Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1120 Crisis in 24 Hours
The heavy blast door closed silently behind Song Heping, completely severing the last trace of outside noise.

Inside the intelligence analysis room, only cold white LED light strips emitted a uniform, impersonal light, illuminating this enclosed space made of reinforced concrete.

The enormous main screen, which occupies almost the entire wall, is currently displaying a chilling scene—a military situation map of the entire territory of Cyria.

These are all battlefield command and control systems provided by Russia, and their origin can be seen from the Russian labels on them.

The blue-clad government-controlled areas were compressed into a state of near collapse, mainly concentrated along the western coast and around Damascus. Meanwhile, the red, black, and yellow colors representing the opposition forces and extremist groups spread and eroded the area from the north, east, and south like corrosive, highly toxic pus. Countless sharp red arrows were constantly being generated, viciously stabbing towards the precarious blue core.

In one corner of the screen, data streams poured down silently like a waterfall, automatically refreshing information such as casualty figures, equipment losses, and changes in positions every so often.

Song Heping stood in front of the screen, took a deep breath, as if a deep diver was making his final preparations before diving, trying to eliminate all the chaotic emotions and distractions, leaving only absolute calm and focus.

He sat down at the main console and pulled out the keyboard and multiple touchscreens.

The next moment, his hands started moving.

Without a single unnecessary movement, the rhythm of typing on the keyboard is steady and swift, and the fingertips glide, click, and drag across the touchscreen with fluid grace.

The images on the screen switched rapidly: zooming in on the intense fighting in Idlib province, retrieving the latest high-resolution satellite images of Aleppo city, comparing the changes in thermal signals in the eastern desert region an hour ago and now, reviewing encrypted communications summaries intercepted by the signals intelligence department, and continuously opening tactical assessment reports and casualty lists marked "Top Secret"...

His eyes were fixed on every subtle change on the screen, every discordant anomaly.

His brain was working at an unprecedented speed, like the most efficient parallel processor, cross-referencing, analyzing and summarizing, separating the true from the false, and constantly searching for that "key" hidden in the vast and chaotic flow of information that might determine success or failure.

Time, in this absolute silence, lost its usual measure.

Only the crisp sound of the keyboard, the subtle friction of fingertips gliding across the smooth glass touchscreen, and the almost inaudible, long, and steady breathing when he occasionally fell into deep thought marked the passage of time.

Outside the window, the last rays of dusk had long been swallowed by the night and gradually replaced by the gray of dawn.

The constant, cool white light indoors blurred the transition between day and night.

A few hours later.

A very faint knock came from the door, breaking the absolute silence that had lasted for hours inside.

"Mr. Song, here's your late-night snack..."

Song Heping's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, as if he was displeased with this brief interruption.

"Well, come in."

He didn't get up, but simply responded briefly through the internal communicator by the door.

The door opened a crack.

A young mercenary wearing Wagner combat uniform stepped in, carrying a tray.

A large bowl of steaming borscht, the strong aroma of beetroot and beef filling the air, along with a few slices of coarse black bread and a bottle of ice-cold mineral water.

"Mr. Song, our boss instructed me to deliver this."

The mercenary spoke in a low voice, not daring to look up at the screen for even a second.

"Thank you. Leave it there."

Song Heping gestured towards the table next to him, his eyes never leaving the scrolling data stream on the main screen about ammunition consumption on the southern front.

The mercenary did as instructed, placing the tray on a small table by the door, which was specifically used for placing items. He then tiptoed out and gently closed the door behind him.

The heat from the soup gradually subsided until it stopped evaporating completely, and a layer of oil condensed on the surface.

During a brief break in the long data comparison process, Song Heping quickly walked to the door, ate the bread in a few bites, and drank a few mouthfuls of borscht. The whole process took no more than three minutes.

Even during this process, his gaze remained fixed on the constantly refreshed real-time enemy and friendly dynamic markers in a corner of the screen.

For him, food was merely the necessary fuel to maintain bodily functions.

Time flies by.

Except when he went to the toilet, Song Heping almost never left the intelligence analysis room.

Early the next morning, Song Heping left his little world, went out to wash his face and brush his teeth—Song Heping would do this whenever he had the chance.

Cold water can help you stay more alert.

Brushing your teeth can freshen your breath and make your mind sharper.

As soon as I returned to the entrance of the command center, I heard someone shouting and cursing in Russian, which sounded particularly jarring.

That was the voice of the cook, Yevgeny.

Then came a brief silence, followed by what sounded like something being slammed hard onto the ground.

When Song Heping entered, the cook paused for a moment, then turned his head away, seemingly unwilling to see Song Heping witness his furious outburst.

Song Heping said nothing and went straight back to his room, burying himself once again in the mountains and seas of battlefield data and past intelligence analysis reports.

Now, he must compare the differences between the enemy's offensive patterns on the northern Aleppo front and in the eastern Deir ez-Zor region to find the enemy's weakest link.

There are many anti-government factions in Syria, and Song Heping found that they have not formed an effective alliance.

These branches include, but are not limited to, the Free Syrian Army (FSA), YSL Army, Rahman Brigade, and Nusra Front, all supported by countries such as Camel and Turkey, and even the 1515 armed group, which launched the most aggressive offensive in the east.

These armed groups dislike each other, and many intelligence reports indicate that the 1515 armed group has also attacked anti-government forces such as the Free Army, the Rahman Brigade, and the Nusra Front, and that after capturing prisoners, they would treat them in the same way as government soldiers—by beheading them.

This means they are not of one mind.

If that's the case, then there's an opportunity to fight back...

His brain was like an overloaded supercomputer, processing mountains of chaotic information that was constantly being updated in real time.

He went through countless processes of hypothesizing, deducing, verifying, and then overturning.

He initially focused on the northern front, attempting to find a way to consolidate the remaining forces in Aleppo and wage a protracted war of attrition using the city's ruins. However, calculations of the rate at which troops, equipment, and especially ammunition were being consumed, along with the endless external supplies the enemy was receiving, quickly led him to conclude that the plan was a slow suicide.

He then analyzed the vast desert area on the eastern front, looking for opportunities to counterattack using the mobility of armored forces. However, he found that the government forces' available armored forces were stretched thin, and they were severely lacking in air cover and reliable battlefield intelligence support. A rash attack would easily be ambushed and annihilated by enemy guerrilla forces familiar with the terrain and enemies with anti-tank advantages.

The southern front is the most complex, mainly composed of anti-government forces from the Nusra Front. The backgrounds of these anti-government armed groups are the most complex, with Middle Eastern princes and Turkey behind them. If not handled carefully, it could trigger a chain reaction...

All three directions seem to lead to a dead end.

"Fuck me!"

Song Heping couldn't help but swear.

It was indeed a complete mess.

The chef's invitation was like a seven-day trip to hell.

We need to break this deadlock.

That's really difficult...

But we cannot admit defeat.

The more difficult it became, the stronger Song Heping's competitive spirit grew.

"I refuse to believe we can't find a way..."

He rubbed his face vigorously, took a gulp of mineral water, and buried himself in analysis again. Finally, after repeatedly comparing the time points of all major battles in the past 72 hours, the intensity changes of enemy attack waves, and a series of signal activities marked as "abnormal" or "of unknown origin," his gaze locked onto a few seemingly insignificant data packets.

An extremely bold, even insane, reverse thinking plan began to gradually take shape in his mind, which was filled with a massive amount of information.

The key to this plan lies in the south!
Correct!
The gate to life is to the south!

plan!

You need to make a plan for yourself!
We must find a breakthrough from the south!
Moreover, it's not just the south; the 1515 armed group, which is launching the fiercest attacks from the east, is also a deadly threat.

but……

The fiercest beasts often have fatal weaknesses.

Song Heping's gaze slowly moved from the south of the map towards the east of Syria, across the border, and finally landed on western Iligo...

During the 24 hours that Song Heping secluded himself to devise a strategy to break the deadlock, outside the intelligence analysis room, the scales of war were tipping rapidly.

The cook roared into the communicator, his Russian interspersed with crude curses, trying to stabilize a crumbling eastern defense line.

His apron was nowhere to be found, and veins were bulging on his forehead.

A young Russian military staff officer, his face stained with the marks of gunpowder, strode up to him, holding a newly received telegram. His voice was urgent and low: "Colonel! The Bab region has fallen! The Free Army's 'Levant Front' assault team received... received artillery support suspected to be from external forces. The 116th Brigade's defenses have completely collapsed, and the retreat has turned into a rout! The government forces have lost five T-72 tanks!"

The rank of "colonel" is awarded by the Cyrian government and is a rank within the Cyrian Foreign Mercenary Corps.

The cook snatched the telegram, his eyes quickly scanning its contents, and his face instantly turned ashen.

He crumpled the telegram into a ball and slammed it to the ground: "Damn it! Another precision artillery barrage! Where did they get so many shells?! Tell that useless brigade commander of the 116th Brigade that either he leads his men to counterattack the position, or I'll blast him and his bunch of deserters to the sky with tank guns!"

The staff officer turned pale and whispered, "The colonel... the commander of the 116th Brigade... is dead. In his last moments, he tried to organize a counterattack and was hit in the head by a sniper bullet."

The cook's roar came to an abrupt halt. His chest heaved violently a few times, and in the end, he could only wave his hand weakly.

The staff officer saluted and silently stepped back.

The cook's gaze drifted toward the analysis room.

But the door to the analysis room remained tightly closed...

An hour later, another subordinate came to report.

This time, it was Major Vasily, one of the cook's trusted confidants brought from Russia.

He disregarded etiquette, leaning close to the cook's ear, his voice trembling with tension: "Boss, the southern front! The Daraa direction! Those lunatics from the 'Islamic Front' have launched a massive night attack! They've used at least six armed pickup trucks equipped with heavy machine guns and recoilless rifles, along with suicide car bombs! One of our joint positions with the government's 5th Armored Division has been completely breached! They're rapidly advancing towards Quneitra on the Syrian-Israeli border! One of our Wagner squads and a government company... have lost contact, and I'm afraid they're in grave danger!"

The cook slammed his fist on the table covered with maps, making a mug jump. "The border?! What are they trying to do? Bring the war to the Golan Heights?! Do they think those Jews will just stand by and do nothing?! Idiots! A bunch of idiots whose brains have been blown out of their heads by religious fanaticism!"

He was panting heavily when he suddenly looked at the closed door of the analysis room, a hint of barely concealed anxiety flashing across his eyes for the first time.

"Song..."

He muttered something under his breath, then forced himself to suppress his emotions and yelled at Vasily, "What are you all standing around for! Get our helicopters out! Keep a close eye on that advancing convoy! Call in air support, even just one MiG, we have to cripple them in the wilderness!"

"Yes……"

Vasily saluted and turned to leave.

But bad news kept coming, seemingly without end.

Less than half an hour after Vasily left, more people arrived...

Still bad news...

This time it was a senior liaison officer from the government forces. His face was ashen, his eyes darting around, and he barely dared to look the cook in the eye: "Colonel... to the north, the Aleppo industrial area... is completely lost. The 'Conquest Front' has captured the last few factories. They... they received a large number of anti-tank missiles from outside sources, and our tanks and armored vehicles became sitting ducks. During the retreat... the only safe passage into the city, the 'Death Highway,' was ambushed fiercely, and the casualties... were extremely heavy."

The cook remained silent for a moment; he had become somewhat numb to this kind of bad news.

How devastating was it?

The liaison officer swallowed hard and managed to utter a number.

The cook closed his eyes and didn't open them for a long time.

Aleppo, once an economic center, is now mostly in ruins, and the struggle for every street is stained with blood.

The loss of the industrial zone not only meant the loss of a strategic location, but also the loss of an important arsenal and supply depot for the government forces.

The command center was deathly silent, with only the cries for help and urgent calls coming from the communication equipment, piercing everyone's eardrums again and again.

Despair, like thick ink, seeped into the air, almost suffocating.

The following evening, as the sun once again set behind the western mountains of Damascus, the cook in the command center paced anxiously among the maps and communication equipment on the command console, like a trapped beast.

His eyes were sunken and his stubble was messy; in just over a day, he seemed to have aged ten years.

Bad news came almost every half hour, and the government forces and Wagner's defenses were leaking everywhere and were running out of steam.

The red areas on the map, representing enemy-controlled territory, are rapidly closing in on Damascus, the last blue fortress, from the north, east, and south.

His confidant, Major Vasily, approached silently once again. This time, his face no longer showed simple tension, but rather a mixture of suspicion, anxiety, and impatience.

He glanced at the still motionless iron door of the analysis room, lowered his voice, and almost whispered:

"Boss, how long are we going to wait for that Asian guy? He's been locked inside for a whole day! Apart from asking for coffee a few times and going to the toilet twice, he hasn't done anything! People are dying outside every minute, and the defenses are constantly being pushed back! Our men are saying, is he scared out of his wits by this situation, or is he just sleeping soundly inside?"

He became more and more agitated as he spoke, his voice rising involuntarily: "At this rate, let alone three days, I don't think we can even hold out for two! The defenses on the eastern outskirts of Damascus are already teetering on the brink of collapse, and the madmen of 1515 and the Free Army could launch a general offensive at any moment! Shouldn't we consider... consider our final contingency plan?"

The so-called final contingency plan refers to the plan for the emergency evacuation of key personnel through special channels.

The cook suddenly stopped in his tracks, his bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely at Vasily.

Vasily instinctively took a half step back.

"Shut up, Vasily!"

The cook's voice was low and dangerous, like the roar of a wounded beast, "Stop those stupid ideas of yours! Contingency plans? That's a coward's choice! I hired Song, I know him! The fact that he needs time means he's digging into something we can't see! Do you think everyone is like you, just yelling at maps and bad news?!"

He stretched out a thick finger, almost poking Vasily's nose: "Keep an eye on your men, and tell them that anyone who dares to talk about Song again will be thrown to the front lines to fill trenches! Now, get out! Hold your post!"

Vasily's face flushed red and then turned pale. In the end, he dared not say anything more, saluted, and hurriedly turned to leave.

After dismissing his subordinates, the cook's chest heaved violently. He walked to a corner, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and took a large gulp.

The fiery liquor burned his throat, but it couldn't dispel the chill in his heart or the growing doubt that even he himself was unwilling to admit.

Really...

Is there any hope?
Although Song Heping was capable, he was only one person after all. Faced with such a decadent situation and almost certain defeat, what could he do?
Are we really hoping he'll pull off another miracle?
The immense pressure and pessimistic outlook on the future gnawed at his confidence like venomous snakes.

He abruptly put down the bottle, as if he had made a decision, and grabbed the encrypted satellite phone that connected directly to a powerful figure in the Supreme Command in Moscow.

He would never use this phone unless absolutely necessary.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)