Chapter 132: That Time We Took In Refugees in South America (2)

TL: Skye

Ironically, conditions in Venezuela had been gradually improving since the declaration of the moratorium.

Food coming in from San Marcos was filling people's stomachs, and martial law had brought public security under some degree of control.

Most importantly, Telsy's message that Venezuela had freed itself from Chinese exploitation was resonating with the public, and support for her administration was slowly climbing.

But the fundamental problems remained.

There was simply no way to get the hyperinflation that had persisted since the Chávez era or the completely insane unemployment rate under control.

Which was only natural.

The Bolivar Digital(Venezuelan currency) that had already been printed hadn't magically disappeared, and with the economy in ruins, jobs weren't going to spring up overnight.

The streets were still overflowing with young people wandering around with nothing to do, while dollars were quietly used in place of the national currency.

At least food was coming in, so people weren't starving to death anymore, but that was as far as things went.

When there were too many idle young people, public security deteriorated, and when public security deteriorated, martial law became less effective.

That was why the agreement to send roughly 42,000 people to San Marcos every month over the next two years was so important.

If a million refugees who were essentially unemployed disappeared from the country, Venezuela would at least have a little room to breathe.

Against that backdrop, the Telsy administration quickly began accepting applications from people who wanted to migrate.

And the response exceeded all expectations.

“The applicant-to-place ratio... is this right?”

Telsy's eyes widened as she looked over the report showing more than forty-seven applicants for every available place.

“Yes. Two million people applied for 42,000 spots.”

“I suppose there are still plenty of people left who want to leave.”

Venezuela's highly skilled professionals had already fled during the early stages of the economic crisis.

Doctors, engineers, lawyers, IT specialists. Anyone with money and useful skills had escaped long ago.

The ones left behind were people who had nowhere else to go.

People with no money, no skills, no education. The truly destitute.

Only those scraping by from one day to the next on the streets remained.

And there was another group that was even more troublesome.

Gangs.

Venezuela's gang problem was a chronic disease.

From armed groups known as the Colectivos to transnational criminal organizations like Tren de Aragua, dozens of criminal factions controlled the streets.

Martial law had kept them suppressed for the time being, but the police had already reached their limit, forcing the government to deploy the military as well.

It was under these circumstances that Telsy convened a Cabinet meeting.

“We will now discuss the selection criteria for the migrants.”

At Telsy's announcement, the Interior Minister immediately raised his hand.

“Given that domestic conditions are gradually stabilizing, we should retain the young labor force needed for national reconstruction. Instead, it would be more rational to prioritize sending the elderly and children, who impose substantial costs on the state.”

The Welfare Minister nodded.

“I agree. Medical expenses for the elderly and education costs for children alone account for a considerable portion of the government budget. If we could reduce that burden... there would be no better solution.”

The Foreign Minister, who had been listening, objected.

“We cannot do that. San Marcos is a friendly nation that not only provides us with food aid but is even accepting our refugees. If we deliberately pick out only the people we consider useless and send them over, we'll destroy their trust in us.”

“Then what do you expect us to do? If we send away all the young people capable of working, what are we supposed to rebuild the country with?”

“Even so, we have to observe at least a basic level of decency...”

The argument went back and forth.

Telsy listened in silence.

Both sides had a point. Sending away the young workforce threatened Venezuela's reconstruction, while sending only the elderly and children threatened its relationship with San Marcos.

Then.

The National Security Advisor raised his hand.

“Why don't we compromise between the two positions?”

Telsy turned toward him.

“Go on.”

“We send the younger generation, but prioritize those who are... problematic.”

The meeting room fell silent.

“Problematic...?”

“For example, people with little education, criminal records... or gang affiliations.”

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly.

Everyone stared at him in disbelief at the suggestion that they send gang members to San Marcos.

“That would be... morally...”

“Morally?”

The National Security Advisor spoke coldly.

“We've barely managed to keep them down with martial law, but there are still tens of thousands of gang members on the streets. If these bastards start raising their heads again, we won't be able to handle them. We can't keep the country under martial law forever.”

Telsy's expression hardened. The advisor wasn't wrong.

“This is an opportunity to legally get the troublemakers off our streets.”

“But if San Marcos finds out...”

“That's why we mix them in little by little. About 10 percent. At that level, they won't even notice.”

The meeting room fell silent.

Telsy looked out the window.

The streets of Caracas stretched below.

“......”

Frankly, it was an outrageous proposal.

To think they were actually considering stabbing Yu-jin in the back after he had kept faith with Venezuela.

The very idea was sickening.

But.

‘There's no other way.’

Telsy was responsible for the future of twenty-eight million Venezuelans.

It was only natural for the leader of a nation to put the safety of her own people ahead of the guilt she felt toward a foreign leader.

“...Let's do it.”

Telsy spoke quietly.

“But make absolutely sure it isn't noticeable. And keep the percentage fixed at the bare minimum.”

“Understood.”

And so, the Venezuelan government began quietly slipping gang members and convicted criminals into the migrant lists.

Meanwhile, in ever-peaceful San Marcos.

On Yu-jin's orders, the expansion of Tortilla Farm began across the country.

The expansion proceeded on two tracks.

Second Tortilla Farm and container housing capable of accommodating twenty thousand people were built on the Northern Plains, while Third Tortilla Farm and its housing complex went up in the Southern Fortaleza Basin.

Even one such project would have been difficult for an ordinary developing country, yet ironically, San Marcos had the capacity to handle both.

For one thing, right next door to San Marcos was the United States, which had more shipping containers than any other country in the world.

Used containers were piled up like mountains at American ports, and with help from the U.S. government, the San Marcos government bought them for next to nothing, then cleaned and refurbished them.

One converted container provided enough space for a studio unit housing two people. Add a shade canopy, and it became tolerable even in the Caribbean heat.

They weren't proper houses, but they were a hundred times better than the streets of Venezuela.

Developing the farmland went even faster.

After building highways, industrial complexes, a tourist city, and a new city, San Marcos had heavy equipment and manpower to spare.

On top of that, it had accumulated both expertise and equipment from running all those projects simultaneously, so turning wasteland into farmland was child's play.

Agricultural engineers who had gained experience at the original Tortilla Farm were even dispatched to design the farms, so failure was practically out of the question.

“At present, installation of all 10,000 container units at Second Farm has been completed, giving us capacity for twenty thousand people. Clearing of the first farm section is also eighty percent complete.”

Yu-jin nodded with satisfaction at the report from Minsik, president of Tortilla Construction and the man in charge of the project.

“And Third Farm?”

The two were close friends, but since this was an official briefing, they kept their speech formal.

“The containers are currently being refurbished, and installation should be completed within two weeks.”

“Good.”

“To commemorate the occasion, I was thinking we might have some soju together this evening.”

“I'll ask Chef Paulo to make Kimchi-jjim for dinner.”

“A truly excellent choice. Will Chief of Staff Isabella be joining us as well?”

“If I tell her President Jeong is coming, she'll probably eat somewhere else.”

“......”

***

Everything was going remarkably smoothly.

The construction capabilities San Marcos had built up over six years were paying off at a time like this. Work that would have taken other countries years was being finished in San Marcos in a matter of weeks.

While construction of Second and Third Tortilla Farm was in full swing, the first flotilla carrying Venezuelan refugees arrived.

Three large passenger ships from Venezuela docked at the port.

The first wave: 42,000 migrants.

As soon as the gangways came down, people poured out.

Every one of them wore shabby clothes and had a gaunt frame, but each carried a different story.

Some had genuinely come in search of a new life.

They were people who had spent each day starving in Venezuela, barely scraping by, until they seized upon the hope called San Marcos and boarded the ships.

Mothers holding their children's hands and sons supporting their elderly parents,

young men who had come empty-handed but still had life in their eyes. Like the Europeans who had once migrated to America, they had come to San Marcos in search of hope.

But some were different.

There were loafers with not the slightest intention of working who had been lured in by the promise of free food, as well as people with lengthy criminal records for fraud, theft, and assault.

But even those people were small fry compared to what came next.

Tren de Aragua.

One of South America's largest transnational criminal organizations, it engaged in drug trafficking, human trafficking, extortion, and murder as casually as everyday business.

Born inside a Venezuelan prison, the organization had spread its reach into Colombia, Chile, Peru, and even the United States. They were the kind of bastards the Telsy administration had been unable to completely wipe out even after declaring martial law.

And among them, one man.

Marcelo Gutierrez.

A mid-level Tren de Aragua boss who had controlled western Caracas.

After martial law brought the gang's operations to a halt, his income dried up, and he put his name on the migrant list for San Marcos.

Of course, he had absolutely no intention of putting his past behind him and starting a new life.

He had come both to break into the untapped market of San Marcos and to find Enrique Valdes, the subordinate he had sent ahead as an advance scout.

“Enrique, you son of a bitch. Just wait till I get my hands on you.”

Marcelo ground his teeth as he thought about Enrique, who had stopped contacting him.

‘Trying to hog a sweet deal like San Marcos all to yourself, huh?’

Marcelo had no idea that Enrique had been dragged off to the mines after launching a revolt at Tortilla Farm and having it crushed. Instead, he assumed Enrique had betrayed the organization, struck out on his own, and built a gang of his own.

“Stay sharp, all of you. The moment we get off, watch for an opening. We need to slip away immediately.”

Marcelo, who had brought three hundred men with him to punish the traitor, reminded his subordinates of the plan.

“Yes, Boss.”

But their plan ran straight into a wall the moment they left the docks.

“Everyone disembark! Move, move! What's taking so long?”

“...?”

Soldiers carrying automatic rifles appeared from every direction, and then...

“Keep it moving!”

“Form a line! Single file!”

They surrounded the disembarking refugees and began barking orders at them.

There was no welcome ceremony.

The soldiers efficiently sorted the refugees, while SIA agents in civilian clothes mixed into the crowd and scanned every face one by one.

Once the refugees had passed a basic screening, they were immediately loaded onto waiting buses.

‘Something feels off.’

Marcelo's turn was coming up.

He looked back and whispered to his men.

‘Don't do anything stupid for now. Just wait. I'll come find you.’

He still had no idea.

That this country had no such thing as gangs in the first place.

That the SIA had been watching him from the beginning.

“Keep it moving!”

With rifle barrels pointed at them, Marcelo and his men boarded buses bound for the training center.

*****

Read more chapters on my Patreon - https://patreon.com/tlskye

If you enjoy this novel, please review and rate it at Novelupdates. Thanks! 😊

To receive the latest update notifications or report mistakes, join our Discord server linked below.'

.gg/woopread-708613326262894654