Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 962 Lumar, who will never surrender
"Don't be so smug, Song! I haven't lost yet!"

Lumar's voice boomed through the satellite phone like a wild beast whose tail had been stepped on.

"Six brigades! Six entire armored brigades are still under my control! You think I'm doomed?! You called just to mock me?! You think you're worthy?!"

He was practically roaring: "Don't forget! You're still the UN's number one wanted terrorist! The British won't let you off! And the Americans, knowing you're still alive, won't let you go either..."

Before Song Heping on the other end of the phone could even speak, Lumar had already completely lost control.

"What are you excited about?"

Song Heping's tone was as calm as ice water, instantly extinguishing the other party's raging anger: "Winning or losing doesn't depend on the volume of your voice, it depends on your strength."

He paused, then each word was like a precise bullet, aimed directly at Lumar's vitals:

"You have six armored brigades, that's good. But they're stuck in the northern mountains—is that place an armored force's firing range? Is it terrain your lumps of iron are good at? If it were that easy, how come you're trapped there, unable to even reach Butare?"

Every sentence is heart-breaking.

Lumar felt a surge of blood rushing to the top of his head, blocking his throat, preventing him from uttering a single word. His ears were ringing, and his blood pressure was soaring so high that his blood vessels were about to burst.

"Song! You...you're a fickle and despicable scoundrel!"

Having run out of arguments, Lumar could only resort to hysterical screams and the most feeble personal attacks.

On the other end of the phone came Song Heping's low laughter: "Heh... I'm a villain? Then what are you? I helped you and Duer sit on the presidential throne, and you turn around and want to kill me and snatch the 'Musician' defense prize? Lumar, save your breath. I have no interest in playing moral judgment with you. This call is your last chance—surrender is your only way to survive."

Song Heping's tone left no room for argument: "Hand over your troops, and I'll guarantee your safety. You can take your wife and children, along with all the money you've amassed over the years, and get out of Seine. Go wherever you want; I don't care about the rest of your life."

"but."

His voice suddenly turned cold, chilling to the bone, "If you still dare to resist... then you're just being stupid. I know you have the British backing you up. But to be honest, I'm not fucking afraid! I've even dared to ambush American special forces, and the CIA has been after me for years, but I haven't even blinked. A few British special forces units that have crept to the North Darfur border think they can make me bow down? Dream on!"

"Song Heping!"

Lumar went completely mad, screaming hoarsely into the microphone, "You won't get away with this! Even if I die, I, Lumar, will never surrender to scum like you! I swear! I will fight my way back to Butare! I will drag you to the gallows with my own hands! I will cut open your stomach, pull out your intestines, and strangle you with my own intestines! You just wait! Just you wait!"

Power, wealth, status...

The paradise he had obtained in less than three months vanished in an instant.

exile?

Like a stray dog, he was "given" a way out by a wanted criminal like Song Heping?
Who does he think he is?!

Why!
The furious shouts echoed in the command post, finally extinguished by a piercing sound of a disconnected wire.

Lumar slammed the satellite phone down on the table, making the surface vibrate.

The staff officers around him were terrified and dared not utter a sound.

It took a while for the rage to subside from Lumar's mind.

He looked up and glanced around, his heart sinking – the staff officers and adjutants' eyes flickered with complex and unreadable emotions, and a silent suspicion and unease filled the air.

Song Heping's phone call...

It wasn't about persuading them to surrender at all!

This is a trap!
It's a vicious scheme to demoralize the troops!

And there was the speech by the puppet president, Isis, on the radio...

What about pardoning officers and soldiers and not pursuing the matter...?

Shit!

This must also be Song Heping's doing!
That Chinese man...

So cunning!
So vicious!

"Why the hell are you all staring at me?!"

Like a lion whose tail has been stepped on, Lumar suddenly jumped up, his eyes bloodshot, and fiercely glared at everyone.

"Get back to your posts! We haven't lost yet! The British won't give up here! Their troops will be here soon! They'll help us crush that puppet government! Everyone, stay alert! This is a divisive tactic! It's Song Heping's trick! Isis's words? You actually believe them? That's just a death warrant to trick you into laying down your arms! If you surrender, you'll be the first to die!"

He was panting heavily, like a trapped beast ready to devour its prey.

The staff officers felt a chill run down their spines, not because of Isis's promises, but because of the naked madness in their superior's eyes—anyone who dared to voice the slightest dissent would likely be "purged" on the spot in the next second.

The crowd felt as if they had been granted a pardon and quickly dispersed.

Only Lumar's heavy breathing remained in the command post, like a broken bellows.

He stared intently at the satellite phone on the table, his gaze shifting uncertainly. After a few minutes, he finally picked it up, his fingers trembling, and dialed a number—the former British chief advisor, Weber.

This was his last straw.
-
A few hours later.

The Thames flowed past the window, reflecting the leaden-grey sky, characteristic of London, with its misty glow.

Inside this unassuming Georgian-style building on the riverbank, the atmosphere is a stark contrast to the tranquil river outside the window.

Inside the top-floor strategic room of MI6 headquarters, codenamed "Q," the air seemed to have solidified into a cold gel, and every breath carried a heavy pressure.

In the center of the conference table, a high-resolution satellite image occupies the main screen.

In Lomera, the capital of Seine, the area surrounding the presidential palace is charred black, with ruins resembling the jagged teeth marks left by a giant beast.

Images where the smoke of battle has not yet completely dissipated silently recount the devastation of the coup that took place a few days prior.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

Deputy Director Hammond's voice broke the silence, deep and resonant as if echoing in a sarcophagus.

His thin fingers tapped rhythmically on the smooth tabletop.

Tap...tap...tap...

Each soft sound felt like a tap on the nerves of the attendees.

"The images on the screen... are a blatant humiliation of Great Britain. A legitimate government that we recognize, right before our very eyes, had its roof ripped off by a group of... a group of mercenaries led by former Chinese special forces soldiers!"

His gaze, sharp as a scalpel, slowly swept over the assembled crowd—the intelligence analysis director, the head of the Africa division, the military liaison officer, and the foreign policy advisor. Every face was taut, etched with solemnity and anger at being offended.

"African Union?"

Hammond's lips curled into a sarcastic smile as he picked up the delicate bone china coffee cup, only to lick it briefly before setting it down, as if even the warm liquid was unpalatable. "Their replies were as flowery as an empty recitation of poetry—'non-interference in internal affairs,' 'seeking African solutions'? They were nothing but carefully crafted platitudes! They were afraid, afraid of getting involved in this mess, afraid of the influence of the East."

He spoke faster, each syllable like hail hitting glass.

"As for the UN..."

His gaze shifted to his foreign policy advisor, who shook his head slightly, his face revealing undisguised frustration. "The French voted against it because of their so-called 'special interests' in West Africa. And the University of Tokyo…"

He paused, the name of that country seemingly carrying some kind of invisible weight.

"They used the nice words of 'sovereignty principle' and 'avoiding complicating the situation' to build an impenetrable diplomatic wall. Peacekeeping forces? The draft resolution is already in the shredder."

The room was deathly silent, with only the faint hum of the ventilation system.

The sense of humiliation, like tangible smoke, permeated and settled in the air.

"so."

Hammond's voice suddenly rose, carrying a sense of desperate resolve.

"The doors of the rules are firmly shut to us; we can only break in through the windows! The patience and order of the civilized world are being trampled upon by barbaric force. We cannot allow Lumar and the legitimate demands he represents to be drowned in blood by mercenary bullets. Sena's future must not be decided by a damned mercenary leader!"

MI6 military liaison officer, former Royal Gurkha Rifles Colonel Blackwood, leaned slightly forward, his eyes gleaming with the eagerness for action characteristic of a professional soldier: "Sir, our Special Air Service (SAS) Squadron B at the Red Sea base is on high alert. Two C-130J Super Hercules are ready to deploy. Target area—the Lumar-controlled area on the northern border of Seine—coordinates confirmed."

He pulled up another satellite image, which clearly marked a sparse woodland near the border.

"Parachute, enter silently. Mission objective: Locate Lumar, provide him with direct intelligence support, tactical guidance, and... provide them with key target location and air support."

He emphasized the last few words very heavily.

"risk?"

The intelligence analysis director pushed up his glasses, his gaze behind the lenses almost cold and collected.

“Extremely high. The vetoes by the African Union and the UN mean we have no legitimacy, no official support. If the operation is exposed, even the loss of just one person would be a disaster for international public opinion. The French will pounce like sharks smelling blood, launching a media offensive. And…”

He pointed to a blurry but distinctive airport outline on the screen.

"According to reliable intelligence, Song Heping's men have taken control of Lomera International Airport and at least two small former government military airfields in the north. His air force, though outdated, mainly consists of MiG-21s, and possibly a small number of MiG-23s—but should not be underestimated."

Hammond abruptly waved his hand, as if to sever all hesitation: "Risk? Faced with the ruins of the Presidential Palace in Lomera, any risk is an acceptable price to pay! We are not discussing risk; we are defending the will and influence of Great Britain! The operation must be covert and swift! Get the SAS lads moving, under the cover of night, down there, find Lumar, and teach his men how to fight back! Wipe Song Heping from the map of Seine!"

He made a powerful chopping motion in the air with his right hand.

"As for those outdated MiGs? Hmph, the RAF's 'Typhoons' will teach them a lesson in modern air combat. Order Simonstown Air Force to load its aircraft with weapons and enter standby status. Eliminate them immediately should our ground personnel require it or an enemy aircraft threat is detected! Authorize the use of all necessary force!"

The command, like a cold torrent of iron, was instantly transmitted thousands of miles away through invisible channels.

At a Royal Air Force base in southern Africa, the massive hangar is brightly lit, and the roar of engines tears through the desert silence.

Ground crew, like precise mechanical parts, moved swiftly around the Typhoon fighter jet, attaching gleaming Meteor beyond-visual-range air-to-air missiles and Paveway laser-guided bombs to the wing pylons.

The pilot donned his anti-G suit, his helmet visor reflecting a cold metallic sheen, his eyes sharp as a hawk's.

At the same time, the massive propellers of the two C-130Js began to spin, kicking up clouds of dust. The SAS team members conducted a final check of their equipment; beneath their black masks, only their eyes revealed a steely calm.
-
Thousands of miles away, on the northern border of Seine, it was nearly dusk.

The scorching wind whipped up sand and dust, sweeping across the rolling hills and the dry riverbed.

Inside a perfectly disguised underground command post, the air was thick with the smells of sweat, engine oil, and cheap tobacco, so heavy it was almost tangible.

A huge electronic sand table on the wall occupied half the space, clearly displaying the intricate terrain of northern Seine, the enemy and friendly forces, and several glaring red arrows, silently pointing from the direction of neighboring countries towards the area controlled by Lumar in northern Seine.

On another screen are satellite images that are updated almost in real time, with an astonishingly high resolution.

Song Heping stood in front of the sand table, his back straight as a javelin.

He had just put down the heavily encrypted satellite phone when the last words of his former instructor, Lei Ming, warning him to "be careful of the British" still seemed to be ringing in his ears.

He slowly turned around, his sharply defined face expressionless, except for two cold flames burning deep within his eyes.

"British……"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a calmness born of experience.

"Looks like they're coming. SAS... airborne..."

He slammed his finger on a coordinate point in the heart of the Lumar-controlled area on the electronic sand table.

"With their arrogance and 'Typhoon' fighter jets, they want to put dentures in Lumar's scum and gnaw on our bones."

"Suka BuLei!"

The polar bear let out a low growl and slammed its fist hard onto the metal tabletop covered with a map, producing a dull thud.

"Those arrogant bulls! Do they really think Africa is their backyard? They can just parachute in whenever they want? I'll smash them into mincemeat!"

He grabbed a flat metal flask from the corner of the table and took a big gulp of vodka, the strong smell of alcohol instantly filling the air.

The Ferrari, leaning against the communications console, said, "Song, they can't handle the land route, they'll definitely have to come by plane. It's time for our SAM-6 missile battalion to show its fangs."

His tone was light and airy, yet it carried a deadly chill.

"Air defense is the priority."

Song Heping's gaze was sharp as a knife as he swept over everyone. "The British are not idiots. Their 'Typhoon' is a top-of-the-line third-generation fighter jet. We only have the old MiG-21 and MiG-23 at our disposal. In terms of air power, we are like a paper window that can be broken with a single poke. We absolutely cannot confront them head-on."

He paused, his tone grave: "The SAM-6 is, after all, an old-fashioned air defense system. Faced with the Typhoon's beyond-visual-range attacks and electronic countermeasures capabilities, its interception success rate... is not optimistic."

A heavy silence instantly filled the room. Reality was cold and harsh.

“音乐家”防务目前在北达尔富尔倾尽全力，也只能凑出两个萨姆-6导弹连。按照标准配置：一个连配1部指挥车、1部履带底盘的1S91制导照射雷达、4辆三联装履带式导弹发射车。两个连加起来，一共8辆发射车，24枚待发导弹。

While the number of aircraft may seem substantial, this air defense system, designed in the 1960s, even after later upgrades, is still uncertain about its effectiveness in intercepting modern fighter jets like the Typhoon, given their low detectability, supersonic cruise, and advanced electronic jamming capabilities.

Once the typhoon breaches the air defenses and enters the airspace north of Seine, the consequences will be unimaginable. These typhoons will provide absolute cover for transport planes airdropping into the SAS, and will also directly provide air support for Lumar's counter-offensive forces, precisely striking the government forces' defenses that blockade the northern mountains.

Once that fragile defensive line is breached, Lumar's six armored brigades will be like wild beasts unleashed, spreading out across the open terrain...

With the help of British special operations guidance and air support, retaking Butare was by no means a pipe dream.

Inside the command post, the air seemed to freeze.

Everyone was frantically thinking about how to fight for a chance of survival with those few old SAM-6 missiles when they were at a disadvantage.

(End of this chapter)