Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1160 Full-Band Suppression

Eight o'clock at night.

Ancient Nai Mountain area.

Two Typhoon mine-resistant ambush protected vehicles, fresh from a near-death experience, covered in bullet holes and dust, plunged into this natural sanctuary.

Song Heping leaned against the bumpy car wall, his eyes closed, but his brain was like an overclocked CPU, constantly calculating his current situation.

Damn it, I just brushed with death and I'm incredibly lucky to be alive!

The next few hours will be crucial in determining life or death.

I hope the blind fortune teller in the village back then wasn't lying to me, and that my destiny is strong enough that I won't die.

His heart was churning with turmoil, but his face remained as cold and hard as ever.

I opened my eyes, my gaze sweeping over the tense faces inside the car, before finally settling on the increasingly rugged terrain rushing past the car window.

"You can stop!"

Song Heping's voice rang out abruptly, like a cold iron block smashing into the dull air, breaking the suffocating silence.

Upon hearing this, the driver subconsciously eased off the accelerator.

Petrovsky turned to look at Song Heping, then at the terrain outside the window, and let out a heavy sigh.

"agree."

His voice was a little hoarse.

"Abandon the vehicle and proceed on foot. This iron coffin is the end of the road."

The command was simple and direct, yet it represented a complete change in the way we live.

From relying on heavy vehicles for mobile protection to reverting to light infantry relying on their own two feet and tactical skills, the squads became more agile, but they also risked everything—if the plan failed, they wouldn't even have a chance to escape.

The two "typhoons" came to a complete stop at the bottom of a relatively wide, cobblestone-strewn, dry riverbed.

With the engine off, the world seemed to fall into a state of sudden silence.

"Hurry! Empty the vehicles, everyone travel light, only take what's necessary!"

Petrovsky pushed open the somewhat deformed car door and growled.

The members of the SSO team moved silently and efficiently.

The car doors opened one by one, and figures moved about. No one spoke; only the rustling sound of boots on gravel could be heard.

These special forces soldiers, who had just escaped a missile explosion, were demonstrating an extremely high level of professionalism.

Despite the fear and pressure being forcibly suppressed, the procedures were carried out in an orderly manner.

Important and essential equipment was taken away.

Rifles, machine guns and ammunition, essential explosives and grenades, and disposable RPG-26 rocket launchers were carefully carried on his back; the backpack filled with C4 plastic explosives was heavy and dangerous.

The medical kit was checked again and again to make sure that the life-saving medications were included.

Most importantly, there was the specially reinforced military laptop containing the core intelligence of this operation, and the bulky but crucial satellite communication terminal.

Each component was handled with the care of a baby, and quickly and systematically integrated into each person's load.

"Maxim, Volkov."

Petrovsky named the demolition expert and the machine gunner.

"Prepare a 'last supper' for these two 'old maids' who have served us all the way. Use a 'death trap' to send them off in style."

"Understood, Major."

Maxim sighed.

He and Volkov exchanged a glance and tacitly took out several unremarkable dark gray metal boxes from their respective equipment bags. They had only simple military interfaces and a few tiny status indicator lights, exuding a deadly sense of minimalism characteristic of Russian-made equipment.

"Death trap".

The name is a term used in Soviet special forces circles, originally referring to a non-removable booby trap.

At its core is a highly integrated, self-contained detonation system that connects directly to the vehicle’s residual power supply and multiple sensors, including highly sensitive vibration, tilt, and even temperature change sensing capabilities.

Once activated, it enters a state of "sacred inviolability".

Any unauthorized external intervention—whether it's attempting to cut wires, pry open the casing, or even forcibly dismantle the entire device—will be instantly identified by the system as "violent sabotage," triggering the command to immediately detonate plastic explosives pre-installed in critical locations such as the vehicle's engine, fuel tank, and onboard communication encryption module.

The result was not dismantling, but a complete and devastating secondary explosion, ensuring that not even a single intact chip would be left for the enemy.

Maxim, like a nimble groundhog, deftly slipped under the V-shaped explosion-proof chassis of the first "Typhoon" truck, carrying a miniature flashlight in his mouth.

The chassis was still covered with Gobi Desert mud and scorch marks from the earlier explosion. He found a hidden spot inside the frame and used quick-drying adhesive and cable ties to secure the "dead trap" control unit firmly. Then, he skillfully stripped a section of the vehicle's main cable and connected the device's power cord in parallel.

Next, he carefully attached several button-sized vibration sensors and thermal probes to key points such as the chassis, engine compartment walls, and fuel tank shell, like applying a plaster.

His movements were swift and precise, each step precise and rapid – the result of countless training sessions and real-world experience that had built up his muscle memory.

Volkov, working alongside Maxim, carefully shaped blocks of C4 explosive, resembling yellow putty, into the gaps in the engine compartment, pressed them against the outside of the fuel tank, and placed them inside the vehicle's communication equipment, which couldn't be easily removed.

He even mischievously stuck a small piece under the driver's seat as well.

"Give the first bastard who gets on the bus and loots a surprise."

He muttered to himself, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

The same method was used on the other car.

The whole process was incredibly efficient; in less than ten minutes, the two "old maids" were armed from head to toe like two bombs ready to explode at any moment.

Maxim crawled out from under the car, dusted himself off, and checked the steadily flashing red indicator lights on the two main control units one by one.

"Setup complete. These two 'old maids' are really hot-tempered now. Whoever touches them will have to go dancing in the sky with them."

Song Heping stood a few steps away, watching the two finish their work, and then whispered, "Let's go to the Mannier Valley area."

The team silently ventured into the western depths of the Gunai Mountains along the predetermined route.

Mountain marches are completely different from driving in the Gobi Desert. Heavy equipment weighs on your shoulders, rugged terrain drains your energy, and thin air tests your lung capacity.

After walking for about ten minutes, Song Heping paused slightly when he passed a relatively soft sandy area formed by weathering and water erosion.

He seemingly casually adjusted his pace, deliberately stomping hard on several key spots with the heel of his military boots, which had a special pattern, leaving several footprints that were significantly deeper and clearer than the surrounding ones.

Even as he rounded a clump of low, thorny desert brambles, he seemed to unconsciously use the handguard of his assault rifle to lightly snag a small, already loose, weathered rock, letting it roll to a conspicuous spot.

Petrovsky followed closely behind him, taking in all these subtle movements. His brows furrowed slightly, and he asked in a low voice, "Song, are you leaving road signs for them?"

"Ah."

Song Heping didn't even turn his head.

"Those lunatics in 1515 aren't blind, nor are they stupid. The fact that they've established themselves in this godforsaken place means they must have some expert trackers among them, with noses sharper than hunting dogs. On this land, they can track a lost camel or a stray goat much faster than we can find our way with this lousy map. But, if we don't leave a little 'gift,' what if these idiots actually lose track of them? Who will we be performing for then?"

Petrovsky instantly understood Song Heping's intention—to deliberately and in a controlled manner expose his whereabouts in order to lure him in.

This is a risky move, a dance on the edge of a knife that only a master can master.

He said no more, but turned around and gave a brief tactical signal, indicating that the team behind him should maintain a tight defensive formation and increase their speed appropriately.

Everyone understood that they were now not only fugitives, but also bait to be used as bait.

The team continued trekking into the heart of the mountains for about an hour in a suffocating silence and under high alert.

The effects of physical exertion began to show, especially among the team members with minor injuries, whose breathing became noticeably heavier.

Finding a depression formed by several huge rocks that could block the view from the air and most directions, Petrovsky raised his fist, signaling the team to pause and rest.

"Take a quick ten-minute break, everyone check your equipment. 'Signal'—"

He turned to the team member in charge of communications.

"Try again, see if we can restore the satellite link, even if it's just for a few seconds, to get some battlefield images! We're fucking blind right now!"

Yegor Nikolayevich Lebedev, the “signal” engineer, found a relatively flat rock, hid in the shade, set up the equipment, and connected the spare battery.

His fingers flew across the waterproof keyboard, the screen lit up, and the soft blue light illuminated his focused yet slightly tense face.

On the screen, the data stream refreshed wildly like a waterfall, and the spectrum analysis graph jumped violently.

As time ticked by, "Signal's" brow furrowed deeper and deeper, and fine beads of sweat even appeared on his forehead.

He kept adjusting the receiving frequency and trying different encrypted handshake protocols, but the connection status indicator on the screen was always a glaring red, or occasionally turned into an extremely unstable yellow that seemed ready to disconnect at any moment.

A few minutes later, he slammed his fist into the rock next to him with a dull thud, looked up, and his face was filled with frustration and a hint of barely perceptible panic.

"Boss, no! Absolutely not!"

His voice was distorted with anxiety.

"The interference is fucking strong! It's full-spectrum suppression! The background noise is ridiculously high; our signal is like a few grains of sand falling into boiling water, unable to rise at all! Forget about establishing a stable connection to acquire images, even the most basic handshake response is extremely difficult! The Americans... they definitely deployed electronic warfare aircraft! Right over our heads!"

As he spoke, he couldn't help but look up at the sky.

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

　　My wife and kids went on vacation, but I'm still sitting at my desk...

　　
　
(End of this chapter)