Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1014 Don’t ask questions you shouldn’t ask
London, MI6 headquarters, "Deep Well" command center.

The frigid air was as still as lead.

The sound of Ms. M's knuckles tapping on the alloy control panel, tap, tap, tap, was like an invisible heavy hammer, slowly and stubbornly striking the taut nerves of every intelligence officer.

On the huge screen wall, the dot representing the "Seagull" is like a stubborn stain, firmly nailed to the electronic nautical chart of the eastern anchorage of Alexandria, while the green label next to it, "Routine maintenance, AIS signal normal," flashes glaringly.

Each flash felt like a needle piercing the depths of her icy blue pupils.

"Madam, the third round of port inspection has been completed. The customs declaration for 'heavy construction machinery parts' has no logical flaws, and the customs release record is clear."

The intelligence officer's voice sounded unusually dry in the empty space, as if his throat was filled with dust from data streams.

"The thermal imaging data comparison of the Port of Alexandria Authority has been completed. The temperature fluctuation curve of the engine room over the past 72 hours is consistent with the minimum sustaining power characteristics, with no abnormal peaks."

Another technical analyst added that a fingertip swiped across the touchscreen to bring up a temperature graph that was so flat it was almost lifeless.

"Communication filtering yielded no results. The crew members' families' communications were all mundane—complaints about the food, sick children, olive trees back home..."

The head of the communications monitoring team shrugged, his tone tinged with a hint of professional weariness.

"Khartoum, 'Mole' confirms that the core components of the SAM-6 were transferred into the military's No. 3 warehouse, and the entire process was within 'line of sight'."

The information from the North African intelligence station was concise and cold.

Each report was like a cold raindrop, each one trying to extinguish the flame of doubt in Ms. M's heart, ignited by the metallic reflection in the corner of a photo of a Khartoum warehouse.

The water surface was perfectly clear, breathtakingly calm.

But she felt suffocated.

not right...

The image of the rusty cargo ship on the screen stubbornly shook and distorted, like the outline of a giant beast lurking underwater.

The ship was so quiet, as quiet as a volcano waiting to erupt.

Song Heping, that cunning Easterner, he must have a backup plan!

But where is the evidence?

Where are the clues?
That damned evidence slipped through my fingers like sand from the Sahara, leaving no trace.

“Yage…”

Her whispered name was almost silent, carrying a chill that even she herself didn't want to delve into.

"Is your technological barrier really... indestructible?"

That intuition, honed through countless bloody battles, stubbornly entangled her judgment like a poisoned thread.

She had to act; she couldn't just wait passively.

She picked up the encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number codenamed "Sandstorm".

"General Saif."

Ms. M's voice regained its usual calm and unquestionable tone: "'Operation Cleanup' schedule remains unchanged. Your unit is ordered to assemble 20,000 main forces at the border between Lebia and North Darfur within 48 hours. Launch a full-scale surprise attack on the 'Musician' defense base on schedule. Remember, make a big show of it; make them feel the overwhelming force!"

Saif's voice, tinged with a hint of bargaining, came from the other end of the phone: "Madam, it will take time to assemble 20,000 men, and logistical support..."

"That's your business!"

Ms. M interrupted him bluntly, “Mossad will provide some air support and intelligence coordination. Do what you’re supposed to do! You’ve already gotten enough from us! Don’t be too greedy, Saif!”

She slammed down the phone and turned her gaze to the intelligence coordinator in the Middle East.

"Connect to Tel Aviv, Chief Yag. We need to discuss the final deployment details of Operation Masada. The SAS's 'Chair' team and their 'Alpha' group must be absolutely secure."

……

Alexandria, East Anchorage.

The salty sea breeze, carrying oil, rust, and the hustle and bustle of the distant city, swept over the massive, silent steel body of the "Seagull".

This old ship, weighing tens of thousands of tons, floats on the sea near the port area like a stranded and weary whale.

The deck was piled with rusty containers and canvas-covered "heavy engineering machinery parts." Several sailors leaned lazily against the ship's side, their eyes scanning the port authority's patrol boats in the distance with vigilance. Everything perfectly illustrated the definition of "routine maintenance."

Deep inside the ship's cabin, the scene was completely different.

The enormous cargo hold was temporarily converted into a secret workshop filled with the unique smells of engine oil, metal, and high-voltage electricity.

As long as the hatches on the deck are opened, those missiles can be erected and fired straight into the sky.

The air compressors groaned low, and makeshift spotlights cast a stark white light onto several disassembled and partially reassembled SAM-6 missile launchers and "command cabin" vehicles. The rugged steel silhouettes, bathed in light and shadow, resembled the skeletons of prehistoric behemoths, exuding a chilling aura of war.

The man codenamed "Iron Wolf" stood at the core of the launch control cabin.

His physique was as razor-sharp as a blade, his movements were sharp and precise, characteristic of a soldier. His face was expressionless, except for a pair of rimless glasses behind which were eyes as sharp as a scalpel, capable of instantly stripping away any disguise.

The device in front of him was not one of the old control consoles with knobs and cathode ray tubes that came with the original SAM-6, but a portable military terminal.

The casing is pure matte black, without any manufacturer markings, serial numbers, or even ventilation holes, and is as smooth as a piece of obsidian from the future.

At this moment, its screen is refreshing a waterfall of code at a dazzling speed, with green characters flowing as if they were alive.

Vasily, a Russian technician who had spent half his life navigating the Sudanese desert and considered himself accustomed to all sorts of bizarre modifications and brute-force hacking, now seemed like an apprentice entering a high-level physics laboratory for the first time.

His mouth was slightly open, his eyes were wide open, and he subconsciously wiped his oily hands on his work pants as he stared intently at a fist-sized black module with a flashing blue indicator light connected to the "Iron Wolf" terminal screen.

The module is made of neither gold nor plastic, and has a cool and delicate feel. Its surface is covered with tiny heat dissipation fins that are almost invisible to the naked eye.

Several thick, military-grade data cables with self-locking clips, like an IV drip tube from a surgeon, were roughly "grafted" onto the old guidance radar fire control system interface of the SAM-6—the interface even had part of its protective shell scraped off to accommodate the new interface; the other end was firmly inserted into the equally cold interface at the bottom of the black module.

Throughout the entire grafting process, "Iron Wolf" did not use any standard adapters; it relied entirely on a head-on, forceful physical connection and intrusion into the underlying protocols.

Iron Wolf's fingers danced across the virtual keyboard, leaving afterimages so fast that only blurry outlines remained.

A series of complex instructions, so complex that they made Vasily's scalp tingle and were completely beyond his knowledge, were input.

That wasn't a typical military programming language; it was more like a highly compressed code filled with mathematical symbols and abstract logic.

"Initiate the 'Sky Eye' protocol and call the orbit numbers: SIGMA-7, KAPPA-3, OMEGA-9... to establish a synchronous gaze link."

Target area: grid coordinates N31.47, E35.01, altitude threshold: 8000 meters to 20000 meters, target characteristics: twin-engine heavy air superiority fighter, infrared signature database comparison: F-15I 'Thunder' preferred. His voice was deep and clear, each command word like a cold bullet fired.

The terminal screen suddenly changed!
Instead of a waterfall of green code, a highly abstract, near-perfect three-dimensional Earth model instantly appears, hovering in the center of the screen, rotating at a comfortable slow speed.

On the surface of the sphere, the continents are clearly outlined, and the ocean is a deep blue.

Several tiny dots of light representing satellites in different orbits—some a stable white, some shimmering with gold representing high orbits, and others a deep blue representing low-orbit reconnaissance satellites—are gliding silently along a pre-set path, their trajectory lines clearly visible.

After the "Iron Wolf" input the last coordinate parameter, the model's focus shifted as if by an invisible giant hand, instantly traversing thousands of kilometers to precisely lock onto an area on the edge of the Earth model marked in bright red, representing the Nevatim Airbase within the Hoopoe Bird territory.

A tiny, constantly pulsating red triangle, like a bleeding arrow, is slowly moving from a hangar in the base toward the runway!
"Oh, God……"

Andrei, the young technical assistant beside Vasily, gasped, instinctively making the sign of an Orthodox cross on his chest before abruptly covering his mouth, his face turning deathly pale.

He recognized the base's codename; it was one of the core hideouts of "Thunder" (F-15I)!

What was displayed on the screen was not a simulation, but a near real-time satellite monitoring image!
Vasily's heart felt as if it had been gripped tightly by an invisible, cold hand, rising sharply to his throat, almost suffocating him.

He had seen countless missiles lock onto targets, from primitive radar beam guidance to advanced mid-course command correction plus terminal infrared imaging, but he had never seen anything like this…

A "God's-eye view" approach!

This is not a SAM-6 at all!

This old Soviet-made air defense system, which should have been phased out by the times, seems to have been forcibly infused with a brand new soul!
The rotating Earth model, the satellite lights gliding along their orbits, the precisely locked-on dynamics of the air force base…

All of this means that there is more than one pair of eyes in the sky!
They were working together, "staring" at the enemy, taking in the start-up and taxiing of a fighter jet at a distant base, and then feeding this information directly to the supposedly "blind" SAM-6 through that mysterious black module!

He felt a dizziness stemming from the complete upheaval of his belief in technology and a fear bordering on blasphemy.

His Adam's apple bobbed laboriously, his dry lips moved a few times, and with an incredulous shock and an irrepressible technical fervor, he squeezed out a sentence through clenched teeth:

“This…this ‘eye’…where is it…from? God…Americans? Or…yourselves…”

His gaze was fixed on the black module that shimmered with a ghostly blue light, like the eye of an abyss, as if he wanted to pierce through its cold shell with his eyes.

Iron Wolf pressed the final confirmation button without pausing for a moment, and didn't even turn his head to look at Vasily.

His gaze remained fixed on the simulated F-15I on the screen, which was accelerating and taxiing on the runway.

Only a cold, emotionless sound, like the friction of hardened steel plates, echoed in the cramped and noisy makeshift hospital:
"Don't ask if you shouldn't ask."

The sound was like a steel needle chilled to ice, instantly piercing through all of Vasily's burgeoning curiosity and desire to explore.

Vasily abruptly shut his mouth, as if an invisible force had gripped his throat, and a fine layer of cold sweat instantly seeped from his forehead.

"Connection complete, system online. 'Sky Eye' link is stable."

"Iron Wolf" spoke into the miniature microphone in his collar, his voice completely flat.
A few seconds later, his terminal received a very brief encrypted reply: "'Big Ship' received. Awaiting 'Seagull's' call."

　Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)