Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1005 Deadly Alliance
The next day.

The dawn in North Darfur was still shrouded in a biting chill.

But the air at the training base had long been replaced by another kind of scorching heat—the sweat squeezed out by more than five thousand bodies at the edge of their limits.

The training ground was no longer a flat sandy area, but a miniature hell transformed day and night by the engineering company.

The simulated town's ruins are more realistic, and even have pre-buried explosives; the roar of explosions and the rising dust could knock trainees over at any moment.

The crisscrossing tactical trenches were deepened and widened, filled with murky mud and sharp stones.

The barbed wire was layered and so low it was suffocating; strips of cloth painted with pungent paint were even hung on it to simulate infrared sensor traps.

The intensity of the confrontation drills increased sharply.

The Blue Team (the hypothetical enemy) was composed of the most elite "Musician" veterans and Razorback backbone members, personally led by Jiang Feng. They were equipped with the base's best night vision devices and communication equipment and occupied pre-designated fortified positions and high ground.

The Red Army (trained troops) must, within a specified time, withstand the fierce and cunning firepower of the "enemy" and complete the designated tactical objectives—capture key strongholds, rescue "hostages," and destroy "communication hubs."

There were no paintballs, and no blanks.

Live ammunition was used!

The only protection came from Jiang Feng's strict rules for firefights and precise firing range restrictions down to the centimeter, as well as the veterans' hawk-like supervision.

Even so, the smell of gunpowder in the air and the whistling sound of bullets piercing the air were enough to make even the bravest recruit's heart stop.

"Red Third Company! Watch the left flank! Machine gun teams! Suppress the second-floor windows of B site! Suppress! Not demolish the building!"

Jiang Feng's roar rang out through the loudspeaker during the intervals between explosions.

His figure was like a ghost, sometimes appearing behind the Red Army assault team, lashing the helmet of a slow-moving soldier with a whip, making a piercing "clang" sound; sometimes appearing at the Blue Army sniper point, sternly reprimanding the insufficient accuracy of the firepower coverage.

A Red Army platoon was making a difficult advance through muddy trenches, attempting to outflank the Blue Army.

Suddenly, the pre-set booby trap was triggered with a muffled thud, and mud carrying rubble shot into the sky. Although there was no lethal explosive, the huge shockwave and flying mud instantly knocked the soldiers at the front to the ground. They choked on the mud and water, curling up and coughing in pain.

"Medics! Drag them away! The rest of you, keep advancing! Alternating cover! Do you think this is a picnic?!"

A platoon leader, a "musician" instructor, roared and kicked a new recruit in the buttocks as he tried to help his comrade up.

At this moment, the iron discipline revealed its ferocious face: the mission was above all else, and casualties could not stop the advancing iron torrent.

After each confrontation, regardless of victory or defeat, the battlefield looked as if it had been ravaged by a hurricane.

The figures struggling in the mud, the soldiers whose ears and noses were bleeding from the simulated explosion but still gripped their weapons tightly, and the "corpses" who left the battlefield with unwilling faces due to being "killed in action".

Jiang Feng would immediately conduct an extremely ruthless debriefing, dissecting every mistake, every moment of chaos, and every moment of hesitation with the most scathing language, lashing out at everyone's nerves.

"Look at you! Coordination? Coordination my ass! The assault team charges out, where is the covering team? Is the fire support team mute? Is the squad leader's command just a fart? On the battlefield, if you charge like this, you wouldn't be enough to survive ten times over!"

His finger almost poked the faces of the shamefully bowed platoon leaders. "If you do it again, the whole platoon will carry logs and run twenty laps around the base! Now! The fallen, stay and clean up the battlefield! The rest of you, five minutes from now, target C high ground! One more attack!"

Their fighting spirit was gradually forced out under pressure and humiliation.

The initial fear and confusion in the soldiers' eyes were gradually replaced by an almost numb tenacity and ferocity.

They began to learn to communicate with their eyes while crawling forward in a hail of bullets, to unleash synchronized firepower the moment the squad leader's hand signal fell, and to instinctively fill the gaps in firepower when their comrades were "taken down".

The mark of being a disorganized, untrained soldier is being forcibly stripped away in this hellish furnace.

London, on the banks of the Thames, behind a heavy oak door.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of expensive cigars and the crispness of Scotch single malt whisky.

The flames in the fireplace flickered silently, casting shimmering light and shadow on the Victorian-era nautical chart hanging on the wall.

This is a little-known "club" of MI6, a place where power is traded in the shadows.

Ms. M sat upright in a high-backed leather sofa, her perfectly tailored dark suit making her appear even more aloof.

On the low table in front of her was a military-grade tablet with a cold, hard design. The screen was lit up, displaying an enlarged satellite map of North Africa, with a certain area in North Darfur marked by a striking red circle.

The man sitting opposite her was around forty years old, with his hair neatly combed and wearing a sophisticated but unremarkable dark gray suit.

His eyes were as sharp as a peregrine falcon in the desert, carrying a coldness that had settled after experiencing life and death.

Yago, Mossad's Middle East Operations Director.

A name that is notorious in Tel Aviv and on the assassination lists of hostile countries.

"Mr. Jacob."

Ms. M's voice was not loud, but carried an unquestionable authority.

"The aftermath of the 'throat-cutting' has subsided. We paid a price, but we also established a new balance. Now, it's time to refocus on those... the destabilizing factors that are hindering regional stability."

She lightly tapped the red circle on the tablet screen with her fingertip.

Jacob picked up the crystal glass, and the amber-colored wine swirled gently inside.

He took a sip, his gaze never leaving Ms. M: "The 'ghost' of Darfur—Song Heping. And the 'knife' he's forging—the last remaining remnant of Haftar."

His English had a barely perceptible Hebrew accent, cold and precise.

“He made us shed too much blood that shouldn’t have been shed in Egypt and Morocco. In Mossad’s archives, his name is marked with the highest level of ‘elimination’ orders.”

"We share the same goal, Mr. Jacob."

Ms. M's lips curled into a cold smile. "Song Heping's existence, and his rapidly growing armed force, pose an increasingly significant threat to our interests in Lebanon and to your country's strategic security in the wider Middle East. He is like a nail that must be removed."

Jacob put down his glass, leaned forward slightly, and an invisible pressure spread out: "Intelligence indicates that they are equipped with SAM-6 missiles. Although old, in the hands of an experienced air defense commander, they still pose a threat to our air power. Pure air strikes are not worth the risks and rewards."

"So we need a 'surgery'."

Ms. M's eyes sharpened: "A precise, multi-dimensional, coordinated decapitation strike. We're responsible for ground guidance and preliminary intelligence infiltration. Our forces within the GNA have begun mobilization; a highly skilled commando team familiar with the local terrain has already infiltrated the border and will be responsible for advancing to the edge of the target area in North Darfur, establishing laser-guided positions, and providing real-time battlefield assessments for the air strike." She paused, emphasizing her words: "And you, Mr. Jacob, need to provide that 'scalpel' hanging overhead. We need absolute air superiority and the most precise, most lethal strike."

Jacob was silent for a few seconds, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the sofa armrest, as if weighing his options. The firelight from the fireplace danced in his deep-set eyes.

"cost?"

"Over the next six months," Ms. M's voice was clear and steady, "we will take a more 'understanding' stance toward your country in the votes concerning new settlements in eastern Syria and the Golan Heights, and on certain...specific regulatory reviews of your country. This is sufficient to demonstrate our sincerity and the value of this cooperation."

Jacob knew full well the weight of this promise.

A glint of light flashed deep within his gray pupils.

The loss of Mossad's elite troops at Song Heping's hands has always been a thorn in his side.

"Target confirmation procedure?" he asked, posing the most crucial operational detail.

"Double confirmation".

Ms. M had a contingency plan: "After our ground guidance team locks onto the key command nodes—especially Song Heping's own location signal—it will send the first layer of coordinate confirmation through an encrypted channel. At the same time, one of our high-altitude long-endurance UAVs will enter the battlefield airspace five minutes before the air strike to conduct a final optical/infrared signature comparison confirmation. Only after double confirmation will we summon your Iron Wings."

Jacob leaned back on the sofa, a faint smile finally appearing on his face: "A very meticulous arrangement, Ms. M. Deal. Our Iron Wings will descend upon the skies of Darfur when you need them. Code name... how about 'Falcon'?"

"The falcon...that's very fitting."

Ms. M raised her glass, the ice cubes clinking softly. "May it kill with one blow."

Two glasses filled with amber liquid touched lightly in mid-air, the crisp sound echoing in the quiet room, foreshadowing an impending destructive storm deep within the Sahara.

North Darfur, the "Musician" base, an underground command center.

The thick concrete insulated the noise and sandstorms from the ground, leaving only the low hum of the ventilation system and the hiss of the cooling fans of electronic devices.

A huge electronic sand table occupies the center of the room, clearly displaying the terrain and landforms of North Darfur and the surrounding hundreds of kilometers.

The blue dot representing the base blinked steadily, while in the surrounding Gobi Desert area, a dozen faint, slowly moving red dots were unusually glaring—these were real-time intelligence transmitted by the sentries Collins had set up and the cheap drones customized in an electronics city in the south of the East: confirmed GNA armed infiltration groups, as well as several signal sources that were extremely secretive, well-equipped, and suspected to be Western special forces.

Song Heping stood in front of the sand table, his gaze fixed on the red dots that slithered around the base like venomous snakes.

His face was expressionless, but his taut jawline and the deep chill in his eyes made the air pressure in the command center terrifyingly low.

Jiang Feng leaned against the control panel with his arms crossed, staring at the sand table as well: "Their nose is sharp enough. Two months should be enough for them to catch on. It seems Ms. M is sitting on her chair more securely than we thought."

"This woman is no simpleton; she's never someone who falls so easily."

Song Heping's voice was calm, yet it was like a surging undercurrent beneath the ice: "MI6 needs a victory to completely wash away the stain of 'Throat Cut,' and my head is the best sacrifice."

He paused for a moment, then turned his gaze to Lebia on the screen: "I just don't know who she hired to make that knife this time."

Just then, my phone in my pocket suddenly vibrated.

Song Heping took out his phone, glanced at the number, and turned to go back to his room.

Close the door, press the call button,
Simon's voice, barely concealing his anxiety, rang in my ears.

"Song! I found what you asked me to look up."

His voice was very low, as if he were doing something wrong.

"Listen, time is running out. You've stirred up a hornet's nest, a super big hornet's nest!"

"Get to the point, Simon."

Song Heping interrupted him, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Simon took a deep breath and said, “Ms. M is playing a very big game this time. Not only has she mobilized elite reconnaissance units of the GNA to infiltrate your border, but she has also bypassed some of our CIA’s surveillance channels and directly contacted Yag, the head of Mossad’s Middle East affairs. According to our informant in London, she met with Yag in London three days ago!”

Mossad?

Song Heping's brows furrowed instantly.

"That's right! Mossad!"

Simon spoke rapidly, “Remember their losses in Egypt and Morocco? That makes them hate you to the core! That madman Jacob has always listed you as a top priority target! Ms. M traded 'strategic silence' on the Hoopoe in Middle East affairs for the next six months in exchange for Mossad persuading its military to provide air support. The Hoopoe Air Force's F-15s will take off with precision-guided bombs to assist their operations, targeting you and your base!”

Mossad + Hoopoe Air Force!
The pressure brought by this combination far exceeds that of the GNA forces alone or even British special forces.

The SAM-6 might be able to put up a fight against second-rate air forces, but against battle-hardened F-15s equipped with state-of-the-art electronic warfare pods and precision-strike weapons, its chances of survival are extremely slim!
Song Heping's eyes narrowed suddenly, becoming as sharp as needles.

He remained silent for a few seconds, a brief silence that made Simon on the other side of the screen feel suffocated.

"Specific time? Specific location? Aircraft type? Armament configuration?"

Song Heping's voice was icy cold and flat, his questions as precise and deadly as a scalpel.

"Fuck! Song!"

Simon nearly jumped up, his face filled with incredulous shock and rage. "Do you take me for God?! Mossad's operational details are top secret! Infiltrating and stealing their air force operational plans? The risk is too great! I..."

"Simon!"

Song Heping abruptly interrupted him, his voice carrying an undeniable pressure: "Listen! This is not a request! Think about it, is it in your interest to cooperate with me, or to watch me die? Especially you."

After saying that, Song Heping gave a cold laugh.

Simon felt a chill run down his spine as he listened to the phone call.

After a moment, Song Heping repeated, word by word, "I need the time! I need the location! I need to know when they take off! From which base! What are they carrying! Understand? Think carefully about what I said, and wait for your reply, Mr. Deputy Director."

　I need your monthly votes! I need your monthly votes! I need your monthly votes! I'm saying it three times because it's important!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)