Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1022 The Meeting of the Three Giants

Seven days later.

At Joint Base Andrews, outside Washington, D.C., the iron-gray sky hangs low, pressing down on the dark green pine forest at the end of the runway.

A Gulfstream G650 without any markings roared down, its tires screeching as they rubbed against the runway.

The hatch opened, and Mossad Director Levin was the first to step down the gangway.

Following closely behind was MI6's top leader, "Ms. M," whose dark gray custom-made suit and cold gaze seemed to shut out the surrounding damp air.

A black Chevrolet Suburban, unremarkable in appearance, glided up in front of them, its windows pitch black, like a giant mobile prison.

The car was filled with the cold smell of premium leather and cleaning agents.

Levin gazed at the monotonous scenery rushing past the window, his knuckles unconsciously tapping the leather armrest, each tap carrying a suppressed violence.

"Disgrace... Utter disgrace!"

He growled, his voice buzzing in the confined space.

"'Alpha'...our sharpest blade, fallen into the hands of a mercenary! Song Heping must pay the price, the price in blood!"

Ms. M's gaze was fixed straight ahead, her fingertips lightly tracing the seemingly ordinary Patek Philippe watch on her wrist, which contained an embedded emergency positioning device. Her voice was calm and even, yet like an undercurrent beneath the ice: "The price? Director Levin, I warned Jacob during the operation, but he didn't listen. Now, an entire elite squad, along with the pride of Tel Aviv, has become spoils of war at that little Eastern gambling table. However... anger won't solve anything. What we need is a clear head and... enough leverage."

Levin's face instantly darkened, as if it could drip water.

After one hour.

Suboban silently drove into the heavily guarded underground parking garage of the CIA headquarters in Langley, and then, escorted by agents, took the elevator to the top floor.

After passing through layers of heavy explosion-proof doors and iris scanners, we were finally led into a conference room located in the core area.

The air was filled with the mixed scents of disinfectant and fine cigars. Outside the huge bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows was a meticulously manicured lawn, but little sunlight could penetrate.

CIA Director Vincent Crawford was already waiting at the oval black table in the center of the room.

He wore a well-tailored dark suit without a tie, the collar casually open, and toyed with a brass cigar cutter in his hand, making a soft "click" sound. A smile on his face was a mixture of scrutiny and amusement.

"Ah, welcome, Director Levin, Ms. M."

Vincent stood up, his smile gradually widening.

After all, he knew very well why these two had come.

Now, the ball is under his control.

He walked around the table, his gaze lingering on Ms. M for an unusually long time, with undisguised inquiry and a hint of mockery: "Did you have a pleasant trip? Especially you, Ms. M, how does it feel to return to familiar places? I heard that your collaboration with Song Heping in Cairo last time was... quite 'in-depth'? Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to know how to be grateful, turning your 'goodwill' into a cleaning cloth."

Ms. M seemed not to hear the blatant mockery. She walked straight to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down with an elegant yet undeniably authoritative demeanor.

She placed her handbag on the table and looked directly at Vincent: "Director Vincent, dwelling on the past won't help solve the current problems. Speaking of cooperation, Song Heping is no longer a small contractor for your military. He is now entrenched in Lebia and is a major threat capable of destroying our most elite forces. Stop your probing and show some sincerity in cooperation. Now you and we are all in the same boat."

Her voice pierced through Vincent's deliberately relaxed atmosphere like an icicle.

Levin pulled out a chair and sat down heavily: "Vincent. What have you CIA been doing for the past seven days? Counting grains of sand? We're ironclad allies."

Vincent's smile faded slightly. He sat back in the main seat, picked up the remote control, and pointed it at the wall.

The huge screen lit up, displaying a high-resolution satellite map and dynamic information stream of northeastern Leviathan.

"What?"

He snorted and pointed at the screen, "We're watching how he (Song Heping) spends seven days rubbing your and Saif's faces in the desert!"

On the screen, clear arrows indicate that Haftar's forces (LNA), in coordination with Song Heping's elite mercenary troops, are advancing north at an alarming pace.

The red blocks representing GNA-controlled areas have collapsed and shrunk extensively along the border.

"In the border battle, GNA's main force suffered heavy losses."

A senior CIA intelligence officer standing to the side began his briefing, his tone rigid yet his words sharp and forceful.

"Song Heping's 'Grey Wolf' employed unprecedented precision artillery fire and drone reconnaissance tactics, completely suppressing Saif's firepower and command nodes. The remnants of the GNA retreated hundreds of kilometers, abandoning a large number of strategic locations and equipment depots, including Desert City."

On the map, a marker representing a desert city was quickly painted over in blue, representing LNA.

The intelligence officer's finger slid across the map, the focus rapidly shifting north to a key transportation hub in the northeast: "Latest intelligence indicates that the vanguard of 'The Musicians,' in conjunction with the main LNA force, has broken through the GNA's second line of defense around Savinu and is pressing towards the city's core. Once Savinu falls..."

His finger suddenly slashed northeast, landing on a large port city sign on the Mediterranean coast.

"The gates of Benghazi are wide open. Haftar will control more than half of Libya's territory and population, as well as... more than 60% of its proven oil reserves."

At opportune moments, patches of yellow dots representing oil fields lit up on the screen, densely distributed within the blue area that the LNA was about to control, with the light from several super-large oil fields being particularly dazzling.

The conference room was deathly silent, with only the low hum of the equipment.

Levin stared at the screen, his eyes burning with resentful anger.

Ms. M's fingertips tapped lightly on the table in a steady rhythm, as if she were calculating something.

"so."

Vincent broke the silence, leaning back in his wide chair, his hands clasped over his stomach, relaxed but with eyes as sharp as an eagle's.

"That's the situation. Saif is a hopeless case, barely surviving thanks to our and our European allies' financial support. Now he's being utterly defeated by Song Hoping and Haftar's forces. And this veteran from the East has clearly shown us through his actions that he doesn't care about offending anyone, including all of you here."

His gaze swept over Levin and Ms. M.

"What are you waiting for?!"

Levin said coldly, "Since he's openly defying us, let's crush him in the most direct way! Mobilize the carrier battle group deployed in the Mediterranean! B-2s? F-35s? Wipe Song Heping and his mercenaries, along with Haftar's rabble and their command posts, off the map completely! Use overwhelming air power to show them who the rule-makers are!"

His voice carried a bloodthirsty urge, as if he could already see the desert burning.

"erase?"

Ms. M spoke coldly, interrupting Levin's roar, and her gaze turned to Vincent with a hint of barely perceptible warning.

"Are we going to use our most advanced fighter jets to repeat the mistakes you made that night? Director Levin, I think you haven't forgotten that just seven days ago, Song Heping shot down four F-15I fighter jets cleanly and decisively over the Mediterranean in a way that we still can't understand. The pilots didn't even have time to send out a complete distress signal."

She paused, then emphasized, "'The Musician's' air defense capabilities are a huge mystery. Rashly sending high-value aerial platforms into its unknown kill radius is an extremely irresponsible gamble. If there are further losses, it will be difficult to explain, both domestically and internationally."

Her words were like a bucket of cold water poured on Levin's fervent flames.

Vincent's relaxed expression vanished completely.

He put down his cigar cutter, leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and glanced between Levin and Ms. M.

"Mystery? Adventure? Absolutely!"

He admitted, but a calculating smile played on his lips. "Song Heping is a dangerous variable, without a doubt. But to remove this thorn, the risks... need to be commensurate with the rewards."

His finger tapped again on the yellow area on the screen that represented the oil field.

“Look here, look at these plots of land flowing with black gold. The French control their share in Zawiya in the northwest, and the British have a stable pipeline of profits in Misrata. And what about us Americans?”

His voice carried obvious dissatisfaction. "Back then, we supported Saif in his fight against Gaddafi, providing crucial 'asymmetric advantages.' But now, what have we gained besides a few war-torn, temporarily unexploitable oil fields? An out-of-control Lebia, and Song Heping, who's even more troublesome than Gaddafi!" His gaze became aggressive, like a debt collector: "Now, you expect the CIA to mobilize all its precious strategic resources, risking the potential loss of expensive fighter jets and personnel, and even triggering a larger international conflict, to help you... or rather, help our European allies eliminate this common threat?"

He paused deliberately, letting the pressure build in the air. "So, once it's done, how should the profits be redistributed in this soon-to-be 'liberated' oil-rich southern region? We can't let the brave warriors who've been charging ahead only get the scraps, can we?"

His intentions were naked and clear—he wanted benefits and oil.

For the first time, Ms. M's brows furrowed genuinely, a hint of anger flashing in her eyes: "Vincent, Song Heping is not just a problem for Britain or the Hoopoe Kingdom; he is a 'globally wanted criminal,' a 'terrorist leader' who ranks high on your own CIA's bounty list! Eliminating him is in the core interest of the United States! This is a responsibility, an obligation, not a business deal where you can ask for an exorbitant price!"

Her voice remained calm, but her speech quickened, like ice beads falling to the ground.

"Responsibility? Obligation?"

Vincent scoffed, as if looking at a spoiled child, his tone uncompromising: "Ms. M, in this room, we all know very well that national interests are the eternal driving force. Responsibility and obligation? Those are just pretty words written in reports for the gentlemen on Capitol Hill. The reality is, to mobilize a B-2 or F-35 squadron, I need direct authorization from the President and a compelling reason. And the best reason is to ensure that the enormous risks and resources invested by American taxpayers will yield tangible, long-term strategic returns—for example, the dominant development rights to the southern oil fields."

He held up one finger. "My demands are clear: after successfully expelling Song Heping and stabilizing the situation in Lebanon, American companies must take the majority of the oil revenue from the newly controlled southern region. This is the prerequisite for cooperation."

The atmosphere in the meeting room suddenly became tense, like a taut bowstring.

Levin glanced at Vincent, then at Ms. M. He preferred a simple and brutal solution involving force, but Ms. M's words had left him uncertain.

Nobody knows exactly how Song Heping took down the F-15I.

The intelligence indicated it was a SAM-6, but Levin never believed it.

Ms. M's face was ashen as her mind raced, calculating the political costs and possible compromises.

The CIA intelligence officers present kept their eyes down, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings, like background figures.

A long, suffocating silence...

Only the occasional soft click of Vincent's brass cigar cutter between his fingers tugged at everyone's nerves.

Finally, Ms. M took a slow breath, breaking the deadlock, her voice returning to its businesslike tone: "We can talk, but I need to consult the Prime Minister. However, the shareholding ratio needs to be clearly defined, and the stability of our existing interests in the Northwest must be guaranteed. At the same time..."

Her sharp gaze pierced Vincent. "The CIA must immediately and fully commit to investigating Song Heping's 'mysterious air defense weapon.' I need to know what it is! Any large-scale air strike plans must be shelved until the threat assessment is complete."

Vincent finally broke into a genuine smile, radiating the satisfaction of a victor: "A wise decision. Our people will handle the details. As for that mystery... rest assured, Langley's top analysis team and satellite resources are keeping a close eye on it."

He turned to Levin. "Chief Levin, what's your opinion?"

Levin spat out a few words through gritted teeth: "As long as we can get rid of Song Heping as soon as possible, I have no objection to the share..."

"very good!"

Vincent clapped his hands, as if he had accomplished something remarkable.

"So, the preliminary framework for cooperation has been reached. My plan is: First, immediately increase support for Saif's remnants—weapons, ammunition, intelligence, and even… we could assign some 'experienced advisors.' Let the GNA hold out in Savinnu, wearing down Song Heping and Haftar's forces as much as possible, slowing their advance. Time is on our side. Second, proceed simultaneously: the CIA will use all means to find out Song Heping's air defense capabilities as soon as possible. Once we confirm that his threat level is manageable, or find his weaknesses…"

A cold light flashed in his eyes.

"Then I will play a funeral march for him."

The meeting concluded successfully, but beneath the seemingly successful agreement, undercurrents of ulterior motives were brewing.

Deputy Director Simon, who was attending the meeting, packed up the documents with a blank expression, but a complex and indescribable look flashed in his eyes.

That night.

In the stillness of the night, heavy curtains in Simon's study blocked out all outside light.

He sat in the darkness, with only the pale blue light emanating from the open laptop screen in front of him, reflecting his solemn and slightly struggling face.

After going through a triple-encryption redirection process, he finally connected to the satellite channel that was almost impossible to track.

The screen flickered a few times, and then a processed, slightly distorted voice rang out, crackling with static, yet still conveying a calm and controlled presence that pierced the screen: "Simon. Is it raining heavily in Washington?"

"It's very big and very cold."

Simon responded in a low voice, speaking very quickly.

"The meeting is over. Your current situation... is very bad."

Without any pleasantries, he went straight to the core issues of the meeting—the decision of the three intelligence agencies to join forces against Song Heping, the plan to increase aid to Saif (including the types and estimated quantities of large quantities of weapons that were about to be shipped), Vincent's greedy demands for the southern oil fields, and most importantly, the CIA's intention to do everything possible to investigate its air defense capabilities and possibly launch a large-scale air strike after assessment—reporting everything in detail.

He even reported several key arms transport ships’ possible departure ports and expected routes based on information revealed at the meeting and his own intelligence analysis.

“…Vincent is determined this time. He has secured promises from the British and Israelis as a backing. Once they discover your air defense system or… confirm its weaknesses, an air strike could come at any moment. That would be devastating.”

Simon's voice carried a hint of worry. "Listen to me, Lebia... it's a real quagmire! The tribes are all plotting their own agendas, and the Western powers are deeply entrenched. You've proven your capabilities, severely crippled Mossad, crushed the GNA's main force, and gained immense prestige and leverage! It's not too late to withdraw with your men! Go to other parts of Africa, or... even further afield, and you can still establish your own territory. Continuing to fight is too risky! If the US deploys B-2 Ghosts or F-35s, or even swarms of stealth drones... even your strongest ground forces will struggle against the precise deadly force from tens of thousands of feet in the air! It's not worth risking your lives in this quagmire!"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the communication channel.

Simon could even hear his own nervous heartbeat.

A few seconds later, Song Heping's voice rang out again, still strangely calm, yet containing an iron will that pierced through the vast distance and encrypted noise:
"Withdraw, Simon?"

He seemed to chuckle softly, a laugh devoid of warmth, only icy resolve. "This isn't a card table, Simon. This is a gladiatorial arena. Step in, and there are only two paths—kill all your opponents, or… be dragged out and fed to the vultures. There are no draws, no withdrawals."

His tone suddenly turned sharp as a knife: "American arms ships? Very well. Send me detailed intelligence, especially the routes and timelines. Since they want to use this steel to bleed me dry, then I'll let this steel... sink to the bottom of the Mediterranean to feed the fish!"

"Sunk to the bottom of the sea?"

Simon was taken aback, but then he understood Song Heping's intention.

"You want to...intercept it at sea? That's insane! That's a transport ship flying the American flag! Attacking an American ship in international waters is tantamount to declaring war! You're a madman!"

"Who said I was going to personally 'attack' at sea?"

Song Heping's voice carried a cold cunning.

"Unexpected events... are always hard to avoid. I will try to make the Americans lose face, but I can't find a clear enemy to start a war with."

"The chances of success are almost zero!"

Simon whispered, "American military transport ships have escort assessments. Even without warships close behind, their own defense and monitoring systems are extremely tight! How can you get close? How can you make a move? If you fail, the consequences will be unimaginable! This is too risky!"

"zero?"

Song Heping's voice was resolute, carrying a chilling confidence: "In my dictionary, there is no 'zero.' There is only 'do' and 'don't do. Send the intelligence over, Simon. Then, forget about this call."

Communication was abruptly and decisively cut off.

The screen went dark.

Simon sat frozen in his chair, his back soaked with cold sweat.

He seemed to see, beneath the dark waves of the Mediterranean, a larger and more dangerous "spider web" being calmly and frantically woven by that man far away in the Lebanese desert.

The target was a steel behemoth flying the Stars and Stripes.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)