Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 986 The Cold Game on the Banks of the Thames
at the same time.

MI6 headquarters on the banks of the Thames.

That building, constructed of reinforced concrete and bulletproof glass, resembles a huge, cold fortress, hidden deep in the shadow of the bustling south bank of the Thames.

In stark contrast to the scorching, bloody, and dusty battlefield of the Sahara Desert, time here seems to freeze in a carefully controlled sense of suffocation.

The air filtration system emits a low hum, and the light, precisely calculated, falls evenly and coolly into every corner.

The huge screen in the strategic command center occupies an entire wall, like a cold, all-seeing eye.

The screen is divided into several frames, transmitting information from different sources in real time:
The main screen is a processed aerial satellite view.

Against the backdrop of the yellowish-brown, wrinkled Sahara Desert, resembling the skin of an old man, several glaring points of light are clearly marked.

A lone, stubbornly crawling red dot of light southward represents Song Heping and his remaining forces.

A blue arrow, representing the SBS pursuit team, is closely following behind. Further out, a dense circle of green dots, resembling a swarm of locusts, represents the GNA armed forces.

At this moment, the blue arrow stopped at the wind-eroded rock area not far behind the red light spot, while the group of green light spots appeared somewhat disordered.

In another small window, there is a real-time encrypted video communication screen.

Saif al-Islam, the nominal leader of the GNA armed group, appeared on the screen.

This is a face etched with deep lines, weathered by time and worldly experience, with a hint of weariness that is hard to conceal.

His eyes flickered somewhat amidst the fluctuations of the electronic signals.

The air was so heavy it seemed as if water droplets could condense and drip onto the expensive carpet.

Senior analysts and technicians sat frozen in front of their consoles, their fingers hovering over the keyboards, barely daring to breathe.

Their gazes were drawn as if by a magnet, fixed on the red dot on the main screen that represented Song Heping and was still stubbornly crawling southward.

Every slight movement of the light point stirred the invisible, extremely tense nerves in the room.

"Useless! A complete and utter bunch of useless trash!"

A furious shout, like an ice shard coated with deadly poison, carrying a chilling aura, shattered the deathly silence of the command center.

Standing on the command platform in front of the curved screen, Ms. M, who was usually composed, could no longer suppress the violent aura surging within her.

She stared at the screen, watching the blue arrow representing SBS being flung away by the red dot, and the green encirclement representing GNA being easily pierced like a tattered fishing net. The anger in her eyes almost burned through the screen.

"Saif!"

Ms. M's voice was like a blade, as if it could slice the man on the screen to pieces across mountains and rivers and virtual signals.

"Tell me! You command 20,000 soldiers, so why can't you stop a rout, stripped of armor, ammunition, and supplies?! Why is that damned, filthy mercenary leader, Song Heping, still alive?! Still moving on my map?! Answer me!"

Every word was like an ice crystal squeezed out from between his teeth.

On the screen, Saif's holographic image clearly flickered, and the signal became slightly erratic.

The lines on his weathered face seemed even deeper, and a clear hint of anger at being publicly humiliated flashed in his eyes, but deeper still, there was a profound confusion and indifference.

He adjusted his posture, trying to regain some control, and spoke through a high-fidelity speaker with a heavy North African Arabic accent, striving to maintain a calm demeanor.

"Madam! Please calm down!"

Saif spread his hands in a reassuring gesture. “My soldiers are fighting desperately! They’re bleeding! The Sahara isn’t London’s park! The environment is extremely harsh! You saw it yourself, the sandstorm! The damned sandstorm is interfering with satellites, disrupting communications, even camels can’t open their eyes! Haftar is finished! He’s like a sand fox with a broken leg. Even if that mercenary has some skill, what good is dragging him back to North Darfur? What’s there besides sand, rocks, and a few half-dead date palms? A desolate wasteland! A godforsaken place! Even bandits wouldn’t bother going there! Why should we waste our precious manpower, fuel, and even our lives in the endless desert to hunt down an insignificant mercenary? The most urgent task is to consolidate control of the desert city and stabilize the national situation; that’s in our common interest…”

"Irrelevant?! Haftar is finished?!"

Ms. M let out an extremely sharp, cold laugh, a laugh like an ice blade scraping against glass, causing the temperature in the command center to plummet below freezing.

"Fool! Open your eyes and look at the map! As long as Haftar has a breath left, as long as he has mad dogs like Song Heping around to bite people for him, he's not finished! He's a flag! A flag that will attract all the scum and remnants who are dissatisfied with us and with you, Saif! Song Heping must die! Immediately! Right now! In the Lebanese desert! Turn him into a dried-up corpse being devoured by vultures! I will not allow him to live, not even for a single breath, not even to set foot in North Darfur!"

She practically roared, each syllable carrying a chilling murderous intent and an unquestionable authority.

Saif's brow furrowed deeply, his face etched with absurdity and impatience, even a hint of barely perceptible contempt. "Madam! If this objective is truly so crucial, so vital to the overall situation, then why not employ more direct and effective means? Why not appeal to our powerful allies? The Americans! Their air base is just across the Mediterranean!"

"Their 'Predator' and 'Reaper' drones are hovering in the clouds! Just one precise strike! One 'Hellfire' missile! And Haftar and that Song Heping, along with the sand dunes where they're hiding, will be wiped from this world cleanly and silently! Why make my lads use their flesh and blood to fill that damned bottomless pit deep in the desert?! The price is too high!"

"USA?!"

Ms. M's facial muscles twitched violently; the word felt like a red-hot iron, searing her most sensitive nerves.

In an instant, the images of those smartly dressed CIA guys at Langley headquarters appeared vividly before her eyes.

Damn Song Heping!

The poisonous thorn of suspicion and mutual accusation he planted between himself and CIA Director Vincent, using information from their previous cooperation, is now emitting a deadly stench!
The CIA not only refused to provide any satellite intelligence support and shut down all shared channels, but it is probably sitting leisurely in front of its screen right now, watching the British in a state of panic, and praying that they would suffer an even greater defeat so that it could take the opportunity to erode Britain's shaky share in the African, especially North African, oil interest chain!
An indescribable chill, a mixture of immense anger and a deeper, more humiliating sense of powerlessness, suddenly gripped Ms. M's heart, leaving her almost breathless.

She seemed to see the empty Portsmouth naval base of the Royal Navy, the HMS Illustrious aircraft carrier, struck from the sea and mothballed, like a giant steel tomb; she could hear in her ears the monotonous, apologetic briefing from the BAE Systems F-35 program manager about the delayed delivery…

The Union Jack, once a global symbol and known as the "Everlasting Union Jack," now only maintains a tangible influence through intelligence maps and some clandestine transactions.

Without America's air power, its global satellite network, and its instantaneous strike capabilities, the once mighty British Empire now appears so outwardly strong but inwardly weak, as fragile as a faded, bygone phantom.

But she absolutely could not, absolutely could not, show any sign of weakness in front of Saif, this desert tyrant.

"American?"

Ms. M forcefully suppressed her turbulent emotions, her jawline tightening like a knife, her voice suddenly rising in pitch, carrying an unquestionable, almost tyrannical pressure, piercing Saif in the holographic image like an ice pick.

"Don't mention Americans to me! This is your war! Saif! This is the decisive battle that will determine whether you can truly sit in that position and become the sole legitimate ruler of this country! Listen to me!"

She took a step forward, her shadow almost completely obscuring Saif's image. Her eyes were sharp as a scalpel, as if they could penetrate the virtual signal and rip out his heart.

"Mobilize all the troops you can! All of them! Bring out your elite guards stockpiled around the desert city, your reserve brigades hidden in the western oases, and all your tribal militias that are still observing! Cast them into the southern desert like a net! Chase after them! Catch them! Trample them! And then, kill them!"

Every command was firm and unquestionable: "At all costs! I want Song Heping's body! Today! Now! Immediately!"

She paused for a second, and the threat contained in that brief silence was more suffocating than any roar; the air seemed to freeze.

"If you can't do it, Saif..."

Ms. M's voice suddenly turned cold, like the Siberian wind.

"You think you can rest easy after taking over the desert city and driving out Haftar? You think those other tribal chiefs and warlords will really bow down to you? Without the assistance of the British Empire in the UN, without the loans we brokered for you at the IMF, without our intelligence network eliminating your political enemies... you, Saif, are nothing! Just a desert bandit leader with an AK and a few oil wells! Remember that!"

A cruel smile curled at the corner of her lips. "I can lift you up, and I can make you smash to pieces! And I'll find plenty of people willing to cooperate! They'll be more, more than happy to see GNA and you, Saif, relabeled as 'illegal armed groups' and 'terrorist organizations,' and then utterly crushed! Do you understand?!"

The command center fell into absolute silence; even the low hum of the equipment seemed to have disappeared.

On the screen, Saif's deeply lined face turned completely gloomy, like the desert sky before a storm.

The last trace of hesitation and resentment in his eyes was replaced by cold calculation and intense fear.

A few seconds seemed like a century.

Finally, he nodded slowly and with great difficulty, his lips moving, his voice dry and heavy, as if each word had exhausted all his strength:
"...Understood, madam. I will personally lead the team. All of GNA's forces will devour them like desert army ants, leaving not even bone fragments behind."

The holographic image flickered and then disappeared.

Ms. M continued to stare intently at the now-off screen, coldly uttering a single sentence—

“Tracking the movements of every GNA force.”

She spoke again, her voice returning to its usual coldness, yet carrying a metallic, scraping quality as she clearly issued her instructions.

“Mobilize all available resources, and direct all resources toward the southern Lebanese desert. I need to know Song Heping’s struggles at every step, and the location of every breath he takes.”

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)