Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1012 Ms. M's Intuition

The air in the London command center was heavy, as if it were soaked in mercury.

The huge electronic map on the wall resembled a glowing wound, with the Mediterranean region deliberately magnified. The scarlet flight path markers, like venomous snakes, snaked from the Israeli mainland all the way into the depths of North Darfur—the very route planned for the F-15I "Falcon" squadron.

Time ticked and etched silently in every corner, and less than forty-eight hours had passed since the bombing window opened.

Ms. M's figure was frozen in front of the holographic projection table, like a reef polished by a storm.

On the screen, the rusty, blurry satellite image of the "Seagull" was like a stubborn stain, firmly nailed to the anchorage of Alexandria.

Beside it, several high-definition photos transmitted back from Khartoum by "Mole" are quietly displayed: military trucks covered by heavy canvas and camouflage netting, revealing only the imposing wheel hubs and chassis outlines that are unique to large missile transport vehicles; at the warehouse entrance, guards dressed in Sudanese military uniforms, but with tense postures and sharp eyes, reveal the vigilance of professional soldiers.

Ms. M had a hunch that there was some strange connection between the two.

The intelligence officer's voice was low and rapid, exceptionally clear in the silence: "Madam, 'Mole's' on-site assessment, combined with the confirmation from our inside source 'Carrier Pigeon'—this shipment is on the Sudanese Ministry of Defense's procurement list, intended to supplement the capital's air defense perimeter. The contract details… trace back to the time when Song Heping obtained the mining concession in North Darfur."

Ms. M's fingertips lightly traced the edge of the cold metal control panel, leaving an almost invisible mark. That icy touch seemed to be an extension of her inner state at that moment.

The clues in Khartoum appear to be intricately linked and perfectly connected...

Fulfill contracts, acquire resources, consolidate position...

The logical chain is so complete it's almost suffocating.

However, an intuition honed through countless life-or-death espionage encounters emanated a sharp, low hum from the nerve endings of her body.

Song Heping—that cunning man, like a desert ghost, whose movements are always unpredictable and who disregards conventions—would so "regularly" conduct a "legitimate" arms deal?
This is completely at odds with his past thrilling and unconventional style, like oil and water.

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over the image of the Khartoum warehouse on the screen, her voice like a tempered ice blade, clearly issuing the command: "Khartoum intelligence, archive."

The risk level for "internal Sudanese military procurement" has been downgraded to "observation" level.

Every word carries undeniable weight.

"'Mole' mission complete. Transitioning to regular surveillance mode. Objective: Confirm final destination of the handover. Resources,"

She suddenly raised her voice, slamming her index finger heavily on the location of Alexandria on the holographic map. "All forces, concentrate! Nail the 'Seagull' to the ground! I need to know what kind of 'crusher' it's carrying, which corner of hell it's headed for, and whose throat it's about to bite! Notify all naval forces, target priority: highest!"

The order spread like an invisible ripple throughout the entire command center in an instant.

The image of the Khartoum warehouse was shrunk, shifted, and eventually faded at the edge of the screen.

Countless eyes and computing resources, like iron filings drawn to a magnet, refocused on the rusted behemoth that stood out starkly against the grey-blue backdrop of the Mediterranean Sea.

Song Heping's meticulously crafted "golden cicada shedding its shell," with its seemingly solid "contract fulfillment" facade, temporarily deceived London's sharpest eagle eyes as the intelligence focus shifted.

However, Ms. M's gaze did not completely leave the images of Khartoum.

Just as the warehouse image was about to completely disappear into the background, her gaze, like a hawk seizing its prey, fixed itself on the corner of one of the photos—the rear of a half-open military truck, where, through the gaps in the heavy canvas and camouflage shadows, a faint, unusual metallic reflection flashed by.

The luster carried a cold, hard texture that was almost brand new, unlike that of ordinary military vehicles, subtly overlapping with the surface treatment process of some high-precision equipment in her memory.

Her fingertips unconsciously tightened on the control panel.

This subtle anomaly, like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, stirred up an almost imperceptible ripple in her heart.

But the sheer size and the unknown surrounding the "Seagull," along with Mossad's absolutely confident plans, all seemed shrouded in a thick fog, making the whole affair like a tangled ball of yarn played with by a cat, difficult to unravel.

But time is merciless, whipping everything away.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to draw her attention back to the turbulent waters of the Mediterranean.

"Dalton, contact Mossad immediately and request an intelligence exchange meeting. Just say it was me who said it, and arrange it right away."

Ms. M turned to a subordinate and said, "Within half an hour, immediately!"

Half an hour later.

Inside the MI6 building's conference room, the secure video conferencing screen was split in two.

On the left is Ms. M's cold, icy face, against the backdrop of the unique, deep blue light found in the MI6 conference room.

On the right, a clear image of Jag Levin, head of the Middle East Operations Department at Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv, appears.

He leaned back in a large black leather chair, his dark suit impeccably tailored, his graying sideburns meticulously combed, and a faint, all-knowing smile playing on his lips. That composure carried the arrogance of a veteran king of the intelligence world.

"Madam, is there some new emergency that requires such a hasty meeting and video conference?"

Jacob's voice came through the encrypted channel, clear and relaxed, with a soothing tone.

"Your 'mole' and 'carrier pigeon' handled that batch of 'toys' in Khartoum very well. It's perfectly normal for the Sudanese to need a few old anti-aircraft batons for courage. Song Heping? A shrewd businessman who knows how to exchange arms for mining rights, nothing more." He waved his hand lightly, as if brushing away a tiny speck of dust.

The sharp light in Ms. M's icy blue eyes did not soften in the slightest because of the other party's ease.

“Yage, Song Heping is never one to play by the rules.”

Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was like an icicle, piercing the silence of the conference room. "What I'm worried about isn't Khartoum. It's the 'Seagull' in Alexandria. I have a feeling that Song Heping is playing tricks; he's planning an operation against us."

Jacob raised an eyebrow slightly, leaned forward a little, and showed an interested expression: "Oh? That wrecked ship? 'The Crusher'? Tell me your intuition, M, I'm all ears."

His tone carried a hint of encouragement, like a teacher waiting for a student to ask an interesting but inevitably naive question.

"Is there a possibility..."

Ms. M's gaze was tangible, piercing through the screen and reaching Tel Aviv. "Is Song Heping using a smokescreen? The SAM-6s in Khartoum are just a decoy. Another batch... or at least, the crucial parts, have already been transported to Alexandria through some channel we haven't yet grasped, and are currently hidden inside that 10,000-ton cargo ship?"

She paused deliberately, allowing this shocking idea to take shape in the other person's mind, "Two days later, the 'Falcon' squadron will fly over that area as planned. What if the 'Seagull' suddenly transforms into a floating air defense platform..."

"Pfft-hahahaha!"

Jacob's laughter burst out without warning, with an exaggerated and infectious quality that instantly broke the solemnity that should have been present in the video conference.

He laughed so hard he almost fell over, tapping the screen with his finger as if he had heard the funniest joke of the century.

"M! My esteemed lady!"

He laughed and shook his head, tears seemingly welling in his eyes: "SAM-6... loaded onto a 10,000-ton cargo ship? At sea... to intercept our F-15Is?"

He couldn't help but burst into laughter again. "My God! This is even more imaginative than Lawrence of Arabia trying to intercept a jet plane with a camel!"

He finally managed to stop laughing and elegantly wiped the corner of his eye with his index finger.

“M, listen to me, technically speaking—”

When the time came, Jacob finally suppressed his smile, but his condescending sense of superiority did not disappear; instead, it was replaced by an expert-like calmness.

"Welding those old-fashioned SAM-5 launchers onto the deck? Maybe, since they're as bulky as prehistoric behemoths. But the SAM-6?"

He shook his head, his tone resolute.

"Its radar system, fire control chain, requirements for platform stability, and stringent electromagnetic compatibility environment... that rusty cargo ship? In the turbulent Mediterranean Sea? Let alone locking onto, tracking, and hitting an F-15I with super maneuverability and advanced electronic countermeasures capabilities, I seriously doubt whether it can even stand a missile upright in the swaying without it crashing onto its own deck!"

He spread his hands, making a gesture that said, "This is impossible."

"Song Heping is a dangerous viper, Yage!"

Ms. M's voice did not waver in the slightest; on the contrary, it became even colder.

"His danger lies precisely in the fact that he never follows our understanding of 'possible' and 'impossible.' He is adept at stabbing us in the cracks of the rules, in ways we never expect, and delivering a fatal blow."

"Dangerous? Of course it's dangerous! We've experienced it firsthand!"

Jacob responded immediately, his tone turning serious again: "But that was on land, in his desert lair! At sea, playing field air defense on a moving cargo ship? And fighting against the world's top air force?"

He let out a short, contemptuous sneer.

“M, this isn’t taking a risky approach, it’s suicide, it’s utter madness! It’s a technological pipe dream! Even if he were to somehow learn the exact flight path of the ‘Falcon’—which is, of course, a pipe dream—he absolutely couldn’t do it! I swear on Mossad’s honor, when the F-15Is fly over the waters off Alexandria, the ‘Seagull’ will be nothing more than a harmless backdrop, or even just a negligible speck on our radar screen. Put your mind at ease, old friend, and focus on the real threat.”

On either side of the screen, two organizations representing the Western world's top intelligence forces stand in silent confrontation across cold electronic signals.

On one side is a resolute denial rooted in cold logic and absolute technological confidence; on the other side is a gloom that cannot be completely dispelled, born from countless glimpses of the abyss guided by intuition.

A crack in trust quietly began to grow between Jacob's confident laughter and the lingering doubt deep in Ms. M's eyes.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)