The heavy wooden door slid open silently.
General Haftar appeared at the doorway. He had changed into a clean desert camouflage uniform. Although his face still looked tired and haggard, his back was straight, his gaze sharp and calm, without a trace of a fugitive's despair. He was alone, without an aide.
His gaze swept across the people in the conference room with varied expressions, finally landing on Song Heping, and he nodded slightly.
"Mr. Song, everyone."
Haftar's voice was steady and powerful, carrying a piercing quality born from experience, "Sorry to disturb you. I know you are behind closed doors, deciding the future of and my loyal soldiers. I request a few minutes of your ti to present so thoughts. Regardless of the outco, I, Haftar, thank the 'Musician' Defense for their assistance in Desert City and Razor Back."
Song Heping gestured for him to continue: "General, please go ahead."
Haftar walked to the side of the conference table, not sitting down, pressed his hands on the table edge, his body slightly leaning forward, his gaze sweeping like a hawk across everyone.
"Libya."
He began, his voice bearing the weight of history.
"From the era of Colonel Ka's might to the present fragntation, a cycle of hell. Why?"
His gaze sharpened, "Because this has never been a place where Libyans get to decide! Look at the Middle East, look at Africa, behind those countries trapped in endless war, whose shadows lurk? It's London, it's Paris, it's Washington, it's Moscow! They hover like vultures, seeking carrion, provoking tribes, sects, and warlords to tear each other apart! What's their favorite trick? It's 'balance'! They will never allow any faction to genuinely grow strong and achieve unity! Because a unified, stable, independent Libya doesn't serve their interests! They need chaos, they need proxy wars, they need an ever-flowing arms market, they need cheap oil and minerals!"
His voice wasn't high, but every word cut like a knife, laying bare the bloody reality:
"What is Sayif? He is a well-chosen obedient dog by the British! They give him weapons, give him money, help him sit on the GNA's top seat, all to make him compliant, to turn him into Britain's watchdog in Libya!"
"But what happens to the dog? Used up, or disobedient, it'll be kicked away, replaced by a new one! Look at Dorn! Look at Yarif! The British can sacrifice them without hesitation! Sayif is just the next expendable pawn! He thinks he's a player? What a joke! He's just a piece that can be taken off the board at any ti!"
Haftar took a deep breath, his gaze intensely fixed on Song Heping:
"I'm not an idealist, Mr. Song. I'm a soldier, a realist. I know Libya dreaming to completely rid itself of Western influence is foolhardy. But..."
He intensified his tone: "Not being their pawn! That is my bottom line! I can negotiate with them, trade with them, but it must be on equal terms! I want cooperation, not kneeling and begging! I want to utilize their internal rifts, England and France's rifts, the USA and Russia's rifts, making them check each other rather than lead by the nose! Only then does Libya stand a chance at achieving even a temporary, fragile peace! It can then have the breathing room to rebuild!"
He took a step forward, his gaze fixed firmly on Song Heping:
"If, and I an if, I can regain control over most of Libya, acquire true speaking rights. I promise, the 'Musician' Defense Company will be my top priority and most important partner! The key ports in Tripoli, Benghazi, Misrata will be opened to you first! You will get the largest share of the rights to discovered and undiscovered oil fields! Your interests will be closely tied to Libya's stability!"
This blunt promise of interests caused everyone in the conference room to pause for a mont.
These were real bargaining chips.
"I know."
Haftar's tone shifted slightly, with a hint of undetectable excitent, "Currently, you see , with only these hundred-odd people, like a dog that lost its ho. But you are mistaken!"
He stood tall: "The failure in Desert City was due to an insider's betrayal! It's not because my soldiers were incompetent! Just within hours of our arrival here, my satellite phone hasn't stopped ringing! Those dispersed troops from Desert City, fighting individually, they're like lone wolves on the prairie seeking their Head Wolf, looking for ! They are closing in on !"
He reported a number that shook every person present to their core:
"Initial statistics show over five thousand forr troops have been contacted and are gathering towards Darfur! These people, who have survived the bloody battle in Desert City, have not surrendered under dispersion, nor disappeared! They are the capital for , Haftar, to turn the tables! They are the foundation for my return to Libya!"
Five thousand people!
This number struck like a bolt of lightning, splitting the heavy atmosphere in the conference room.
Behind Ferrari's lenses glittered a sharp light, and White Bear and Hunter instinctively sat up straight.
"However..."
Haftar's voice fell solemnly, with sincerity, "I need help! Mr. Song! I need the 'Musician's' help! Weapons! Ammunition! Vehicles! Fuel! Communication equipnt! These supplies are the lifeblood! More importantly—"
His gaze swept across White Bear, Hunter, and others, carrying undisguised eagerness, "I need you! Need your top military training! I've seen how your n fought on Razor Back! Precision, efficiency, ruthlessness, seamless cooperation! That's the standard of a professional army! If you can help train these five thousand experienced veterans into an army with even half your standard... no, only need three-tenths!"
Haftar's eyes flared with intense, almost obsessive fervor:
"I, Haftar, am absolutely confident of leading this army back to Libya! To defeat Sayif, that British dog! To defeat those loose warlords' ard forces! To reclaim our land and dignity!"
His words were like a heavy sledgehamr, pounding on everyone's hearts.
Five thousand veterans sifted by blood and fire.
Coupled with a mature, pragmatic, ambitious leader.
And the top training and equipnt support from 'Musician'...
This vision instantly alleviated much of the previous despair from "hundred remnants."
General Haftar finished speaking, slightly nodding towards Song Heping and the others: "That's all I have to say. Thank you for your ti."
Without further words, he turned around and walked out of the operations room with the steady gait unique to military personnel.
The door closed silently behind him.
The operations room fell into a prolonged silence. Unlike the previous oppressive mood, this ti the silence was charged with an undercurrent called "possibility."
Song Heping's gaze slowly swept over the core mbers present.
Ferrari was frowning deeply, his fingers rapidly sliding across his tablet, evidently reassessing the feasibility of Haftar's data and plan, his previous staunch opposition wavering.
White Bear crossed his arms, eyes sharp in thought, seeming to weigh the difficulty and potential rewards of training five thousand African soldiers.
Hunter had stopped wiping his handgun, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table, as if calculating the odds of victory in battle.
No one spoke easily in opposition anymore.
Haftar's speech, especially the five thousand veterans he was gathering, had completely altered the expected balance of power.
More importantly, the future he described — that of a "collaborator" rather than a "pawn," along with the tempting prospects of ports and oil field interests — carried an irresistible allure.
Song Heping took in everyone's reactions. He leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, his voice steady and powerful, breaking the silence:
"Ladies and gentlen, what are your thoughts now?"
Ferrari raised his head, his gaze behind gold-rimd glasses complex, he took a deep breath, his voice carrying a hint of dryness, quietly said: "Perhaps...it's worth a try. The risks are still great, but...the potential returns indeed exceed our previous expectations. Five thousand seasoned veterans...that's a good foundation."
He finally chose the cautious but not dismissive word "try."
White Bear slowly uncrossed his arms, his coarse fingers tapping the table: "Training five thousand...in three months? Ti is tight, the task is heavy. But... if they can be molded, this indeed could be a force that stirs up the situation in Libya. The key is, Haftar... his words earlier didn't sound like boasting."
Hunter nodded succinctly: "Promising. Let's do it!"
Other mbers also nodded, the previous doubts in their eyes replaced by a new light, filled with adventure and anticipation.
Song Heping's gaze finally settled on the strategic map of Libya, as if piercing through the map to see the torrent of soldiers Haftar described converging towards Northern Darfur.
The last trace of hesitation in his eyes vanished, replaced by the edge of decisive sharpness.
He suddenly stood up, his voice like steel tempered by fire, resounding through the operations room:
"Good! Let's settle it this way!"
"Collins, go and inform General Haftar later, that we, the 'Musician' Defense Company, accept his proposal!"
"Ferrari, imdiately draft a detailed list of supplies and a plan for procurent and transportation— weapons, ammunition, vehicles, fuel, communication equipnt, all according to the standards for high-intensity warfare for five thousand people! Money is not an issue, what I want is speed and stealth!"
"White Bear, Jiang Feng!"
Song Heping's gaze turned to the forr Russian paratrooper and Jiang Feng, a forr instructor in the Air Assault Team.
"The training plan is fully under your command! Three months! I'm giving you only three months! Turn these five thousand scattered soldiers into a force that can fight tough battles and understand modern tactical coordination! I don't need them all to be like Rambo, I want them to function like precise gears! Specify any instructors, fields, and equipnt you need directly!"
"Hunter! You're to assist White Bear, responsible for enhancing basic tactics and firepower coordination training, especially urban warfare and desert maneuvering battles!"
"Everyone else, carry out your duties, fully support! From this mont, all company resources are to be directed towards the 'Darfur Reformation Plan'!"
Song Heping slamd his fist on the table with a "thud," like the beat of a war drum:
"Three months! In three months, I want to lead this 'Haftar's Army' forged by our own hands back into Libya! To drive Sayif and the British backing him into the diterranean!"
Orders electrified the operations room in an instant.
The previous heaviness, hesitation, and debates were all transford at this mont into a clear goal and an exhilarating challenge.
Everyone responded in unison:
"Understood! Boss!"
A new storm eye was forming on the desolate Gobi Desert of Darfur.
An all-in gamble set with a three-month limit, betting on the future of the "Musician" and the fate of Haftar, had officially begun.
Song Heping's gun barrel was already aid at Tripoli in the distance.
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