Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1189 Moscow in Winter
Song Heping's sarcastic remark about "face" precisely pierced through Afanti's last shred of pretense.

The Revolutionary Guard commander was taken aback at first, then a helpless, bitter smile appeared on his face. He shook his head, pointed at Song Heping, and said, "Song... you always speak so bluntly..."

Indeed, for the Persian leadership, extending an olive branch to "Satan" would be seriously politically incorrect.

But if the Americans make the request first, and they are "forced" to "carefully consider" it for the sake of regional stability, then the narrative is completely different—it's a matter of dignity and the right to speak.

"Don't worry, old friend."

Song Heping's smile faded, and he said seriously, "The White House will soon face a situation where it has to back down. What you need to do now is to ensure that your country's top leadership understands and supports this strategic concept. Remember, internal unity is more important than external negotiations."

"Are you confident that Americans will proactively approach you to discuss cooperation?"

Afanti was full of doubt about Song Heping's confidence.

After all, they're Americans.

No one on Earth is more arrogant than them.

Should we send them to our arch-enemy to discuss cooperation?
In Afanti's view, the possibility of this happening was almost zero.

"Believe me, Americans are more flexible than you think."

Song Heping thought of Simon and couldn't help but laugh again. But he couldn't tell Afanti that America, now the acting director of the CIA, was one of his informants.

This is such a far-fetched story that even Afanti probably wouldn't believe it, and for safety reasons, I can't tell anyone.

Having received Song Heping's assurance, Afanti nodded solemnly: "Understood. Then leave things here to me. By the way, when do you plan to leave for Moscow?"

“The sooner the better, of course.” Song Heping glanced at his watch. “I will return to Seria with the SSO team, and then take a military plane from there back to Moscow.”

Two days later. Silia, Khmeimim Air Base.

The base runway stretched out in the afternoon sun, and the roar of Russian fighter jets and transport planes could be heard in the distance. The smell of aviation fuel and dust filled the air.

As soon as I got off the plane, a familiar figure came to greet me.

"Song!"

The cook opened his arms and gave Song Heping a firm hug.

The owner of Wagner Mercenaries appeared very excited.

After all, Song Heping's mission this time was extremely dangerous, and his survival was proof of his strength.

"Did the journey go smoothly?"

"It went fairly smoothly," Song Heping nodded in reply.

"You've made quite a stir in Latamila; even the bigwigs in Moscow have been alerted."

The cook gave a thumbs up. "Even if you don't ask to see them, they'll want to see you. I've received calls from the Kremlin these past few days, asking me to take you to meet them. It's clear that those important figures are very interested in you."

"I'm not a pretty girl, so I don't need them to be interested in me."

Song Heping smiled at the cook, raised his hand and made a gesture as if counting money, "I'm just the owner of a defense company. If you want to cooperate with me, just talk about profits."

After saying that, he patted the cook on the back and glanced at the busy base.

How's the situation here lately?

The cook looked around and then gestured for Song Heping to follow him to a relatively quiet, shadowy area of ​​the hangar.

"It's not good, but it's not bad either, but it's also our opportunity."

He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and said, "The Hafez government's forces are having a tough time in Idlib; the extremist counterattacks are fierce. Our airstrikes have been intense lately, but our ground advance has been slow. The Americans? Hmph, while they're shouting about counter-terrorism, they're secretly supplying equipment to certain 'moderate opposition groups.' The Kold'd forces under their command have been secretly expanding their territory in the north, while adopting a supportive stance towards other opposition groups, hoping those guys will bleed the Hafez government and Moscow dry. Suka! The situation here is a complete mess!"

He then exhaled a string of smoke rings, squinting at Song Heping: "So, I think it's good that you brought up the idea of ​​'cooperation' at this time; the timing is perfect. The bigwigs in Moscow are currently quite annoyed by the quagmire in Seria, and on the other hand, your methods in Nineveh Province have piqued their interest. So they want to meet you, to personally assess your worth, and see if you can help alleviate some of the pressure on us."

"Is the itinerary arranged?" Song Heping asked directly.

“Yes.” The cook nodded. “An An-124 transport plane will take off in two hours, flying directly to the Chkalovsky Air Base outside Moscow. In addition to the necessary crew, there will be a small squad of GRU special forces ‘escorting’ on board. Ostensibly for protection, but also for surveillance. Someone will pick us up when we arrive in Moscow.”

"Gruu?" The "hunter" who was checking their luggage overheard this and scoffed, "Is he sending someone to keep us entertained on the road?"

The cook chuckled: "It's the rule, you have to understand. After all, Song is a 'sensitive figure' now."

Song Heping didn't take it seriously. He turned to "Hunter" and said, "Hurry up and eat something so we can board the plane."

Two hours later, the massive An-124 transport plane roared into the sky, leaving the relatively warm and humid coastal region of Syria behind.

The cabin was dimly lit, filled with the roar of engines and the subtle sounds of metal rubbing together.

Song Heping and Petrovsky, along with their SSO team members, sat on fixed canvas chairs, swaying slightly with the airflow.

The temperature inside the cabin gradually began to drop.

As the plane climbed northward, the chill gradually seeped in.

The SSO members and GRU squad members maintained a soldier's sitting posture, but the air between them seemed colder than the physical temperature.

"I said, brother..."

"Iron Hammer" from the SSO team broke the silence first, his tone carrying the slightly superior teasing characteristic of the SSO, "I heard that you GRU members have been quite active in eastern Ukraine lately. Have you old folks frozen to death?"

This statement is quite profound.

It's not about age. The GRU is Russia's long-established special forces unit, under the jurisdiction of the Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU).

SSO is a newly formed special forces unit, but it has reached its peak right from the start. From the very beginning, this team was built to the standards of the world's top special forces, making it an absolute Tier 1 unit of the Russian army.

Whenever new and veteran special forces units meet, sparks always fly.

The established units look down on the newly formed ones, believing they have no historical record.

The newly formed units, on the other hand, believe that the old units have outdated structures and rigid organizations, and are already a thing of the past.

Neither of them would yield to the other.

Sure enough, the GRU squad leader sitting opposite "Iron Hammer" was called "Brown Bear." Without even looking up, he said slowly, "Our bones are hard and haven't been frozen. They're more resistant to the cold than some guys who've been in warm places for too long and whose bones have become soft."

His tone was calm, but the rebuttal was obvious.

"Whether bones are flexible or not depends on actual combat."

Petrovsky interrupted coldly, his sharp gaze sweeping over the GRU players, "It's not about seniority."

"Brown Bear" finally raised his head, meeting Petrovsky's gaze, a barely smiling curve appearing on his lips: "Yeah, the SSO is impressive, a rising force, well-equipped and well-funded. We old guys just rely on a little experience and... loyalty to make a living."

"Loyalty and experience are certainly important."

SSO's sniper and deputy squad leader, "Cold Blade," leaned against the bulkhead, his eyes closed as if resting. His voice, though not loud, carried clearly to everyone's ears: "But outdated tactics and thinking are nothing but a liability in modern warfare, a death sentence."

"you!"

A young GRU member standing next to "Brown Bear" suddenly stood up, his face filled with anger.

"Sit down, Ivanovic!"

"Brown Bear" growled, then looked at "Cold Blade," "Young people are hot-tempered and haven't seen real storms, which is understandable. After all, not everyone has the opportunity to roll around in the quagmire of Chechnya and the ruins of Grozny like we have."

The cabin was instantly filled with tension, and the eyes of the two teams clashed in mid-air, as if sparks could fly.

This is no longer a simple joke, but a deep-rooted competition and mutual distrust between two elite units.

Song Heping did not participate in this invisible confrontation; he looked out through the narrow porthole.

In his opinion, these guys were just bored.

That's just how Russians are; they always find trouble for themselves.

The once clear Mediterranean coastline below had been replaced by thick clouds. Above the sea of ​​clouds, the sun was still shining brightly, but tiny ice crystals had begun to condense on the wings, reflecting a cold light.

He knew that beyond these clouds lay Moscow's harsh winter and a situation far more complex than the weather itself.

"Boss."

The "hunter" sitting next to him whispered, "Once we get to Moscow, what's our strategy? Should we go straight to those big shots?"

Song Heping shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the view outside the window: "No rush. Let's settle in first, the cook will take care of everything else. Moscow is not Damascus; the waters there are much deeper, and we must proceed with caution at every step."

He paused, then added, "Remember, you can't get involved in things there. Leave that to me. You can just be a tourist for the next few days and explore the area."

"clear."

The "hunter" also knew very well that meeting important figures and persuading them required eloquence and strategic thinking, which he was absolutely no match for, so it was best not to cause trouble for Song Heping.

The temperature inside the cabin continued to drop, but both teams seemed to treat the chill as a backdrop to their contest, silently confronting each other without uttering a single word until the plane began its descent.

The plane pierced through the thick clouds, and amidst the violent turbulence, the view outside the window turned gray, with dense snowflakes pelting against the glass.

When the plane finally landed smoothly on the runway at Chkalovsky Air Base, through the blurry windows, one could see that the outside world was already covered in silver and the wind was howling.

The plane landed at Rostov Air Base, taxied for a distance, and then came to a stop on the tarmac.

The cabin door opened, and a gust of biting wind, mixed with snowflakes, rushed in, dispersing the stagnant air inside the cabin.

Both the SSO and GRU members instinctively straightened their backs, their expressions stern, and began to organize their equipment with swift and professional movements.

Russia, we've arrived.

Song Heping took a deep breath of the icy air, straightened his collar, and was the first to step out of the cabin and onto the snow-covered land.

Hours later, an unassuming Gulfstream private jet landed at a secret airport outside Moscow belonging to the Russian Federal Security Service (FSB).

The cold wind, carrying fine snow, swirled on the track.

Song Heping wrapped himself tightly in a black cashmere coat and, guided by a senior FSB official with an expressionless face, got into a black Mercedes-Benz sedan without any markings.

The dark car windows blocked out the view of the Moscow winter night outside, with only the dim blue light of the dashboard illuminating the two men's cold profiles.

The car drove through several quiet, snow-covered roads before finally entering a manor hidden deep in a birch forest.

The towering iron gate slowly opened, revealing armed guards in the shadows.

This is not the Kremlin, but it is one of the places where the true core of Russian power holds secret meetings.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)