Eagle Sauce: The 055 destroyer was launched into the sea just after the founding of the country?

Chapter 942

[Time]: Autumn 1956, five days after the blame-shifting plan was launched.

[Location]: Blue Star United Conference, Geneva Headquarters, Main Conference Hall

In the simultaneous interpretation booth, the young interpreter, Jean-Pierre, wiped the sweat from his brow for the third time. His fingertips were icy cold. The air conditioning was blasting, but the invisible pressure in the air made it hard for him to breathe.

Outside the soundproof glass wall in front of him, the enormous circular conference hall was packed. Camera flashes, like silent lightning, lit up and went out from every corner, projecting every subtle expression on the delegates' faces onto the front pages of newspapers worldwide. The whispers in the press area merged into a low hum, like a beehive stirring.

Jean-Pierre lay before him two documents. On the left was the speech submitted that morning by the American delegation, its title sensational: "Purge the Civilized World of a Cancer: A Proposal for a Comprehensive Purification of Cuba." The document was filled with terms like "Satan," "evil priests," and "inhuman curses"—words typically reserved for medieval religious inquisitions. On the right, the small section representing the Cuban seat was empty, save for a solitary water glass.

The heavy, carved wooden doors of the conference hall were pushed open.

At the same instant, all the flashes turned towards that entrance.

Fidel Castro walked in.

He wasn't wearing his signature green military uniform, but rather a somewhat cramped dark suit. The suit's shoulders were narrow, and the sleeves were too short, as if it had been temporarily rented from some store. His face was thin, his eyes deep-set, and his beard looked like it hadn't been shaved in days, but his eyes, surrounded by gazes of contempt, pity, or amusement, still shone like embers.

He was followed by only three people. One of them was Che Guevara, his left arm still in a cast and sling across his chest. His steps were steady, as if he were walking into a hospital where he was about to have surgery, not a courtroom to judge a demon.

As they walked down the aisle, the surrounding delegates seemed to be pushed aside by an invisible wall, instinctively shifting their chairs to either side. The French delegate subtly picked up a document and used it to shield his face. Representatives from several small South American countries simply lowered their heads, avoiding his gaze. The scene resembled a healthy crowd avoiding a leper.

And on the other end.

At the Eagles' table, Ambassador Henry Cabot Lodge was surrounded by a group of allied representatives in suits. He held a shimmering glass of mineral water, his face flushed, his hair slicked back. He spotted the lone Castro and deliberately cracked a loud joke to the British representative beside him, eliciting a chorus of laughter. The way he looked at Castro was the look of a butcher eyeing a piece of meat on a chopping board—full of condescending anticipation of the impending slaughter.

"Boom!"

The chairman of the conference, a gaunt-faced elderly Belgian, struck the gavel.

"quiet."

"Now, let's discuss the issue of the 'abnormal humanitarian crisis in Cuba' urgently raised by the US delegation. First, I would like to invite Mr. Henry Cabot Lodge, the US representative, to present the proposal."

Rocky straightened his impeccably tied Windsor knot tie and walked onto the podium with a compassionate expression.

"Mr. Chairman, distinguished delegates."

His voice, resonating through the microphone, filled the entire hall, magnetic and captivating.

"Today, I stand here with a heavy heart. Because what I am about to reveal to you is not an ordinary military conflict, but an atrocity that would make God weep and shame civilization!"

He pressed a button, and the carefully edited photo of "Po Jun" tearing apart a tank immediately appeared on the large screen behind him.

"Our 30,000 soldiers, 30,000 young souls who believed in freedom and democracy, did not fall to bullets after setting foot on Cuban soil. They... encountered an attack that was older and more evil."

Rocky picked up the "evidence" that Dulles had prepared, like a confident prosecutor.

“This is a top-secret file from the Third Reich, proving that primitive tribes in the Caribbean possess black magic that controls the dead! And this photograph,” he pointed to the screen, “is showing the Cuban dictator dancing with the most brutal shamanic high priest in the area!”

“We have survivors! Those devout believers of God, who barely escaped after witnessing the hellish demonic ritual, will tell the world how Castro and his crimson devil followers used vile witchcraft to transform our unarmed captives into inhuman cannibalistic monsters!”

"Therefore! On behalf of the United States of America, I hereby propose that the General Assembly immediately designate Fidel Castro and his associates as enemies of all mankind! Form a united force, with the resolve of a crusade, to thoroughly cleanse that land tainted by evil! And send this servant of Satan, disguised as a revolutionary... to the gallows!"

As he finished speaking, the entire hall erupted in applause of support. Representatives from Britain, France, and West Germany were the first to stand up, followed by other countries allied with the United States.

The applause was like a tidal wave, engulfing Castro's silent face.

It was Castro's turn to speak.

He walked step by step up to the huge marble podium. He was so close to the American representative's seat that he could even smell the expensive cologne on Rocky.

He didn't bring any documents with him.

He simply stood there, his hands gripping the edge of the podium, silently watching the pairs of eyes below the stage, some hostile, some indifferent.

Whispers filled the hall again, and there were even a few suppressed chuckles.

"He didn't even have a manuscript."

What else could he say? Recite a spell?

Finally, Castro spoke, his voice hoarse, as if squeezed from a rusty iron pipe.

"Witchcraft? Demons?"

He smiled, but there was no joy in that smile, only endless weariness and sorrow.

"Mr. Chairman, gentlemen. If there truly are devils in this world, then I would like to ask: who was it at the beginning of this century who brazenly invaded and turned Cuba into their colony and brothel?"

"Who orchestrated one subversion and assassination after our people rose up in resistance? The sounds of gunfire from the Bay of Pigs haven't even faded yet, have they?"

"And who is it that, throughout Latin America, supports those blood-stained dictators who suppress the voices of the people and plunder our minerals and sugarcane?!"

“You say we worship Satan. Then what kind of God do you worship? Is it a God who stands idly by while his people are exploited and oppressed? If that's God, then we'd rather stand with the devil!”

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a slap in the face to some of the representatives.

But just as Sir Lawrence had predicted, rational voices seemed so weak in the face of the label of "cult members." Most delegates simply whispered impatiently, and some even began to organize their documents, preparing to adjourn the meeting.

"enough!"

Rocky abruptly stood up, completely disregarding meeting rules, and interrupted Castro's speech.

"Unrepentant heretic! You're using these clichés to distract yourself! You're blaspheming the 30,000 heroic souls who died at your hands!"

He turned to the chairman and said, “I propose that my proposal be put to a vote immediately! Let the voice of the civilized world judge this devil from Havana!”

The chairman glanced at the one-sided atmosphere in the room, then at the isolated and helpless Castro, and hesitantly raised the gavel.

Just as the hammer was about to fall.

"We object."

A calm but clear voice came from the Dragon Kingdom representative's seat in the corner, where they had remained silent all along.

The sound wasn't loud, but the entire venue fell silent instantly.

All eyes turned to the middle-aged man with a refined appearance, dressed in a well-fitting Zhongshan suit. He was Wang Bingnan, the newly appointed resident representative of China.

Representative Wang slowly stood up. He didn't even glance at Rocky, but simply nodded slightly to the chairman.

"Mr. Chairman, we have different views on this tragedy."

"We believe we have found the real killer."

This statement was like a bomb, causing an uproar in the hall.

Rocky's face turned bright red, and he jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, his index finger almost poking Representative Wang's nose.

"What did you say?! A different opinion? You're protecting terrorists!"

"Produce the evidence! Wang! Produce your evidence! Otherwise, I will, on behalf of the United Nations Security Council, accuse you of shameless defamation against the United States of America!"

Hearing this blustering but cowardly roar, Wang Bingnan simply smiled faintly. His smile was like that of someone watching a child throwing a tantrum.

He seemed to have been waiting for these words for a long time.

He didn't launch into a long rebuttal; he simply turned around, faced the side door behind him, and calmly spoke a sentence in Mandarin.

"Please bring him in."

The heavy, copper-rimmed side door of the conference room was slowly pushed open with a slight creak.

The blinding flashes of light instantly engulfed the doorway.

As the light dimmed slightly, everyone could see who had arrived.

He was a young man wearing the standard blue and white striped hospital gown of an American military hospital. He was being carefully supported by two Chinese medical personnel in white coats.

He was so thin that the clothes hung loosely on him. His face was as pale as an A4 sheet of paper fresh from the printer, his lips were bloodless, and his legs trembled uncontrollably with every step he took.

But what's most striking about him are his scars.

His neck and wrists, the exposed skin covered with pink, crisscrossing suture scars. The skin tissue beneath those scars had an unnatural smoothness, as if parts of his body had been forcibly cut off and replaced with new skin. Most chillingly, however, was one of his ears. It was noticeably smaller than the other, and its shape was odd, like a cheap plastic model.

"Wow—"

The entire American delegation seemed to have been struck by lightning, frozen in their seats. The CIA agents Dulles had sent to oversee the proceedings turned even paler than the soldier.

The army lieutenant general sitting in the back dropped his water glass with a clatter, spilling water all over his pants without him even noticing.

They recognized the face.

Kowalski. Private First Class. From a miner's family in Pennsylvania. He was the first fully mutated Atlas individual documented at that beach camp. His file had been marked "MIA" (Missing During Operation) three days prior.

And now, this "missing" person is standing here alive and well.

Ambassador Lodge's face drained of color at a visible speed. His meticulously styled Windsor knot suddenly seemed to turn into a noose, suffocating him. His mouth was open, the word "slander" stuck in his throat, unable to be uttered.

Wang Bingnan slowly walked to the trembling soldier and spoke in the gentlest tone possible, like a teacher encouraging a shy student.

"Child, don't be afraid. Look here, it's safe here."

He gently patted the soldier on the shoulder.

"Tell everyone your name. Which unit do you belong to?"

The soldier's eyes swept across the entire area blankly. When he saw Rocky in his familiar American official suit, his body trembled violently, and he almost collapsed to the ground.

After a full half minute, he finally managed to squeeze out a few words from between his teeth in a barely audible English with a heavy Midwestern accent.

"...James Kowalski... Private First Class... 1st Marine Division, 2nd Battalion..."

Wang Bingnan nodded.

"Private First Class Kowalski, tell all of you gentlemen. Tell the whole world. How did you become... like that before? What do you remember?"

"water……"

Kowalski began to sob, clutching his head in his hands as if trying to resist some terrible memory.

"...It was a blue metal bucket...The colonel said it was a treat sent from China...We were all very happy...After drinking it...I felt very hot and itchy...like bugs crawling in my bones..."

"Then I saw... Miller... my neighbor... him, his face... his face fell off... he looked at me... his eyes were shining... he said... he was so hungry..."

"I...I don't remember anything...I only remember...being so hungry...and there was meat everywhere..."

By the end, he was sobbing uncontrollably. This nearly 1.9-meter-tall man squatted on the ground like a helpless child, his body curled up in a ball, trembling violently.

"No...no more...I don't want to eat...that's my platoon leader's leg...ah!!"

The entire conference hall was deathly silent. Only the soldier's suppressed, beast-like whimper could be heard.

The representatives from various countries, who had been indignant just moments before, now exchanged bewildered glances, their faces filled with shock and disbelief. They weren't fools. An American soldier was here, accusing his own troops of poisoning their water supply. The implications of this were enough to make anyone reconsider their passionate speech from just moments before.

Castro was stunned. He looked at the distraught soldier, then at Wang Bingnan's calm face. He seemed to understand something. The Chinese had not only saved his country, but had even... found the sharpest weapon to clear his name.

Wang Bingnan did not help the soldier up. He simply stood there quietly, letting this most primal and real pain strike the conscience of everyone present like a heavy hammer.

Once the crying subsided slightly, he slowly took out a few other items from his briefcase.

A thick stack of documents printed with complex diagrams.

A small, black cassette tape.

There was also a glass test tube sealed tightly with lead, containing a few milliliters of pale green liquid.

He placed these items one by one on the display shelf on the podium.

"This is Mr. Kowalski's gene repair report. It details how our scientists removed an 'Atlas' virus, which is highly homologous to the genes of the prehistoric 'Assyrians,' from his cells."

"This tape comes from one of your country's 342 'lucky ones.' He risked his life to record his superior's conversation: 'Forget those damn soldiers, pour the medicine into the water truck. We must evacuate before dawn.' Should I play it here?"

“And this,” he held up the glass test tube to the light, “we extracted this little thing from a bucket your army left on the beach. It’s very pure. Our lab believes it has extremely strong biological activity. Perhaps… we could ask UN biochemical experts to verify it on the spot, inject it into a mouse, and see what happens?”

A series of questions, devoid of any anger, yet each word was like a bullet.

Ambassador Lodge's face had gone from deathly pale to ashen, sweat trickling down his temples and soaking his crisp collar. He wanted to argue, to say it was a forgery, but looking at the living soldier standing there, his scars clearly visible, he knew that any explanation would seem utterly futile.

Wang Bingnan arranged all the "evidence" and then slowly turned around, casting his gaze directly at the American representative who was almost unable to stand.

This time, his voice carried a slightly cold, sharp edge.

"Mr. Rocky."

"You say you are God's devout believers."

"Then I would like to ask you something."

"What kind of God would incite his followers to transform 30,000 soldiers who fought and bled for him into inhuman monsters that devour each other, like garbage?"

"Forgive my limited knowledge. In our Eastern mythology..."

"Only one thing would do that."

We call it—

Wang Bingnan narrowed his eyes slightly and uttered the last two words slowly and deliberately.

"demon."