"

"But the cops in Europe..." a small leader in charge of transportation hesitated.

"Cops?"

Black Mamba walked up to him, almost pressing his face against his, "How was the Liverpool warehouse taken down? Was it because the cops were strong? No, it was because London wanted to deal with the disobedient! European cops are no different from African officers, give enough money or catch their handle, they’re our watchdogs. Besides..."

He stepped back, opened his arms, as if wanting to embrace the entire dark sea: "We don’t take the usual path. Don’t rely on those easily monitored ports and airports. We seep in like sand. Use refugee boats, fishing vessels, modified speedboats, even fucking albatrosses (meaning ultra-small submarines)! Mix ’Black Pearl’ into rescue materials, into the interlayers of containers on legal cargo ships, into the luggage of those pathetic wretches trying to smuggle into European paradise!"

His eyes flashed with a crazed and calculating light: "Europe is full of cracks right now. Italy and Greece to the south are suffocated by refugees, the Balkan powder keg to the east was ignited by Mexicans, the United Kingdom to the north is about to fall apart, in the middle France and Germany are arguing. This is God’s gift of opportunity to us! We are not seeking conquest, but pollution. Use the cheapest ’Black Pearl’, like a virus, to contaminate their streets, their schools, their police stations, their parliament!"

"We want every corner of every European city to smell the sweetness of ’Black Pearl’. Make their young get addicted, make their crime rate soar, make their cops and politicians either take our money or get exposed for scandals. When they realize it, we’ve already entwined them like vines in their sewer system, impossible to remove!"

He paused, lowered his voice, yet even more dangerous: "Then, when we hold dozens of European cities’ drug supply lines, hold hundreds of officials who took bribes, we sit down and talk with those ’big figures’. Talk price, talk territory, even... talk cooperation. We want to change from being used pieces to players."

The bridge was silent, only the roar of the engines. The leaders were stunned by this ambitious and extremely dangerous plan. Directly attacking Europe? This was something unthinkable in their past pillaging and looting experiences. But the picture Black Mamba painted, and the lesson from Mamadou’s downfall, made them feel a sense of thrill with no alternative.