POV: Tariq (Rawalpindi, Pakistan)
At 9:00 AM on Tuesday, Tariq sat in the back corner of a dimly lit internet cafe in Saddar Bazaar. He was wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low, a disguise completely undermined by his impeccably tailored, three-piece diplomatic suit.
He had to use the cafe because the Ministry of Interior had throttled the 4G networks again. Something about a protest over the price of lentils.
Tariq hunched over a sticky keyboard, staring at the glowing screen of an ancient Dell monitor. He was currently navigating the most treacherous, unforgiving free market known to mankind: Facebook Marketplace.
He uploaded a slightly blurry photo of Wei's ornate, velvet-lined box.
FOR SALE: Ultra-Rare Da Hong Pao Diplomatic Tea (Unopened)
Price: $34,000 USD (or equivalent in IMF Special Drawing Rights).
Condition: Mint. Used briefly as an instrument of geopolitical psychological warfare.
Description: Grown on a cliff by monks. Excellent for soothing the nerves during naval blockades or default on sovereign debt. No lowballers. I know what I have. Serious inquiries only. Must pick up in Rawalpindi.
Tariq clicked Publish. He took a sip of his lukewarm chai and waited for the global elite to bid.
Within thirty seconds, the messenger icon chimed. Tariq's heart leaped. A buyer! A way out of the General's wrath! He clicked the message from a user named Prince_Skyline_99.
Prince_Skyline_99: Brother, will you trade for a 2011 Toyota Corolla? AC needs gas, but engine is water-packed.
Tariq closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
Tariq: No trades. Cash only. I am trying to save the macroeconomic stability of a nuclear-armed republic.
Prince_Skyline_99: Okay. 5,000 Rupees and a rooster.
Before Tariq could block the man, another message popped up. This one was from an account with no profile picture, registered under the name NotTheCIA_JustA_Guy.
NotTheCIA_JustA_Guy: Does the box contain any trace amounts of weapons-grade uranium? Asking for a think tank.
Tariq slammed the laptop shut. The digital tapestry of e-commerce was failing him. He looked down at the velvet box. He had until Thursday. If he couldn't liquidate this tea, The Boys were going to reassign him to manage a military-owned fertilizer plant in the middle of the Cholistan Desert.
His burner phone buzzed. It was a text from the General.
The Americans are enforcing the blockade. Oil is at $140 a barrel. The stock exchange has crashed. Did you sell the leaf water yet?
Tariq wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, opened the laptop back up, and lowered the asking price to $32,000.
POV: Brad (Washington D.C., USA)
At 8:30 AM EST, Brad was standing in a windowless sub-basement of the Pentagon, staring at a massive digital map of the Persian Gulf.
He had survived the flight back from Islamabad fueled entirely by Nicorette and pure, unfiltered rage. He hadn't slept in three days. He was vibrating at a frequency that made nearby interns physically uncomfortable.
On the giant screen, the Strait of Hormuz was lit up with red icons. The United States Navy's Fifth Fleet had established a terrifying, ironclad wall of guided-missile destroyers. Nothing was getting in. Nothing was getting out.
"Status report," Brad barked, crossing his arms and glaring at a four-star admiral.
"The blockade is holding, sir," the Admiral replied, gesturing to the map with a laser pointer. "We've turned back twelve commercial tankers, four cargo freighters, and a luxury yacht belonging to a Russian oligarch. Iran's oil exports are effectively zero."
Brad allowed himself a tight, triumphant smile. "Good. Squeeze them. Reza wanted to play hardball over Wi-Fi passwords, now he can explain to his Supreme Council why their entire economy is sitting in dry dock."
"There is... one anomaly, sir," the Admiral said, clearing his throat nervously.
Brad's smile vanished. "Define anomaly."
The Admiral clicked a button. The satellite imagery zoomed in on the Iranian port of Bandar Abbas. There were several massive, unmarked ships docked at the terminal.
"The Chinese 'Dark Fleet,' sir. They've turned their transponders off, so they don't trigger the maritime warning systems. They are currently offloading cargo at the Iranian military docks."
"I told you to sink anything that moves!" Brad yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "Why are we letting the Chinese bypass the blockade?"
"Well, sir, technically they aren't violating the sanctions," the Admiral explained, pulling up a highly magnified drone photograph. "The sanctions prohibit the sale of weapons, dual-use technology, or hard currency to the Iranian regime."
Brad squinted at the screen. The drone photo showed hundreds of Iranian Revolutionary Guard soldiers furiously unloading cardboard boxes from the Chinese ghost ships.
"What's in the boxes?" Brad asked, dread pooling in his stomach.
"We had the NSA enhance the imagery, sir," the Admiral said, tapping his keyboard.
The image blew up, revealing the crisp, high-definition logo on the side of the cardboard boxes.
Brad stared. He took his glasses off, cleaned them on his tie, and put them back on. The image didn't change.
"Are those..." Brad whispered, his voice trembling.
"Yes, sir," the Admiral confirmed solemnly. "It appears the Chinese government is bypassing international banking sanctions by paying for Iranian crude oil entirely in smart air fryers."
Brad collapsed into a leather swivel chair.
Wei had warned him. We are just a humble nation trying to manufacture affordable patio furniture. Wei had literally told him what he was going to do.
"Sir, the situation is escalating," the Admiral added, pulling up a live feed from an Iranian state television broadcast.
On the screen was Foreign Minister Reza. He was standing on the docks of Bandar Abbas, surrounded by towering pyramids of kitchen appliances. Reza looked exhausted, but he was projecting maximum revolutionary defiance. He held a black plastic air fryer above his head like a trophy.
"The Great Satan believes they can starve us!" Reza shouted into the microphone, the English subtitles flashing across the bottom of the broadcast. "But they underestimate the ingenuity of the Islamic Republic! Thanks to our allies in the East, every citizen shall now enjoy perfectly crispy falafel with eighty percent less oil! Your blockade is useless! Death to deep frying!"
Brad put his head between his knees. Gas was ten dollars a gallon in Ohio, his Vice President was tanking in the polls, and the United States Navy was currently being outmaneuvered by a maritime coalition of non-stick cookware.
"Admiral," Brad rasped from between his knees.
"Yes, sir?"
"Find me an outlet. I need to plug in my laptop. I have to draft an email to Beijing."