Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1176 An Air Raid is Imminent
The name "Song Heping" shattered the quiet atmosphere in the office like a thunderclap.

Simon's pupils contracted slightly, almost imperceptibly, and his body, which was leaning back in the chair, seemed to stiffen for a moment.

On the screen of an internal monitoring terminal in front of him, a low-level yellow warning box had automatically popped up and was flashing silently because of the reappearance of this name.

He didn't speak immediately, but slowly leaned back, the expensive leather seat making a soft rubbing sound.

He raised his right hand, his index and middle fingers together, and unconsciously and rhythmically tapped the smooth tabletop, making a soft "tap, tap, tap" sound.

His gaze returned to the picture that captured Song Heping's profile, his expression complex and unreadable.

Why is it this guy again...?

Simon's inner world was far less calm than he appeared.

If he could, he would rather never have to deal with that name again for the rest of his life.

Driven by personal feelings and departmental interests, he wished he could crush this stumbling block immediately.

But from a personal perspective, if something happens to this guy, something will happen to me too...

Reporting this intelligence means the military is immediately unleashed, and F-15E precision-guided bombs or AC-130U 105mm howitzers will soon wipe Song Heping and his damned mixed squad off the face of the earth.

This is undoubtedly the most direct and satisfying way to vent one's anger.

but……

A calmer, even colder, voice echoed deep within his mind.

If he dies, I will be finished.

SHIT!

Simon cursed under his breath.

At least for now, Song Heping cannot die.

However, even as the acting director, he could not hide this information.

Facts are facts.

If Song Heping is acting in league with the Russians in northeastern Syria, it will be exposed sooner or later.

Concealing information will only lead to trouble.

How to do?
The pros and cons sway violently on both sides of the scale.

The office was so quiet that only the tapping sounds and the hum of the air purifier could be heard.

Lamins stood quietly, eyes fixed straight ahead, patiently awaiting the chief's decision.

He was a little puzzled.

What is the bureau chief hesitating about?

Finally, the knocking stopped.

The complex emotion that had flickered in Simon's eyes was completely suppressed, and he returned to his usual calm.

He reached for the internal encrypted phone on the table and dialed a short number.

“It’s me, Simon.”

His voice sounded unusually calm, even with a hint of routine languor. "I've reviewed the intelligence from Latamila. Regarding Song Heping's identification, I believe further confirmation is needed. An 87% match rate isn't low, but there's a risk of misjudgment. It needs to be at least 95% match rate, especially given the less-than-ideal image quality. I need your analysis department to utilize all available resources for deeper image enhancement, skeletal structure comparison, and dynamic behavioral pattern analysis. I need an absolutely conclusive report, ruling out any misjudgment—I mean any possible misjudgment. You have thirty minutes to ensure everything is foolproof."

His tone was calm and his wording precise, perfectly befitting the role of a cautious and responsible CIA director.

After hanging up the phone, he nodded slightly to Lamins, who was still standing: "Well done. Go follow up, verify the reliability of the intelligence, and report back to me with the final results."

"Understood, sir."

The doubt in Lamins' eyes disappeared.

He picked up the folder, turned around, and walked away quickly.

The office door closed gently.

Simon stood alone, his gaze falling once more on Song Heping's blurred profile, now magnified by the terminal.

He picked up the slightly cooled coffee, took a sip, and the bitter taste spread across his tongue.

half an hour……

Song Heping, I gave you half an hour.

He silently thought to himself, whether or not you can seize this half-hour window depends on your skill and luck.

This gamble involves not only Song Heping's life, but perhaps also his own future.

Thirty minutes later, in the Kold's Control Zone, at the U.S. Special Operations Command.

James had just finished communicating with the frontline ODA team and was about to shovel down his now-cold lunch when an intelligence officer practically came running up, his face filled with urgency. "Major! Urgent intelligence! From Langley, highest priority encrypted channel!"

James frowned, put down the lunchbox, and took the tablet computer handed to him by the intelligence officer.

The screen displayed the intelligence briefing that had been "finally confirmed" by the CIA, accompanied by clearer satellite images and analysis conclusions.

When his gaze swept over the bolded text "Target confirmed: Song Heping", "Location: Northeast of Latamila", and "Status: Target Orwell has been hijacked and is currently evacuating by vehicle", the weariness on his face was instantly replaced by incredulous shock and anger. His face turned ashen at a visible speed, and the veins on his forehead throbbed faintly.

"Son of a bitch!"

James slammed his fist on the tactical table next to him, making the mug on it jump. "We've all been fucking fooled! The fierce fighting over at Gunaiss was just a fucking decoy! A feint! He drew all our attention there while he sneaked off to Latamila and ripped Orwell out!"

He paced back and forth across the command table like a trapped beast, his chest heaving violently, his anger almost bursting forth.

Orwell knew about it.

James was well aware of this man's importance. If he fell into enemy hands, especially the hands of the Russians or their collaborators, the consequences would be unimaginable!

What he found even more unacceptable was that he had been so easily lured away from his post by the other side, which was a disgrace to his professional career!

Without any hesitation, he grabbed the secure communicator directly connected to the Theater Air Operations Center (CAOC) and practically roared the order: "This is the Celia Front Command, I am Major James! Highest priority! High-value target 'Song Heping' and his associated SSO team have been confirmed. They are located in the northwest wasteland of Latamira. The exact coordinates have been transmitted! They have kidnapped key personnel and are attempting to escape towards the border! I request immediate, repeat, immediate authorization to execute an air interception and devastating strike! Utilize all available air power. We must not allow them to cross the border with their personnel and intelligence! I want them to disappear! Immediately!"

Forty minutes after James made the request, at an air force base near Bakda in Iligor.

A piercing battle alarm shattered the relative tranquility of the base.

In the flight standby room, several F-15E Strike Eagle pilots who were resting or checking flight plans suddenly sprang up, grabbed their helmets and anti-G suits, and rushed to the tarmac.

Ground crew were already in place, like busy worker bees. On the missile loading vehicle, GBU-38 JDAM (Joint Direct Attack Munitions) and AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missiles, gleaming with a dull metallic luster, were precisely mounted on the wing and fuselage pylons of the Strike Eagle.

The refueling probe quickly connected to refuel the fighter jet.

As the briefing officer quickly relayed target information and mission details, the pilots nimbly climbed into their cockpits.

"Start the engine!"

"Check the avionics!"

"Weapon system powered on!"

A series of roars rang out as long blue flames shot out from behind the two F100-PW-229 engines, instantly unleashing tremendous thrust.

Soon, two F-15Es, fully loaded with munitions, accelerated and pitched up on the runway, soaring into the sky like two eagles out hunting for food.

Immediately following behind, a massive, ruggedly designed AC-130U "Ghost" gunship roared into the sky, its densely packed weapon ports on its sides displaying 40mm Bofors guns and 105mm howitzers, indicating that it would deliver devastating lateral fire coverage to ground targets.

The formation assembled in the air, adjusted its course, and sped off toward the border region of Cyria-Iligor with a menacing air.

A convoy of pickup trucks speeds through the northwestern wilderness of Latamila.

The setting sun was barely visible on the horizon, and several pickup trucks were jolting wildly across the undulating Gobi Desert, kicking up long plumes of dust.

Inside the vehicle, the team members, who had just completed a high-intensity raid and capture mission, had no time to catch their breath before an even more deadly crisis was about to strike.

Major Petrovsky's personal satellite communication terminal suddenly emitted a sharp and continuous alarm sound, unlike regular communications, and the screen flashed with rapid red codes.

Petrovsky's expression changed, and he quickly grabbed the terminal to answer the call.

The relaxed atmosphere inside the car, which had been somewhat eased due to fatigue, instantly froze. Everyone instinctively gripped their weapons and turned their gazes toward the major, whose expression grew increasingly grave.

A dozen seconds later, Petrovsky ended the call, looked up, and his gaze swept over every face in the car, including Song Heping in the passenger seat. His voice was low and stern, as if a block of ice had been smashed into everyone's heart: "Urgent notification from command center! Our location has been exposed! The US military reacted extremely quickly; fighter jets that took off from Bakdad have already taken off! At least two F-15Es and one AC-130U gunship! Their course is heading straight for our area, and they are expected to be in attack positions in as little as forty minutes, or even less!"

"Hold!"

"Frost," who was in charge of driving the vehicle, couldn't help but curse under his breath and slammed the accelerator down even further, causing the engine to roar almost torn apart.

Petrovsky's eyes showed no panic, only the fierce and resolute look of someone driven to the brink of despair.

He immediately reconnected the communications and, almost shouting in Russian, requested support from command: "Command! We are under air threat from the US military! Repeat, US F-15Es and AC-130Us are coming to intercept us! Requesting emergency air cover! Immediately dispatch our fighter jets to the Latamira airspace to establish a no-fly zone and intercept the US attack aircraft! We cannot counter air strikes in open areas! Repeat, requesting air cover!"

After a brief silence, a response came from command, equally urgent: "Major Petrovsky, request received! The situation is known. Aerospace Force duty aircraft have received the alert and are scrambling to the interception zone! They will do everything they can to buy you time! You must complete the mission as quickly as possible and withdraw to the safe zone. Good luck!"

After ending the call, Petrovsky looked at Song Heping, then glanced at the two other pickup trucks following closely in the rearview mirror, and shouted into the car's communicator to the entire team: "Did you all hear that?! The American planes are coming! But our army's wings aren't made of paper! From now on, it's a race against death! Let's see if our fighter jets get there first and stop the Americans, or if their bombs fall on our heads first! All vehicles, maintain maximum spacing and move quickly! Keep your eyes peeled, watch the sky! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

The convoy quickly increased the distance between itself to reduce the risk of being bombed over a large area.

The roar of the engine was particularly jarring on the empty wasteland, and the dust it kicked up looked like three rolling yellow dragons.

Everyone was on edge, and every now and then someone would look out the car window at the sky that was gradually being swallowed by twilight, trying to catch a glimpse of a black dot that might appear at any moment, accompanied by the howling of death.

In the distance, apart from the eternal sound of the wind across the wasteland, a faint, continuous rumble seemed to begin to emerge—the sound of a jet engine tearing through the air, growing louder as it approached.

The shadow of death descended upon the fleeing squad with unprecedented speed.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)