Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1008 Dismantling the "SA-6" System

Song Heping's orders were like a hurricane sweeping across the base.

One second, the air defense unit was carrying out routine maintenance, and the engineers were inspecting the generator; the next second, all the actions came to an abrupt halt.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment, then was replaced by a higher frequency and more urgent energy.

There was no questioning, no hesitation, only the gears driven by absolute will began to mesh wildly.

The mission priorities were completely overturned, and the entire base's focus instantly shifted to that huge, brightly lit warehouse located deep underground.

The enormous underground warehouse resembled a lit-up steel cavern.

The high-powered searchlights cast a stark white light on the cold concrete walls and steel supports, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of machine oil, metal dust, and molten solder.

Here are two complete SA-6 Gainful mobile air defense missile systems.

At this moment, it is surrounded by a group of figures dressed in dark blue work clothes stained with oil, bustling around like worker ants.

These people were the core of the "Musician" defense technology engineering team—a group of engineers and technicians from Eastern Europe, Russia, and other places, who were highly skilled but also had a strong "workshop-style" rough style. The leader was Vasily, a burly Russian with welding slag stuck to his sideburns.

The disassembly process was full of hardcore confrontation from the very beginning.

The heavy triple missile launcher was the first target.

It needs to be disassembled into smaller units and packed into specially reinforced containers. The challenge lies in its complex hydraulic lifting and rotating mechanisms.

According to the manual, this requires specialized tools and at least half a day of meticulous disassembly. The "musicians" clearly didn't have that time.

Vasily circled the launch pad twice, a half-extinguished cigarette dangling from his mouth, his eyes sharp as a grinding wheel.

He suddenly waved his hand and shouted, "Ivan! Sergei! Sledgehammer! Crowbar! Hydraulic jack, hold it up here!"

Several burly Slavic men immediately pounced on them.

There was no careful pipeline separation, no complicated valve closure.

They used a crowbar to forcefully pry open the protective cover, revealing tangled hydraulic hoses and a sophisticated servo valve.

"Cut them off! Cut all the hydraulic lines at the base!" Vasily ordered.

A technician grabbed a hydraulic shear, and amidst sparks, the high-pressure hose was cut cleanly. Residual hydraulic oil splattered out like black blood, covering the operator's face, but he wiped it off with the back of his hand without a care.

To prevent oil contamination of subsequent packaging, they grabbed large rolls of absorbent cotton yarn and roughly stuffed them into the broken end, then haphazardly wrapped it several times with wide waterproof tape like a bandage.

"Reinforce the points! Here, and here, weld them shut with angle steel!"

Vasily pointed to several key joints.

The welding torch roared again, the blue arc light flashing blindingly, and hot metal droplets splashing everywhere. Several burly men used crowbars to hold the parts that needed to be fixed in place, letting the scalding welding slag burn their thick canvas gloves.

The rough welds, like ugly scars, actually lock the moving parts in place with exceptional firmness.

Subsequently, a huge shock-absorbing sponge was crammed into the gap, the entire launch pad was roughly wrapped and tied with tarpaulin, and finally it was lifted up by the gantry crane with a roar, stuffed into the container, and made a dull impact sound.

Klein, who was supervising the work, felt his eyebrows twitch uncontrollably.

The rough hammering sound felt like each blow was hitting the roots of one's teeth, causing a sore sensation.

"Vasily, will this work?!"

Known for his meticulousness and attention to detail, he couldn't help but question, "Don't break it! This thing is worth a lot of money!"

"no?"

Vasily looked up from the pile of equipment, his gaze defiant as he turned to Klein, and thrust out his hammer.

"If I can't do it, then you do it?"

"..."

Klein was speechless.

These Russians and Eastern Europeans are all incredibly direct and brutal.

If I'm going to confront you directly, I won't beat around the bush.

Seeing that Klein dared not utter a word, Vasily turned away triumphantly and continued working.

After the launcher was disassembled, the massive "Straight Flush" radar antenna array came into view.

Disassembling this thing is also extremely difficult.

That iconic square array is the eye of the system and one of its most sophisticated components.

It consists of hundreds of delicate waveguide elements and radiators, and is extremely fragile and sensitive to deformation.

Normal disassembly requires a cleanroom environment and a specialized support. Here?

"Take it apart into four pieces! The largest size can fit into a box!"

Vasily pointed to the connecting bolts at the edge of the antenna array and roared.

Technicians climbed high scaffolds and used huge adjustable wrenches and even levers to roughly tighten bolts that may never have been completely loosened, the metal scraping together and groaning in a tooth-grinding manner.

A critical connection point rusted shut.

The technician sprayed a large amount of rust remover and then slammed the wrench handle with the side of a sledgehammer.

"Bang! Bang!"

A deafening crash echoed through the warehouse, making everyone's eardrums tingle. The bolts finally loosened, but the connecting parts were also visibly deformed.

"Never mind that! As long as the signal cable stays connected, we can switch it back when we get there!"

Vasily waved his hand impatiently and roared.

The huge antenna panel that was disassembled had sharp edges. Several strong men wrapped the edges with thick canvas and shouted as they lifted it off the support. During the process, the canvas was torn, revealing the gleaming metal edges.

Reinforcement?

Without a custom-made protective frame, they simply nailed thick wooden boards to both sides of the board and then tightly bound them with packing straps like firewood, causing the edges of the boards to be deeply dented.

The sophisticated antenna array now looks like a pile of rough building materials waiting to be shipped.

The dismantling of the command module and its associated power generation vehicle was relatively "gentle," but it was still quite rough under time pressure.

Song Heping requested that the goods be transported to northern Egypt within three days, awaiting Tobi's message for loading onto a ship, after which installation and testing would be required.

Every minute, every second, is a matter of life and death.

With the joint operation between the British and the Hoopoe military drawing ever closer, there was no time to lose.

The command module and its supporting power generation vehicle were not transported as a whole, but rather as disassembled core components.

Inside the command center, the complex electronic cabinet was pried off its base as a whole—not by disconnecting the connecting wires, but by directly cutting the dense bundle of cables with hydraulic shears!

The colorful threads were exposed, like severed nerves.

Vasily looked at the mess of cables on the floor and spat, "Remember the colors and connectors! When we get there, we'll fucking reconnect them one by one!"

The situation is even worse for generator cars.

To reduce weight and size, they decided to remove only the diesel engine and main generator.

Several engineers surrounded the roaring generator and roughly disconnected the oil, electrical, and cooling lines while it was still running, resulting in another spray of oil...

Then, they used a huge pry bar to loosen the engine base bolts, and finally used a small crane to lift the massive unit, which was still radiating high temperatures, off the chassis!
The scorching hot exhaust pipe almost grazed the operator's shoulder, and the air was instantly filled with a burnt smell.

The engine, dripping oil and hanging in mid-air, was quickly wrapped in tarpaulin and secured to a specially made steel bracket.

The entire warehouse was like a crazy steel symphony.

The blue arcs of the welding torch rose and fell, like the scythe of death slicing through the air, each flash accompanied by the sizzling sound of melting metal and acrid white smoke.

The cutting wheel spins at high speed, emitting a sharp, piercing friction sound. Sparks pour down on the cement floor like a golden rain, leaving scorching marks.

The heavy thuds of wrenches, the dull thuds of crowbars pulling metal, the roars of pneumatic tools, the shouts of Russian technicians in Slavic mixed with broken English, and the heart-stopping groans of steel components being forcibly separated and twisted all merged into a violent, suffocating torrent of industrial noise.

Sweat mixed with grease streamed down the technicians' taut faces and necks, dripping onto the cold or scorching metal, where it instantly evaporated or condensed into black stains.

The air was thick with ozone, burning metal, diesel fuel, sweat, and a savage, fanatical atmosphere of relentless pursuit of goals.

When the first batch of disassembled, reinforced, and packaged core components—launch rack containers wrapped like mummies, radar antenna panels nailed with ugly wooden boards, and engine units dripping with oil—were transported out of the warehouse by forklifts and trailers, it was already the darkest hour before dawn.

Outside the base, the low growl of engines sounded like the murmur of a sleeping behemoth.

Collins stood like a steel sculpture in the shadow of a civilian heavy-duty MAN truck camouflaged in the desert.

Behind him stood two elite special operations squads, each with sharp, eagle-like eyes, well-equipped, and exuding a chilling aura of seasoned veterans.

They silently inspected the weapons and equipment, their movements precise and efficient, a stark contrast to the industrial frenzy in the warehouse, yet equally oppressive.

Heavy military trucks and camouflaged heavy civilian trucks were parked side by side, their hoods still radiating warmth, like steel behemoths about to embark on their journey, waiting to devour the war organs that had just undergone a brutal "surgery".

"The stuff has arrived!"

A brief report came through the walkie-talkie.

A forklift slowly pushed the first container in, its heavy metal wheels rumbling as they rolled across the ground.

Collins glanced at the luminous dial, his eyes remaining expressionless. He simply made a concise and forceful gesture to the soldiers behind him: "Load the trucks! According to the plan, secure and reinforce them, check three times! We'll depart in ten minutes!"

The mercenaries dispersed silently, like precise gears meshing together, their movements swift and professional.

Heavy chains, thick tarpaulins, and extra reinforcing steel cables were quickly applied to secure the priceless but battered "cargo" firmly inside the truck bed.

Inside the base command center, Song Heping stood alone in front of a huge electronic sand table.

On the sand table, a thick red arrow extending from the Negev Air Base represents the flight path of the F-15I Thunder Strike Eagle and the KC-707 Scimitar tanker aircraft they rely on during missions.

Time flew by silently. On the huge electronic screen, the countdown numbers pulsed coldly:
Distance until "storm day": 76 hours, 15 minutes, and 08 seconds...

"Report! The Collins team has successfully crossed the border point 'Sand Fox' with the first SAM-6 core component and entered Egypt's Sinai Peninsula! They are advancing at full speed towards Alexandria! The Bedouin guides are reliable!"

"Report! Klein's team has completed loading the second system (radar and command vehicle) and has departed! Route: 'Vulture'!"

Each encrypted message, like the pulse of life, was transmitted back, igniting a faint flame of hope in the darkness of despair.

Song Heping's gaze was fixed on the two blue and red lines on the sand table that were about to converge in the depths of the Mediterranean Sea.

His fingers tapped unconsciously on the cold metal edge of the control panel.

"War is a fog... Come on, M, I'm waiting for you!"

　Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)