Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1001 Declaration of War
More than ten hours later.

The afterglow of the setting sun dyed the "razor back" a grim, blood-red color, like a huge wound.

The massive GNA convoy, kicking up clouds of dust, arrived at this land of death like a belated funeral procession.

General Saif sat in the armoured command vehicle, his face ashen, his fingers twitching uncontrollably.

As his jeep rolled over the charred wreckage and dried, dark brown scabs, stopping beside Dorn’s body, which was only symbolically covered by a tattered cloth, Saif staggered out of the vehicle and yanked the cloth off.

He glanced at it once, and his stomach churned. He turned around abruptly, grabbed the car door, and vomited violently, even vomiting bile. A dry, gurgling sound came from his throat.

"General... Lieutenant Yarif... has been found... and... and the SBS people... all... all gone... our people... corpses... litter the ground..."

The adjutant's voice was choked with sobs and filled with a deep-seated fear.

With trembling hands that could barely hold it, Saif pulled out the satellite phone and pressed the number to London with all his might.

London, MI6, top-secret operations command center.

On the huge electronic screen, the images transmitted by the spy satellite were cold and cruel—in the Sahara Desert, the "Razorback" wind-eroded rock area was like a ravaged anthill, with charred remains everywhere, and the densely packed corpses cast long, twisted shadows in the setting sun.

Inside the command center, the air was as solid as lead, making it hard to breathe.

Ms. M sat upright behind a large desk, holding a cup of black tea that had long since gone cold.

Overnight, the wrinkles on her face seemed so deep they could trap flies, and her sunken eye sockets were filled with spiderweb-like blood vessels, but her gaze remained as sharp as a scalpel, fixed on that deathly place on the screen.

She listened to Saif's incoherent and distraught report without uttering a single word.

The assistants and high-ranking officials around him were terrified and even their breathing was carefully controlled.

Operation "Severing the Throat" was a complete and irreversible failure.

It destroyed an elite SBS team built at great expense, a brigade-sized auxiliary force, and her meticulously planned and seemingly inevitable elimination operation. This was not merely a military humiliation, but a fatal blow to MI6 and her personal authority! The shame gnawed at her heart like a venomous snake.

Song Heping… This name was like a red-hot iron in her mind at that moment.

She knew this kind of person all too well: vindictive and with an iron will.

The rivers of blood on Razorback will not be his end, but merely the beginning of his revenge!
A cold, ominous premonition, like a desert night wind, instantly swept over her entire body.

Just as this suffocating silence reigned and Ms. M's heart was churning with boundless rage, frustration, and a lingering chill—

buzzing-

Ms. M's top-secret satellite phone rang out like a death knell, sharp, abrupt, and persistent, instantly shattering the suffocating silence in the command room.

Everyone's eyes were instantly drawn to the phone whose screen had lit up, as if by a magnet.

Ms. M stared intently at the flashing notification light on her phone. After a few seconds of absolute stillness, she reached out, picked up the satellite phone, turned, and walked towards a private room in the command center. She then gently closed the door and locked it.

Then, after looking around to make sure no one was there, his fingertips pressed the speakerphone button with unusually slow, almost cruel, ritualistic movements.

A calm, unwavering male voice, yet possessing a rough, weathered quality reminiscent of the Sahara Desert, filled my ears clearly and coldly through the speaker.

"Madam, I am Song Heping."

The sound was like a cold blade scraping across ice, with a metallic quality.

He always remembered her number.

“On behalf of Musician Defence, I hereby declare that from this moment forward, all official and unofficial British interests, personnel, and assets in Libya will be the target of our unrestricted and indiscriminate attacks.”

"Until the last British soldier, agent, mercenary, with your blood-stained ambition and disgusting greed, are utterly and forever driven from this land like stray dogs!"

"The Sahara winds may blow away the bloodstains on a razor's back, but they cannot erase the blood debt etched into the bones. The war you started is over. Our revenge begins now."

"Good luck—in the nightmares to come."

"beep--"

As the busy tone came through, the call was abruptly and decisively cut off without any delay.

Only the monotonous, hollow, and endlessly echoing busy sound relentlessly reverberated in her ears, playing the most desperate finale for the "throat-cutting" operation and for Ms. M's feelings at this moment.

North Africa.

The embers of the setting sun cast long, lonely shadows across the desolate Gobi Desert of North Darfur.

Song Heping's convoy, billowing with Sahara dust, drove like a pack of tired wolves returning to their den, into the secret base of the "Musician" defense company located there.

The base's silhouette appeared particularly stark in the twilight, with high walls, watchtowers, and concealed hangars and warehouses silently testifying to the heavy security measures in place.

The vehicle came to a stop, the door opened, and General Haftar, supported by his guards, stepped onto the hard ground. He looked around, a complex light flashing in his tired eyes.

Behind him, the remaining hundred or so soldiers silently disembarked, their bodies stained with the blood and smoke of gunpowder, their eyes tired yet still sharp, like a group of wounded but still fanged war beasts.

Other "Musicians" employees at the base cast scrutinizing, sympathetic, or indifferent glances. This remnant force was General Haftar's last remaining asset, and also the ticket to a high-stakes gamble for the "Musicians" defense company.

After one hour.

The base's conference room.

The heavy wooden door shut out all outside noise.

At the head of the long conference table, Song Heping sat with the company's key personnel on either side.

The image on the screen is a situation map showing the current state of affairs in Libya.

"That's the way it is."

Song Heping's voice broke the silence.

"Haftar's forces suffered a fatal betrayal in the desert city, and their main force was wiped out. He now only has about a hundred men left."

He tapped the table with his knuckles, making a dull sound.

"Although the Battle of Razorback destroyed Dorn and SBS, Saif, the main force of GNA, still has at least 30,000 guns. With just over a hundred men and us, what are the chances of getting him back to Benghazi and ousting GNA?"

A forced, unsmiling smile appeared on his lips.

"Everyone, tell me."

The silence lasted only a few seconds before Farallon spoke first, his gaze calm and pragmatic: "Forgive my bluntness, but from the perspective of return on investment and practical feasibility, General Haftar... has lost his value. A hundred or so elite veterans are indeed valuable, but they don't change the fundamental disparity in power. The GNA controls the capital Tripoli, major ports, and most of the oil fields, with the British shadow looming behind them. Supporting Haftar back to the core of power? That's not a challenge, it's a myth."

He pulled up another set of data and projected it on the screen: "Besides the GNA, Lebia currently has the Misrata militia, the Zintan militia, the tribal militias in the Fezan region, and even remnants of ISIS. Each of these factions is larger and 'cheaper' than Haftar is now—at least we don't need to start from scratch and invest massive resources to rebuild an army. Finding new, more promising proxies is a strategy that is more in line with the company's interests. Betting everything on an exiled general who has lost his base is too risky, and the returns... are too slim."

The polar bear crossed his muscular arms, his rugged face expressionless, and his voice was deep: "Ferrari is right. No matter how good a hundred men are, they can't fill the hole of 30,000. The battlefield isn't a math problem that can be won with courage alone. What we need are leverage that can change the situation, not... a handful of sand."

He had witnessed too many pointless sacrifices in the icy wilderness of the Caucasus and had an instinctive aversion to losing money.

The hunter wiped his Glock pistol slowly and intently, adding without looking up, "Besides, loyalty is relative. Razorback can fight to the death because of desperation. How long can such loyalty last if there's no hope, no tangible benefits? In Africa, promises and oaths crumble more easily than sand dunes. It's better to find a new ship than to bet on a sinking one."

Although the other members did not explicitly state their opinions, their inclinations were quite obvious in their eyes.

The atmosphere in the meeting room became even more oppressive.

Almost everyone believes that Haftar is a useless piece.

Song Heping leaned back in his chair, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the table, making a monotonous "tap, tap" sound.

He looked at each person present one by one, his gaze deep, as if trying to penetrate their rational shells.

The silence lasted a full minute; those sixty seconds felt as long as waiting for death to come in a razor-sharp crevice.

Just when everyone thought the boss would take Ferrari's suggestion, Song Heping spoke up. His voice wasn't loud, but it struck everyone like a hammer blow:
“You’re all right. On paper, Haftar is worthless right now.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the bloody image of Razorback on the screen. “But that’s not how it works.”

“First,” he held up a finger, “you’ve underestimated the value of these hundred-odd men. In Africa, armed groups tend to swarm in when things are going well, but scatter when the tide goes out. After the devastating defeat in Desert City and the desperate situation at Razorback, these men didn’t run away, didn’t surrender. They fought their way out of the encirclement with Haftar, and even fought to the death against an enemy ten times their size at Razorback. This kind of unwavering will and loyalty, forged in utter despair, is gold in Africa! It’s a rarer asset than tanks and artillery! This proves that Haftar has something unique about him, something that makes people willing to die for him!”

"second,"

He raised his second finger.

"Haftar himself is the greatest investment value. He is resilient, opinionated, and doesn't easily wag his tail for the West. Look at Saif; he's just a dog kept by the British, biting wherever he's told. Haftar, on the other hand, wants to cooperate, but he doesn't want to be a dog. Before the Razorback Offensive, he even dared to negotiate with us instead of begging for help on his knees. This kind of warlord with independent will, principles, and ambition is a scarce resource in Africa, a land shrouded in the shadow of neo-colonialism! It's easy to support a puppet, but a puppet can be replaced at any time. Supporting a 'partner' with his own ideas and who can trade with us on an equal footing is riskier, but once it's established, the foundation is more stable, and the returns are more lasting!"

Song Heping's voice echoed in the operations room, carrying an undeniable force.

Ferrari frowned slightly, and the polar bear and the hunter also put away their previous contempt and fell into thought.

Song Heping's analysis goes beyond a simple comparison of power, pointing to a deeper level of human nature and political maneuvering.

at this time--

Tuk-tuk-tuk!
The heavy alloy door to the operations room was knocked on, the rhythm steady yet carrying an undeniable penetrating force.

The conference room fell silent instantly, everyone exchanging puzzled glances. This level of core meeting was never interrupted unless there was an emergency.

Song Heping's eyes flickered slightly, and he said in a deep voice into the communicator, "What is it?"

A guard's voice came from outside the door: "Sir, General Haftar requests to see you. He says... he knows you are discussing his fate and hopes to have a chance to speak."

The crowd exchanged bewildered glances, and Ferrari's brow furrowed even more deeply.

Haftar?

How could he know that people were discussing his fate in this meeting?

And why did they come barging in at this critical juncture?
Song Heping was silent for two seconds, a barely perceptible glint of sharpness flashing in his eyes: "Let him in."

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(End of this chapter)