Sen Republic, Northern Border, "Musician" Defense Core Base.
This private military fortress, built upon an abandoned oasis and rugged mountain range, lay hidden in the embrace of yellow sand and wind-eroded rocks, far from main roads, with only a concealed dirt road lined with dense monitors leading to the outside world.
At the top of the towering sand-colored walls, barbed wire and hidden surveillance caras covered, and on the watchtowers, heavy machine guns draped in desert camouflage silently swept over the scorching, undulating horizon.
The air twisted and shimred under the midday sun, with only tumbleweeds rolling in the dead silence, rustling softly, adding to the somber mood.
Deep within the base, inside a reinforced concrete, windowless Tactical Operations Center (TOC), the atmosphere was even more tense and heated than the desert at noon.
The thick soundproof door was tightly shut, isolating all outside noise. The walls were covered with sound-absorbing materials, and the hum of the air circulation system was the only background sound.
A massive electronic sand table occupied the center of the room, finely presenting the topography of North Africa, especially Libya and its border region with Northern Darfur, Sena.
On the sand table, colored light spots representing various ard factions and their areas of influence crisscrossed, with the deep blue lights representing Haftar's "National Army" (LNA) and its controlled eastern Desert City region being prominently marked.
On the western side, anwhile, the orange lights representing the Western-supported "National Unity Governnt" (GNA) firmly occupied Tripoli and key Sidra Bay oil ports.
At the edge of the sand table, several tactical folding tables pieced together, covered with satellite photos, intelligence briefs, weapon performance manuals, and empty paper coffee cups.
The air was thick with the strong scent of caffeine, sweat, and a unique tallic and gunpowder mix, a familiar sll to veterans.
Song Heping stood at the main control position of the sand table, his hands resting on its cold tal edge, body slightly leaning forward, his gaze as sharp as a hawk's, sweeping over every detail on the sand table.
The vast funds brought by the "Mubara Diamond Mine mo," at this mont in his eyes, were only cold chips to be maneuvered on the chessboard.
He had endured the entire night here, waiting for a critical piece of news.
In London's MI6 building, it must also be brightly lit at this mont, with nurous intelligence agents analyzing his whereabouts, plotting a lethal strike.
The British wanted him dead, so he would make them pay an unbearable price.
In life, there is nothing more serious than death. Since he feared it not, he was unreserved.
"Boss!"
The heavy soundproof door was pushed open, and Henry's figure appeared at the doorway, bringing in a rush of the dry heat from outside.
This forr British military intelligence officer, now the chief intelligence advisor for "Musician" Defense, carried a hint of fatigue from long-distance communications, but his eyes were extraordinarily bright.
"We've made contact! Haftar's side, preliminary terms are agreed upon!"
There was finally a subtle relaxation on Song Heping's tense face. He straightened up and shot a gaze as sharp as lightning at Henry: "Specific conditions?"
Henry quickly walked to the sand table, picking up a laser pointer, the red dot landing on Haftar's controlled region in eastern Libya: "Haftar's forces are indeed in a tough spot, squeezed into the eastern narrow strip by the GNA and its Western backers, lacking heavy equipnt and an effective tactical command system, thus affected morale. He urgently needs strong external support to break the deadlock, especially sustained firepower and professional training support."
Henry paused, his tone carrying the calm analysis typical of intelligence personnel.
"He's very interested in our proposal, particularly the 'equipnt training' overall plan. Of course, he has concerns, mainly about our depth of involvent and the subsequent political risks."
"However, given the current situation, he has no other options. The initial intention is to accept our military aid in exchange for future priority cooperation rights and shares in Eastern oil interests. Specific details require further secret talks, but he agrees to our 'core personnel training' program, with the first batch ready to secretly cross over at any ti."
"Good."
Song Heping's voice was deep and powerful.
"Tell him what we're offering isn't just equipnt and training, but also a lever to move the entire Libyan situation. The pressure from the British on him, we'll double it back to the British. Let him be ready to receive the first batch of 'gifts'."
"However..."
Henry saw that Song Heping had already decided to confront MI6 head-on and suddenly hesitated.
After all, he himself was British, and he understood MI6's strength.
It was the old intelligence service, founded even earlier than the CIA.
Speaking of strength, MI6's reputation was well-earned.
"Once we intervene in the Libyan situation, there's no turning back. You need to think it through."
Song Heping's gaze moved away from Henry, refocusing on the sand table, his fingertips tracing along the eastern Libyan coastline, the laser pen's red dot precisely landing on the "Ras Lanuf" large oil terminal mark.
"Henry, rember this: passive defense is always the dumbest option. Those bastards sitting in the air-conditioned rooms in London, under M's command, have undoubtedly already etched our nas on the 'elimination' list! They can't swallow Sena's grudge, or the SAS's blood! Wait for them to co knocking? That's not our company's style!"
His voice was not loud but carried a cold penetration, instantly lowering the heated atmosphere in the room by a few degrees.
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