Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1134 Medals and Undercurrents

The Mi-171 helicopter's massive rotor slowly came to a stop, and it finally landed on a heavily guarded helipad at a private estate on the western outskirts of Damascus.

This place is like an isolated island in the midst of war, far removed from the deafening gunfire and the stench of death on the front lines, replaced by an unsettling, almost stagnant tranquility.

Above the three-meter-high concrete wall is a gleaming, snake-belly-shaped barbed wire fence, and ubiquitous cameras, like cold compound eyes, slowly rotate, scanning every inch of the land.

Armed presidential guard soldiers were scattered at key locations, their index fingers habitually resting on the trigger guards—a gesture that seemed to indicate they were elite soldiers who had undergone rigorous training.

A presidential official in a dark suit greeted them.

His English had an Oxford accent, so perfect it was almost stereotypical.

“Mr. Song, Colonel Yevgeny.”

After shaking hands with the two men, the official routinely informed them of the next steps.

"The President expresses his highest appreciation and sincerest gratitude for the outstanding courage and decisive achievements you two made in Haibaib. Please rest here for a while. Tomorrow evening at sunset, the President will hold a small but solemn awarding ceremony for you both at the official residence, followed by a private dinner. A special car will be there to pick you up."

Without much small talk, after completing the formalities, the official politely took his leave.

After everyone left, the cook, like a bear finally returning to its comfortable den, finally relaxed completely.

He clicked his tongue as he examined the villa’s lavish interior—expensive, hand-woven Persian carpets covered the marble floors, the walls were adorned with intricate gilded decorative lines, and a huge crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, refracting dazzling light.

He slammed his massive body into a set of Italian leather sofas that looked expensive, and the sofa groaned under the weight.

"Damn it, we're finally alive! This is what life should be like! That godforsaken place on the front lines, even the water tasted like gunpowder!"

He let out a long sigh of pent-up frustration, and tugged hard at the collar of his combat uniform as if a rope were around his neck.

Song Heping quickly and silently checked the villa’s main rooms, the latches of every window, the view from every entrance and exit, and even looked up to carefully examine the ceiling and vents, assessing any potential points of surveillance or intrusion.

His professional habit of constantly walking on the edge of life and death has made him instinctively suspicious of any overly comfortable or perfect "safe house".

"Don't relax too much, cook."

Song Heping walked to the huge French windows, lifted a corner of the heavy velvet curtains, and observed with sharp eyes the regular patrolling squads outside and the sentry posts that were faintly visible on the high ground in the distance.

"The more seemingly impenetrable a place is, the easier it is to lull people into a false sense of security. The real danger often lurks in the most unexpected corners."

Upon hearing this, the cook's relaxed expression faded somewhat, and he sat up a little straighter: "You're worried... it's not safe here either? It's the Presidential Guard's territory, how could those opposition scum possibly sneak in?"

"It's not that I'm worried about the opposition."

Song Heping lowered the curtains, walked to a sandalwood wine cabinet filled with various fine wines, casually picked up a bottle of Macallan whisky that looked old and expensive, swirled the amber liquid, and then put it back untouched, as if it contained a deadly poison.

"It's just a habit. Never rely on someone else's security measures. Let's get down to business. What do you think the president wants most from us, besides the formality of awarding medals?"

The cook's expression turned completely serious, the composure of a battlefield commander replacing his previous languid demeanor: "What else could it be? The mess in the north! Idlib is a festering, stinking wound! Those religious fanatics from HTS, along with a dozen or so other large and small bandit groups, are like a pack of hyenas smelling blood, launching wave after wave of attacks. Although we've temporarily caught our breath on the southern front (Habaib) and the eastern front, if this northern front completely collapses, allowing HTS's main force to advance south and capture Homs, this strategic hub..."

He picked up a silver ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it down heavily on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Look, this is Damascus."

He then picked up a crystal wine glass and placed it behind the ashtray.

"With Holmes lost, Damascus is directly exposed to enemy artillery fire, completely defenseless! What's worse is..."

He reached for two decorative items at the far end of the coffee table and placed them further away: "Latakia and Tartus, those two outlets to the sea, have become complete islands! Our only naval base outside the Black Sea is in jeopardy! I bet my treasured vodka that the president will ask us tomorrow for our assessment of the situation on the northern front, and... most importantly, what the hell are we going to do next?!"

He paused, a shadow crossing his rugged face, and lowered his voice.

“To be honest, Song, I overheard some rumors when I was speaking privately with some old friends in the GRU at the General Staff in Moscow. They said the higher-ups are still hesitant to directly send regular troops into the fray, fearing they might get bogged down and even more so, they fear a head-on collision with those NATO bastards and an accidental clash. They seem to prefer that we ‘private military contractors’—that is, me and my old Wagner brothers, and people like you—continue to hold the line, filling the gap with our blood and lives, while they provide limited equipment and intelligence support from behind.”

Song Heping walked to the opposite side of the sofa and sat down, still calm and composed, saying, "A year ago, or even half a year ago, Kremlin might have continued to hesitate like this. But now, the situation is completely different."

"Oh? How do you say it?"

The cook leaned forward, a look of interest on his face.

"The Crimean crisis at the beginning of the year was like a slap in the face to NATO, completely tearing away the veil of pretense between the two sides."

Song Heping calmly analyzed the situation, his tone as if stating a given fact.

"Currently, the sanctions against your country are becoming increasingly severe, and diplomatic wars are raging. Relations have plummeted to their lowest point since the Cold War. Against this backdrop of life-or-death confrontation, the Kremlin leader will not stand idly by and allow Seria, their last strategic foothold in the Middle East, to completely succumb to the West or fall into the hands of extremism. Seria is Russia's strategic springboard for its southward expansion into the Mediterranean, and Tartus is their naval lifeline for maintaining regional influence and threatening Southern Europe." "If, due to momentary hesitation and miscalculation, HTS or the Western-backed Free Army were to seize Homs, advancing towards the coastline and even threatening the security of Latakia and Tartus, the cost for large-scale Russian military intervention at that point would be ten or a hundred times greater than it is now, and they might even lose this foothold forever, being completely squeezed out of the Middle East game."

He looked at the cook, his tone unusually certain: "So, they will definitely take action. And it will never be a small-scale 'volunteer' operation or an advisor hiding behind the scenes, but a formal military intervention with organized units and strong air support! Large-scale air raids, special forces infiltration, and even direct ground troop participation! It's only a matter of time, and I don't think that time is too far off. All your previous work here at Wagner has been paving the way and buying time for this moment to arrive."

The cook listened intently to Song Heping's meticulous analysis, and the doubts and gloom in his eyes gradually dissipated, replaced by a spark of excitement.

"Damn it! Now that you mention it, it really makes sense! If those lunatics in the Aerospace Force can blow those bastards' positions and supply lines to smithereens with their SU-34s, plus their armored onslaught... haha! Those sons of bitches' good days are truly over!"

"So, if the President asks about it tomorrow, I will be the one to answer the main question."

Song Heping calmly instructed, "What you need to do is to appropriately emphasize your deep connections within the Russian General Staff and the GRU, as well as your indispensable bridging role in future coordination between the Russian and Syrian armies. This will increase the weight of our words."

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the heavy solid wood door of the villa.

A servant in a crisp white uniform and snow-white gloves pushed in a gleaming silver trolley, which was filled with all sorts of exquisite Celtic traditional dishes that looked like works of art. Among them, two slow-roasted lamb legs were the most eye-catching, and the aroma of various spices instantly filled the entire living room.

"Gentlemen, this is the food prepared for you. Please enjoy your meal."

The servant bowed slightly respectfully, then very politely withdrew as if he had never been there.

The rich aroma of meat is enough to make anyone's mouth water.

The cook, seeing the tempting roasted lamb leg, was immediately tempted. He rubbed his hands together, stood up, and prepared to feast.

"and many more."

Song Heping immediately stopped him.

The cook was taken aback and turned around, puzzled. "What's wrong, Song? Is there a problem?"

Song Heping walked to the food cart, his sharp eyes sweeping over the food, especially the plate of roasted lamb and the hummus that came with it.

He leaned closer to the cook and said in a very low voice, "I just received absolutely reliable classified intelligence. The CIA headquarters in Langley has officially approved an assassination plan against me. The operations department is in charge, and their preferred method is most likely poisoning."

"Sokka!"

The cook's expression changed drastically in an instant. His previous ease and appetite vanished, replaced by an uncontrollable anger and fear. He cursed under his breath, "Those damn Americans who deserve to go to hell! They fucking love these despicable and underhanded methods! When are they planning to make their move?"

"The plan was just approved at a high-level meeting. It will take time to formulate the details, select the personnel, and arrange the infiltration. In theory, it is impossible to implement it immediately."

Song Heping said, “But we cannot take any chances. ‘Better safe than sorry’ is an ancient Chinese wisdom. We must be especially vigilant about food and water that are handled by others and out of our sight. They may take advantage of any opportunity.”

He gestured to the cook to cut off a few pieces of the best roasted lamb and serve a small dish of hummus.

The two walked into the small courtyard attached to the villa.

In the yard, a rather fierce-looking Caucasian Shepherd Dog was tied up and was lazily dozing off.

The cook did as instructed and placed the food in the dog bowl.

The dog cautiously raised its head, sniffed carefully, and perhaps because the aroma was too tempting, it quickly began to wolf down the food.

The two stood at the doorway, silently staring at the dog, as if time itself had stretched out.

A few minutes passed, and the dog was not only fine, but also seemed more energetic because of the treat. It even wagged its tail and made a whimpering sound.

"It seems... there's no problem."

The cook breathed a long sigh of relief.

Song Heping nodded: "Eat. Judging from the looks of it, those CIA agents haven't found a suitable candidate yet."

"Hahahaha!"

At this point, the two of them couldn't help but burst into laughter.

……

　Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)