Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1017 Death Storm
Countless crimson tongues of fire suddenly erupted from the shadows on both sides of the canyon, which had been as calm as a graveyard just moments before!
The roar of light and heavy machine guns, the hiss of assault rifles, and the dull thud of sniper rifles instantly wove together a web of death covering the entire assembly area!
"The firepower is too intense! At least a company-sized force!"

Sergeant Wilkins rolled through the smoke and dust of the explosion, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Three o'clock Hill machine gun nest! Suppress them!"

Bullets pounded like scorching hailstones against the rocks where the SAS team members were hiding.

The ricocheting bullets emitted a sharp whistling sound, leaving deadly streaks in the darkness.

As a team member tried to move to a different position, he had just poked his body out when a precise sniper bullet tore his neck apart, and blood splattered in an eerie green color in the night vision goggles.

"It's a hunter!!"

McMillan's pupils contracted sharply as the briefing he had seen before the operation flashed through his mind, which contained all the information on the core members of the "Musician" defense.

One of the snipers, nicknamed "The Hunter," left a deep impression on him.

For some reason, the instant his teammate was shot, he thought of that troublesome guy.

He suddenly fell to the ground, and a burst of 7.62mm machine gun bullets slammed into the rock he had just been leaning against, sending debris flying.

"Group A! Suppress the three o'clock high ground! Group B! Group C! Establish crossfire! Call in air support! Hurry!"

Amidst the deafening roar of gunfire, McMillan roared into his throat microphone while his L119A2 fired precise bursts to suppress enemy figures attempting to flank him.

He saw the figures flashing across the way—their movements were extremely professional, their coordination was excellent, and their firepower was fierce and precise; they were definitely not ordinary mercenaries!

It must be the South American Special Operations Platoon, the most elite combat force of the "Musician" defense unit as shown in the data!

"Deep Well! Deep Well! 'The Chair' has been ambushed! Coordinates: Alpha-Seven! Encountered the main force and elite special operations team of 'Rattlesnake'! Heavy losses! They know our location! They know our location! Mission leaked! Mission leaked! Requesting emergency fire support!"

McMillan fired back while shouting into the satellite communicator, his voice distorted with anger and urgency.
-
London, the Deepwell command center.

The piercing alarm and the frantically flashing red light representing the coordinates of the "Chair" squad's attack shattered the solemn atmosphere of the underground bunker.

Ms. M stood in front of the huge curved screen, her charcoal gray figure as if frozen in ice.

On the screen, the blue dot representing McMillan's team was surrounded by dense red hostile symbols, and the signal strength fluctuated violently.

"Connect to Mossad! Top priority!"

Ms. M's voice was like ice crystals that had been tempered by fire.

A few seconds later, the sharply defined, slightly mocking face of Jacob, the head of the Middle East Operations Division at the Tel Aviv Mossad Command Center, appeared in the encrypted video window.

"Ms. M, I apologize for disturbing you so late at night. What can I do for you?"

Yag's voice was slow and deliberate, with a map of the Middle East situation on the wall of the Mossad command center in the background.

"The 'Chair' squad was ambushed at the designated rendezvous point, 'Tombstone'! The enemy is an elite special operations squad from 'Musician' Defense! Jacob, where is your 'Alpha' team right now?"

Ms. M's questions came like a machine gun.

Jacob leaned back slightly in his high-backed chair, his icy gray eyes showing no surprise, only an all-knowing indifference.

"Oh? You've fallen into a trap?"

He shook his head slightly, a hint of undisguised sarcasm playing at the corners of his mouth.

"It's a real shame. But I warned you before. Ms. M, your MI6 intelligence network is probably more transparent than a sieve in the eyes of some 'friendly nations.' It's nothing new for the CIA to like planting ears in the yards of its allies. Who can guarantee that there aren't other 'gardeners' besides the Americans?"

Ms. M's face instantly turned ashen: "Now is not the time to shirk responsibility! The 'Chair' squad needs backup!"

"support?"

Jacob shrugged, his demeanor composed. "I'm sorry, our 'Alpha' team is currently in the crucial phase of Operation 'Final Gaze' and cannot afford to be distracted. Besides, the fact that Song Heping was able to ambush you speaks volumes..."

He suddenly sat up straight, leaned forward slightly, and stared at the screen.

"There's a mole on your side; the operation plan might have been leaked."

Ms. M's face darkened: "I didn't call you to listen to your sarcastic remarks about how to do confidential work. If you're wasting my time here, I'll contact your director directly."

"Tsk tsk. Don't rush."

Jacob relaxed again and said in a confident tone, "Rest assured, everything is going according to plan—or rather, according to 'our' plan."

He leaned forward, closer to the camera, his voice low and carrying a cold confidence, "Our 'Alpha' team has successfully infiltrated near the target. As for your 'chairs'... unfortunately, they became bait to draw fire. Although this role wasn't intentionally assigned, the result seems to be quite good?"

He glanced at another screen beside him, which displayed a clear flight path: "In addition, to ensure Song Heping's complete demise, and also to 'take care' of our troubled allies, four F-15I 'Thunderbolt' heavy fighters from the 69th 'Hammer' Squadron of our Air Force took off from the Ramat David Air Base five minutes ago, carrying precision-guided munitions, and are heading at full speed towards the airspace over North Darfur. Estimated arrival time... well, should be enough to deliver a 'gift' to their enemies before the 'chair' is completely crushed."

Ms. M's face turned deathly pale.

But there is nothing we can do.

The Hebrews were indeed treacherous and selfish.

In their eyes, the interests of their own people are more important than anything else.

ally?

Those are bargaining chips that can be sold.

Now it seems that our only hope lies with that air strike unit.

……

Inside the command center of the Musicians' Defense base in North Darfur.

The air was as heavy as lead.

The polar bear's heavy breathing came through the encrypted radio, with the whistling wind in the background: "Boss, we didn't see anyone at 'Hyena' Pass! Mossad's 'Alpha' team didn't show up at all! They've vanished! We sent out small drones to patrol the surrounding ten-kilometer radius, but we couldn't find the Hebrew infiltration team!"

Ferrari slammed his fist on the table: "Something's happened! The Hebrews must have changed their infiltration route at the last minute; they bypassed the pre-arranged ambush points! They might be right under our noses now! Hoopoe fighter jets are probably already on their way! We have to move immediately! Any later and it will be too late!"

All eyes in the command room were focused on Song Heping.

He stood in front of the huge North Darfur sand table, his back to the crowd, his figure appearing unusually solitary in the dim emergency lights.

On the sand table, the "tombstone" area representing the SAS attack is firmly nailed down by a red thumbtack, while the green dot representing the base is like a candle in the wind in the vast desert.

"Don't move."

Song Heping's voice was not loud, but it was resolute, carrying an almost cruel calmness.

"If I make a move, the whole situation will fall into chaos."

"If you don't move, you'll die!"

Ferrari's voice trembled with anxiety.

Song Heping slowly turned around, his eyes burning with a desperate gamble: "Moving now would be telling the British and Mossad that we not only know their plans, but we've also seen through their actions. They'll immediately terminate their plans and recall their fighter jets, and Saif's GNA forces will retreat back into Lebanon. Our carefully laid trap will become a complete joke. All our previous efforts will be in vain!"

He walked to the communications station, pressed his finger firmly on the call button, and his voice, transmitted through the airwaves, conveyed an undeniable determination: "White Bear, Queen, abandon the pre-arranged ambush point and immediately move towards me! Maintain stealth and mobility, and search for any trace of the Mossad team along the way! Eliminate them if you find them! Repeat, eliminate them if you find them!"

"But the hoopoe's plane..."

Ferrari's voice was filled with despair.

Just then, a dedicated, unmarked satellite phone on the control panel emitted a rapid, low beep.

Song Heping grabbed the receiver.

"Old squad leader."

Qin Fei's voice carried an unprecedented urgency, accompanied by the hum of some kind of high-speed electronic device.

"I just received an urgent air alert! Four F-15Is from the 69th Squadron of the Hoopoe Air Force, fully loaded with munitions, entered the Mediterranean airspace fifteen minutes ago and are currently flying south! Their target is North Darfur, and they are expected to arrive in your area in less than ninety minutes! Repeat, less than ninety minutes!"

Qin Fei's intelligence came like a final, devastating blow. The command room was deathly silent, save for the faint hum of the equipment and the heavy heartbeats of everyone present.

Song Heping's hand holding the receiver trembled slightly in his little finger.

He slowly put down the phone, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple.

Then his gaze swept over the glaring red thumbtack on the sand table, finally settling on the green dot representing the base.

"Song..."

Ferrari's voice trembled slightly.

Song Heping suddenly looked up, his eyes now devoid of any hesitation, only a resolute determination: "Activate 'Spider Web'. I'm going to gamble with them. If the Seagull can't intercept their fleet, then I deserve to die!"
-
The Mediterranean Sea, shrouded in darkness, lies off the coast of Alexandria.

The "Seagull," disguised as an old cargo ship, floated quietly on the waves.

On the top floor of the cockpit, Iron Wolf sat as still as a rock in front of the multi-screen control panel.

The glaring fluorescent light illuminated the hideous scar on his face and his bloodshot yet sharp, hawk-like eyes.

The largest screen in the center does not display nautical charts, but rather stunning dynamic images generated by "multi-satellite collaborative staring technology".

The image was so clear it was as if an ultra-high-definition camera had been set up in near-Earth orbit, locked onto the runway and hangars of the Ramat David Air Base in the country of the Hoopoe, thousands of kilometers away.

In the image, the timestamp jumps: 04:32.

Four F-15I Thunderbolt heavy fighters, their wings laden with munitions, had just finished their afterburner climb, guided by the runway lights. They transformed into four bright spots trailing orange-red flames, like four unsheathed swords, piercing fiercely into the northeastern sky under the dawn!
Iron Wolf's calloused fingers flew across the control panel, switching between satellite views and spectrum analysis.

On one corner of the screen, precise latitude and longitude coordinates and flight vector data refreshed like a waterfall. He grabbed the cold-looking satellite phone directly connected to the base, his voice hoarse yet carrying a power that pierced through all interference:

"Calling 'Musician', Seagull 'visual confirmation'! Four 'big birds' (F-15Is) have left the nest! Heading 15 degrees due east north! Climbing! Expected to enter the 'hunting ground' (North Darfur) in 25 minutes! Repeat, the 'big birds' have left the nest!"

Information, acting as encrypted radio waves, penetrates the vast ocean and continent, and through satellite relay, instantly penetrates the isolated island-like base deep in North Darfur.

In the underground command center, Song Heping watched the real-time flight path of the F-15I formation transmitted back by the "Seagull" on the screen, listened to Iron Wolf's warning, and slowly closed his eyes.

When I opened my eyes again, all that remained was the cold, hunter-like glint of light.

"understood."

He only replied with three words before hanging up the phone.

He turned to face his subordinates in the command room, who were all holding their breath, their faces solemn but their backs straight. His voice wasn't loud, but it resonated in everyone's hearts like the beating of a war drum:
"Ladies and gentlemen, our guests are almost here."

"Prepare to welcome guests according to my planned schedule!"

……

Eastern Mediterranean airspace, altitude 28000 feet.

Four F-15I Thunderbolt heavy fighters, like giant steel birds, cruised at Mach 0.95 against the deep blue sky.

Beneath the wings, the massive conformal fuel tanks and the Spice-2000 satellite/inertial guided glide bombs and Delilah cruise missiles mounted on the pylons reflected a cold, hard luster in the moonlight.

Inside the cabin, behind the oxygen masks, could be the calm yet slightly excited breathing of the pilots.

"Hammer 1 calling Hammer Formation, maintain altitude FL280, heading 090, expected to make contact with 'nanny' (refueling aircraft) in 5 minutes."

The voice of Major Ilan Cohen, the lead pilot of the formation, codenamed "Anvil," was clear and steady over the encrypted tactical channel.

"Hammer 2 received, formation in good condition."

"Hammer 3 confirmed."

"Hammer No.4 received, fuel level 43% remaining, urgently need 'milk tea' (a type of milk tea)."

Ilan glanced at the chart on the multifunction display (MFD), where the green dot representing the KC-707 tanker was flashing steadily in the designated airspace ahead.

Below, the lights of Alexandria outlined a blurry silhouette on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean, while further away lay the darkness of the North African continent, which swallowed all light.

"Attention all."

Ilan's voice carried a hint of warning, "Entering the sensitive area. Maintain electronic silence, ECM (electronic countermeasures) system on standby, passive sensors fully activated. Although intelligence says they might deploy SAM-6s here, those are outdated and their range doesn't reach this area, so everyone should still be careful."

A few short confirmations came through the channel.

The four fighter jets maintained a tight diamond formation, like four silent daggers piercing their prey.

five minutes later.

Approximately 45 nautical miles northeast of Alexandria.

A massive Hoopoe KC-707 "Scimitar" tanker aircraft, resembling a steel island floating in the night sky, with its huge tail refueling cone gleaming like an orange lantern swaying in the darkness under the navigation lights.

Its wingtips and fuselage are covered with dense electronic countermeasures antennas and infrared flare launchers, indicating that this is not a docile "nanny".

"Hammer formation, 'Curved Blade' calls."

Visual contact has been made.

The airspace is clear and the wind speed is stable. Oil transfer operations will commence according to standard procedures.

The voice of the refueling machine operator came through steadily.

"Hammer received. Hammer No. 1, going first."

Ilan pushed the throttle, the fighter jet accelerated slightly, broke away from the formation, and precisely adjusted its altitude and speed to maintain the same direction and speed as the tanker.

Below lies the inky black Mediterranean Sea, reflecting sparse starlight like a bottomless abyss.

Ilan gripped the control stick tightly with his right hand, while his left hand finely adjusted the throttle. The green halo of his helmet-mounted sight (HMD) enveloped the slightly swaying cone at the rear of the refueling tanker ahead.

The refueling probe slowly extended from below the nose of the F-15I. Nighttime aerial refueling is the ultimate test of a pilot's skill and nerves—the massive tanker wake turbulence, the dim light, and the unpredictable swaying of the drogue—any slight mistake could lead to a fatal collision.

"Stay calm...stay calm..."

Ilan muttered to himself as the fighter jet bounced slightly in the air currents.

On the HUD (Head-Up Display), the data representing the ideal docking position keeps changing.

He took a deep breath, held it, and pushed the control lever forward with his right hand in an extremely subtle way.

Click!

A slight, reassuring impact came through the machine as the rigid fuel line was precisely inserted into the fuel inlet.

The HUD displays the word "CONNECTED" in green.

"Dock successful. Initiating oil transfer."

The refueling machine operator confirmed.

Aviation fuel began to flow into the thirsty fuel tanks of "Hammer 1".

Elan remained absolutely focused, his eyes fixed on the cone sleeve and the relative position indicator, his hands seemingly welded to the lever and throttle, performing precise micro-operations.

To his side and behind, "Hammer 2" had begun to adjust its posture, preparing for the next docking.

The entire airspace was filled with a tense yet orderly tranquility, only the roar of engines and the hiss of airflow passing over aircraft.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)