London, by the Thas River.
Vauxhall Cross, the core bastion of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) headquarters.
The heavy bullet-proof glass insulated the room from the river's moisture and the city's noise, but it couldn't keep out the coldness and the oppression filling the eting room.
The oval mahogany conference table was polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cold white light evenly cast from the ceiling, devoid of any warmth.
The air was only filled with the low humming of the central air conditioning system and a heavy, suffocating tension.
At the head of the long table, sat Mrs. M.
She wore a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, her silvery-grey hair ticulously gathered at the back, revealing a smooth forehead etched with the marks of ti.
Her face bore no expression, like a ticulously sculpted, yet lifeless plaster mask.
Only her ice-blue eyes, sharp as surgical knives, slowly swept over her subordinates along both sides of the table—MI6 high officials in immaculate uniforms with ashen faces, along with several representatives from the Ministry of Defense.
An ultra-secret briefing docunt was casually spread out on the table before her. Several high-resolution satellite photos were glaringly conspicuous: a desert battleground repeatedly ravaged by artillery fire, lying blackened and desolate; the twisted wreckage of a completely destroyed "Jackal" armored vehicle—a signature equipnt of Britain's SAS Special Forces.
Finally, there was a technically enlarged, blurry but recognizable close-up of a face—Song Heping.
In the photo, he stood atop an ard pickup truck, holding binoculars, with a backdrop of a burning town and retreating rebels.
Sunlight fell on the well-defined profile of his face, outlining a harsh line.
"Can soone tell !"
Mrs. M's voice finally sounded, not loud, even considered calm, yet like ice needles laced with poison, piercing everyone's eardrums, "Why were Her Majesty the Queen's elite SAS Special Forces, a complete squad, present on the internal battlefield of the Sen Republic's suppression conflict? Moreover, in such an… extrely undignified manner, completely annihilated? Rotted in the desert alongside the bodies of a rebel mob we deed a rabble?"
Her fingertips gently tapped on the photograph of Song Heping, making a soft, rhythmic sound, each tap striking a chord in the hearts of everyone present.
Dead silence.
Only the hum of the air conditioning was exceptionally piercing.
An Army General, adorned with stars on his epaulettes, reluctantly spoke, his voice slightly dry: "Madam, this was a large-scale military operation, the Special Forces squad was airdropped there to provide data and intelligence support, but… Lumar's unexpected decapitation led to complete chaos on the battlefield…"
"Chaos?"
Mrs. M interrupted him, a very cold, very faint arc tugging at her lips, devoid of any hint of a smile, only endless scorn. "Are you trying to say, the world's top Special Forces, grood with astronomical amounts of taxpayers' money, were wiped out like a lost Boy Scout team by a ragtag force commanded by a rcenary leader, deed a 'regional instability factor' by our intelligence departnt, Song Heping?"
Her voice suddenly intensified, carrying a suppressed fury, "Tell , General! How shall I explain to 10 Downing Street tomorrow? How to explain to those parliant lords waiting to see a joke? How to explain to the grieving families of the fallen soldiers?"
A barrage of questions, like an invisible heavy hamr, left the General pale-faced and speechless.
"Disgrace!"
Another intelligence chief spat the word through gritted teeth, "This is a severe blow to Britain's military prowess and international reputation! The sternest asures must be taken in response! Song Heping must pay the price!"
"The price?"
Mrs. M's ice-blue eyes turned towards him, her gaze sharp as a blade, "Publicly acknowledge our Special Forces illegally entered a sovereign country, participated in its internal conflict? Then announce to the world, we were defeated by a rcenary leader? Do you think we've not lost face enough? That the dia and opposition don't have enough ammunition?"
She leaned slightly back into her high-backed chair, her hands folded on the table, an elegant posture, yet exuding a cold dominance: "This matter, will not be acknowledged. The SAS squad's activity in Sena has nothing to do with Her Majesty's governnt or military."
Her voice was decisive, sealing the fate of this catastrophic defeat and completely blocking any possibility of official retaliation.
"All related files, sealed at the highest level. The fallen soldiers' compensations... disbursed at the highest standard, families to sign the most stringent confidentiality agreents."
"Will not be acknowledged" these four words, like a cold boulder, weighed on everyone's heart. A smothered anger silently burned in the silence.
"Madam."
An intelligence officer responsible for African affairs cautiously spoke, breaking the suffocating silence, "Perhaps… we could seek collaboration? The Aricans, the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), their assessnt of the 'musician' defenses, the threat posed by Song Heping has always been high. Joint operations, risk-sharing, efficiency might be higher…"
"Collaboration?"
Mrs. M's lips curled into that cold, almost acerbic sneer again, her gaze piercing sharply at the intelligence officer, "You're suggesting we collaborate with those Aricans, who are currently sitting in their offices at Langley, reading our 'tragic blunder' report, sipping coffee while mocking us fools?"
User Comments
0 comments from readers