Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1037 From Warlord to Politician

News of Saif's suicide spread like a plague among the remaining armed forces (GNA) loyal to Saif.

The suicide of their leader shattered the last shred of will to resist among the soldiers in the city.

Despair, like a cold tide, engulfed Tripoli and the remaining government strongholds.

When the vanguard of Haftar's National Army (LNA) and Song Heping's mercenary regiments began advancing into the city, they encountered almost no organized resistance.

White flags, hastily made from white sheets or even rags, rose behind the ruined streets, windows, and bunkers of Tripoli, fluttering weakly in the still-smoky breeze.

At dawn, Tripoli was declared to have fallen.

At nine o'clock in the morning, Song Heping stood next to a BPM armored vehicle equipped with a heavy machine gun, watching Haftar, surrounded by numerous guards, slowly drive into this city that symbolized the pinnacle of power in a Toyota Land Cruiser painted with the LNA logo.

Haftar stood tall and straight, dressed in a well-fitting khaki general's uniform, his gray hair neatly combed, his face radiating an irrepressible blend of victor's glory and grim determination.

"General, congratulations."

Song Heping stepped forward, extending his hand in a calm voice.

Haftar quickly jumped out of the car and came to Song Heping, behaving as respectfully as a subordinate.

"Song, without you, we wouldn't have made it this far. The history of Lebia will remember your name."

"History is written by the victors, General."

Song Heping smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping over the dilapidated buildings around him and the fearful and bewildered stares cast from the cracks in the doors and windows.

"But the way it's written determines whether it will last. As for me, you'd better not write me in. I don't want to be remembered in the annals of other countries. Being too flamboyant isn't a good thing for someone like me."

"It's all up to you."

Haftar will not object to anything Song Heping says now.

"Let's go back to LNA's temporary command post first. There are some things I need to ask your opinion on."

"Okay, let's go then."

Song Heping knew very well that although Haftar was now a glorious victor, the real headaches for him were only just beginning.

Being the leader of a nation rife with tribal power and internal divisions during a civil war is no easy task.

The former government headquarters building had long been destroyed by the war, and the temporary command post was set up in the relatively intact Central Bank building.

Upon entering the temporary command room, Haftar's triumphant joy was replaced by a deep-seated hatred.

He took a report out of his pocket and slammed it on the table.

"Damn Americans!"

Haftar's voice was filled with rage.

"And that damned envoy, Howard Mitchell! He's still hiding in the embassy like a rat in the gutter! Does he think I don't know who's backing Saif? He's inextricably linked to the sinking of the Marlin! Men! Drag him out of Lebia right now and throw him out! Tell everyone what happens when you interfere in our country's internal affairs!"

The order carried a chilling killing intent.

Several menacing guards immediately turned around.

"and many more."

Song Heping's voice wasn't loud, but it was like an invisible barrier, instantly freezing the guards in their tracks.

He walked to the map table, picked up the report and glanced at it, then looked at Haftar with eyes as sharp as knives.

"General, it's easy to drive him out, or even kill him."

Song Heping flipped through the intelligence report in his hand, a disdainful smile appearing on his lips.

"But then what? After venting your anger, what good will it do besides giving Washington a new excuse and filling CNN and BBC headlines with 'Haftar regime brutally expelling US diplomats'? They'll immediately declare you an 'unpredictable dictator' and then turn around and go to the southern desert or the western mountains to support the next 'Saif.' Money, weapons, and intelligence are just numbers to them. And you will be mired in an endless quagmire of civil war."

Haftar's thick eyebrows were furrowed, and his chest heaved, clearly trying his best to suppress his anger.

"Are we just going to let them continue spying here like nothing happened? Song, don't forget they've issued a warrant for your arrest! They've listed you as a 'terrorist'! This is an utter disgrace!"

"Of course I haven't forgotten."

Song Heping shrugged and continued, “I hate Americans even more than you do, but hatred and impulse are a soldier’s instinct. And your role now is shifting from a successful general to the helmsman of a country. What a helmsman needs is a strategic vision that weighs the pros and cons, the political wisdom to temporarily put the most hated enemy across the negotiating table, and the pretense of ‘playing both sides,’ even if that pretense is disgusting.”

He picked up the red pencil on the table and drew a circle around Tripoli.

"Tripoli is just the beginning. You need time to digest the spoils of victory, integrate internal factions, restore basic order, and give the people hope. Instead of immediately setting up targets for all Western powers. Britain, France, and the United States—they also have their own conflicts. Pushing them all to the opposite side would be the most foolish choice. We should use these conflicts to make them suspicious of each other, so that they can still see a glimmer of 'cooperation' with you, even if it's just a hypocritical performance. This will buy us a precious window of time."

Haftar stared at the red circle on the map, his anger gradually replaced by a thoughtful expression.

He spent half his life fighting and was used to the black-and-white, decisive nature of battle.

Song Heping's words were like a key, opening the door to a more complex and dangerous world for him.

"You mean... appease them?"

Haftar's voice lowered. "It's not appeasement, it's strategic contact."

Song Heping corrected them, “Tell them that the war is over. The LNA is committed to restoring peace and stability to Lebia. We welcome all countries and institutions that respect Lebia’s sovereignty and are willing to play a constructive role in the reconstruction. At the same time, we clearly warn them that any attempt to undermine stability or support the remaining hostile forces will be considered a declaration of war against the new Lebia regime, and they will bear the consequences. The wording can be official or mild, but the bottom line must be firm and clear.”

He put down his pencil and looked Haftar straight in the eye: "General, expelling an envoy will only bring temporary relief. But by using him, we can send a signal to the Western world that the situation is 'controllable' and 'negotiable,' even if they know it's fake, which can temporarily stabilize the situation. Once you truly control the country and sharpen your sword, it won't be too late to talk about reckoning. Right now, what we need is time, not to make enemies on all sides."

The command room was silent, save for the occasional sporadic gunfire and the low rumble of the generator in the distance.

Haftar took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled, as if expelling the anger in his chest.

He patted Song Heping on the shoulder heavily.

"Song! You are not only a sharp sword on the battlefield, but also a beacon in the political fog!"

He turned to his adjutant, who was awaiting orders, and said in a deep voice, “Immediately establish a temporary foreign affairs team. Send formal notes to the embassies and consulates of the United States, Britain, France, Italy, and other countries in Tripoli: The LNA has taken control of the capital and is committed to restoring order and peace. We have no intention of harming any diplomatic personnel; please remain calm and stay inside the premises. We will arrange for our leaders to meet with them as soon as possible to discuss ensuring the safety of diplomatic missions and future cooperation. The wording… must be formal and appropriate, but the core message is as Mr. Song instructed!”

The adjutant saluted, accepted the order, and left.

Haftar looked at Song Heping with a newfound respect in his eyes.

“Song, stay. I need you. The Leviathan Reconstruction Committee needs you for a position, one of the highest positions!”

Song Heping shook his head, walked to the window, and gazed at the distant blue corner of the Mediterranean Sea. "General, my battlefield is among the dunes and ruins, not in the council chambers and banquets. 'Musician' Defense has completed its contractual mission. What you need to establish is the authority of a government belonging to the Lebian people themselves. Having a foreign mercenary leader standing in the spotlight will only bring you unnecessary trouble and controversy."

He turned around, his smile carrying a hint of weariness and relief. "I should take a vacation. The sea breeze in Tripoli smells much better than the smoke of gunpowder."

Haftar knew he couldn't force him to stay, so he could only nod vigorously: "Lebia will never forget your contributions. If you need anything, just let me know. The seaside... I'll arrange the best place for you."

"It's no use talking to me empty words."

Song Heping jokingly raised his hand and made a counting motion.

"My company has tens of thousands of mouths to feed, and the expenses are huge..."

Haftar immediately understood and laughed heartily, "No problem! I'll provide all the benefits you want! You'll get a generous share of the oil pie!"

A week later, in Tripoli, on the Mediterranean coast, at Had Beach.

The flames of war seem to have temporarily receded from this once-prosperous coastal area.

Although the buildings are riddled with bullet holes and the beach is still littered with the remnants of war, the azure sea still gently laps against the rocks on the shore.

Song Heping moved into a relatively intact beach villa, which used to belong to a wealthy businessman and had now become his temporary haven.

He was wearing a simple T-shirt and shorts, walking barefoot on the soft sand, enjoying the rare tranquility.

The sea breeze caressed my face, bringing a salty, fishy smell, and also dispelling some of the lingering smell of gunpowder and blood that had seeped into my bones.

The satellite phone in my pocket suddenly vibrated.

Song Heping glanced at the number and immediately looked surprised.

Why are you calling me now?
impossible……

She should cut off all contact with herself now to avoid being detected by the CIA.

"baby."

A familiar female voice, tinged with static, came from the other end of the phone.

Standard American English accent.

"Angel?!"

Song Heping's voice rose instantly, filled with incredulous surprise.

"Why are you calling me at this hour? Didn't I tell you not to contact me for the time being?"

He subconsciously looked around, as if worried that someone was eavesdropping.

"I'm not in the United States, I'm in Mitiga right now."

Angel's voice carried a hint of mockery and weariness, "Mitiga International Airport. Just got off the plane. My identity is the CEO and special correspondent of 'Horizon News Group'. I'm here to interview the mysterious figure who just 'liberated' the capital of Lebanon, the 'African Ghost,' Mr. Song Heping."

"what?!"

Song Heping's heart skipped a beat, almost bursting out of his chest.

"Are you crazy?! What kind of place is Tripoli right now?! Stray bullets, landmines, lingering defeated soldiers, disgruntled infiltrators... and those Western organizations that want me dead are all watching this place! Get on a plane and leave right now! Immediately!"

His tone instantly turned stern, carrying an unquestionable command.

　Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　It's only the beginning of the month, so let's put some ads on Piaopiao and get it into the top ten. At least we'll have a spot for free advertising.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)