"Damn it, this place... can we still defend it?"
Disaster Star cursed under his breath, even he felt the overwhelming sense of despair.
This ard group, from soldiers to civilians, exuded an exhaustion and numbness of being driven to the edge of a cliff.
Haftar's command was set up in a relatively intact three-story concrete building, with heavy machine guns mounted behind sandbag fortifications at the entrance, heavily guarded.
However, the entire building was riddled with bullet holes, and a large hole was blasted open in one of the walls, barely covered by canvas.
Song Heping, along with Hunter and Disaster Star, guided by two tense-looking LNA guards, walked through corridors filled with the odor of sweat, cheap tobacco, and engine oil, entering a still relatively spacious room on the top floor.
This room was the core of Haftar's command.
In the center of the room was a massive wooden conference table, covered in scratches and coffee stains, with an eastern Libya operations map that had been scribbled over so many tis it was badly worn.
On the map, the red arrows representing GNA and its allied forces were like the tongues of a poison snake, wrapping tightly around the blue area indicating LNA-controlled zones from the west, south, and north.
The blue zone was reduced to Desert City and a few isolated spots nearby, appearing as fragile as a candle fla in a fierce wind, surrounded densely by red markers.
Next to symbols representing key points, scrawled notes indicated the dire situation: "only 3 days of ammunition left," "fuel exhausted," "heavy casualties."
Several old field telephones hung on the wall, their cables tangled like a chaotic ss. In the corner were a few boxes of opened compressed biscuits and bottled water.
Haftar stood with his back to the door, facing the map.
He was tall, and even in the slightly oversized desert camouflage combat uniform, his soldierly posture was evident.
But at this mont, his broad shoulders were slightly hunched, exuding an indescribable heaviness.
Hearing the footsteps, he slowly turned around.
This was a face deeply carved by desert winds and the anxiety of war.
His eyes were sunken, cheekbones prominent, and despite the thick, graying beard, it couldn't hide the weariness on his face. Those brown eyes, which might have once burned with ideals or ambition, now only had bloodshot fatigue and a near-frozen resentnt left.
His lips were chapped, the knuckles of the hand holding a red marker turned white from exertion.
"Mr. Song."
Haftar's voice was hoarse, but his tone reasonably steady, "Welco, or perhaps... I apologize for showing you the most unbearable side of Libya."
He extended a calloused hand and shook Song Heping's hand firmly.
The handshake was strong, as if trying to grasp the last straw.
"The situation is worse than we anticipated."
Song Heping didn't exchange pleasantries, his gaze swept over the suffocating map, getting straight to the point.
Haftar let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound like sandpaper scraping tal: "Worse? No, Mr. Song, it's desperation."
He struck the map forcefully at the position of Desert City, his forceful action nearly piercing the paper with the pen tip.
"The GNA bastards! And their masters behind them—the vampires in London and Washington!"
His voice rose sharply, trembling slightly with agitation, a fla of anger rekindling in his eyes.
"Do they think that by tossing a few dollars, air-dropping batches of second-hand weapons, and letting those lunatics who banner 'Holy War' charge ahead, they can make us surrender? Can they just drain Libya's oil as if pumping water?"
He pointed sharply to the west, "The 'interim governnt' they supported in Tripoli is a group of soul-selling puppets! Libya's fate should be in the hands of Libyans themselves! Not a plaything for Western oil companies and geopolitical maneuvering!"
His chest heaved violently, breathing heavily, and after the rage, there was a deeper sense of powerlessness.
"The Russians... those northern bears, once promised support. But now? Hmph, they've found cheaper, more fervent proxies..."
His tone was filled with the venom of betrayal.
"Those Wagner rcenaries, they've shifted their focus to the resource-rich Central Africa, we... have been abandoned."
He dejectedly put down the pen, both hands propped on the edge of the table, leaning slightly forward, his voice sinking with a kind of mournful lant: "My lads... are good n. They're fighting for a unified, foreign-power-free Libya. But the reality is... we don't have enough heavy weapons to oppose GNA's armored vehicles and ard pickups, no ammunition, no fuel, no dical supplies... we even barely have decent anti-tank weapons. The GNA has endless Western military aid and intelligence support, potential air cover... and we have nothing, just sand, stones, and nearly drained blood."
He raised his head, those bloodshot eyes fixing on Song Heping, a mixture of stubbornness and near-pleading hope in his gaze: "Mr. Song, the equipnt and training you've promised... is our last hope. If we can't get substantive support within a month to break the GNA's siege on the east line of Desert City..."
He stamped heavily on the map, "They plan to turn this place into a massive grave. My army, along with the last will to resist in this city... will be crushed."
A heavy silence enveloped the room, only broken by Haftar's rough breathing and the faint rumble from outside, unclear whether construction or an explosion.
The air was thick with the scent of failure and death.
Song Heping silently gazed at the precarious blue area on the map, his gaze behind the sunglasses sharp as a blade, swiftly evaluating each intelligence point.
Hunter Lin Mo took a discreet step closer, speaking in a voice so low only Song Heping could hear in Russian: "Boss, the situation's worse than Henry's intel. This ard group... is rotten to the core. Morale's collapsed, equipnt's zero, logistics broken. To prop them up against GNA and the West behind... huge investnt, higher risk, too slow results. How about... we pivot to contact the Misrata militia? Or Zintan forces? They're closer to the oil areas, more solid, give them money and guns, quicker results, better cost-benefit ratio."
Hunter's analysis was cold and pragmatic, like a precise scalpel dissecting the harsh reality.
Song Heping's fingertips unconsciously traced the rough surface of the map, skimming over those symbols of despair.
Hunter's words stabbed like icy needles at the scales of rationality.
Misrata?
Zintan?
These ard groups are indeed closer to the oil lifeline in Sidera Bay, still with strength, and not completely aligned with the Western-backed GNA.
Supporting them, leveraging oil interests, striking at the British's vulnerabilities, seems like a shorter, more direct, better investnt-return path.
And this Haftar in front...
A leader of an encircled, collapsing ard organization, with a demoralized, poorly equipped remnant army...
Is it worth staking the massive funds from the Mubara Diamond Mine mo and the future strategic focus of "Musician" Defense on this despairing desert?
A hesitation, like a fleeting shadow over the desert horizon, passed through Song Heping's mind.
The stakes seed too high; he could afford to lose, but if the wager involved countless brothers' lives...
"I understand."
Song Heping also responded in a low voice in Russian to Hunter's concerns, then turned back to Haftar once more: "General, please continue to explain the biggest challenges you are currently facing. Rest assured, I will listen carefully."
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