Next day.
The dawn in Northern Darfur still carried a biting chill.
But the air of the training base had long been displaced by another kind of heat—the perspiration from over five thousand bodies pushing their limits.
The training ground was no longer flat sand but a miniature Hell transford day and night by the engineer company.
The ruins and debris of the simulated town were even more realistic, with explosives buried within, ready to erupt with booming blasts and rising smoke to topple the trainees at any mont.
The interconnected tactical trenches were deepened and widened, filled with muddy sludge and sharp stones.
The layers of barbed wire were suffocatingly low, with strips of fabric coated in pungent paint hanging above, simulating infrared detection traps.
The intensity of the confrontation exercises surged dramatically.
The Blue Army (the hypothetical enemy), personally led by Jiang Feng, consisted of the most elite, including veteran "Musicians" and backbone mbers with razor-like sharpness, equipped with the best night vision and communication gear from the base, occupying preset strong fortifications and high points.
The Red Army (the training troops) had to complete specified tactical objectives within the allocated ti, facing the intense and cunning firepower of the "enemy"—seize the core stronghold, rescue the "hostages," destroy the "communication hub."
No paintballs, no blanks.
Using real ammunition!
The only protection was the stringent rules of engagent set by Jiang Feng, precise down to the centiter of the firing boundary, and the predatory supervision of the veterans.
Even so, the sll of gunpowder in the air and the whizzing sound of warheads breaking through were enough to stop the bravest recruit's heart.
"Red Third Company! Watch the left flank! Machine gun squad! Suppress the fire at the second-floor window in Sector B! Suppress it! Not demolish the building!"
Jiang Feng's roar exploded through the loudspeakers in the gaps between explosions.
His figure was like a specter, at tis appearing behind the Red Army's assault team, harshly striking a sluggish soldier's helt with a baton, making an ear-piercing "clang"; at tis appearing at the Blue Army's sniper point, harshly reprimanding the imprecise fire coverage.
A platoon of Red Army soldiers struggled to advance in the muddy trenches, attempting to outflank the Blue Army's side.
Suddenly, a preset trap mine was triggered. A muffled sound erupted as mud mixed with stones shot into the sky. Although there was no lethal charge, the massive shockwave and flying debris instantly toppled several soldiers at the front, mud water choking their mouths and noses as they curled up coughing in pain.
"dic! Drag them away! Everyone else, keep moving! Alternate cover! Do you think this is a picnic?!"
An instructor, serving as the platoon leader from the "Musicians," roared, kicking a new recruit trying to help a fallen comrade on the backside.
The iron discipline showed its nacing face at this mont: the mission was above all, and casualties could not stop the iron current of progress.
After each exercise, regardless of victory or defeat, the battlefield seed ravaged by a hurricane.
Figures struggling in the mud, soldiers shocked by simulated explosions who bled from their ears and noses yet still clutched their weapons, and those "corpses" reluctantly leaving the battlefield due to being declared "casualties."
Jiang Feng would imdiately conduct a ruthlessly thorough debrief, analyzing every mistake, every mont of chaos, and every hesitation with the harshest language, flogging everyone's nerves.
"Look at you! Coordination? Bullshit coordination! The assault group charges forward, where's the cover group? The fire group is mute? The squad leader's command is nonsense? On the battlefield, if you rush like this, dying ten tis wouldn't be enough!"
His finger nearly poked the faces of the embarrassed squad leaders who hung their heads low, "Make the sa mistake again, the whole platoon will carry logs and run twenty laps around the base! Now! Casualties stay behind to clear the battlefield! The rest, in five minutes, target the hill in Zone C! Attack again!"
The bloodlust was being drawn out bit by bit under pressure and sha.
The soldiers' initial fear and confusion were gradually replaced by a nearly numb resilience and ferocity.
They began learning to communicate with eye contact while crawling through a hail of bullets, erupt with synchronized fire the mont the squad leader's hand signal dropped, instinctively fill the fire gaps when a comrade was "knocked down."
The mark of disorganized soldiers was forcibly peeled away in this hellish crucible.
London, beside the Thas River, behind a heavy oak door.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of expensive cigars and the sharpness of a Scottish single malt whiskey.
The flas in the fireplace danced silently, casting flickering light on the Victorian Era nautical map hanging on the wall.
This was a secret club of MI6 and also a venue for shadowy exchanges of power.
Lady M sat sternly in a high-backed leather sofa, her perfectly tailored dark suit making her appear even more severe.
On the low table before her was a military tablet with cold, hard lines. The screen was lit, displaying an enlarged satellite map of North Africa, with a notable red circle marking a certain area in Northern Darfur.
The man sitting opposite her appeared to be in his forties, with ticulously grood hair and a well-established yet nondescript dark gray suit.
His gaze was as sharp as a Peregrine's in the desert, carrying the coldness accumulated from life-and-death ordeals.
Yager, Middle East operations director of Mossad.
A na well-known on both Tel Aviv and enemy assassinations' lists.
"Mr. Yager."
Lady M's voice was low, yet it bore an undeniable authority.
"The aftermath of 'Severed Throat' has subsided. We've paid the price but also solidified a new balance. Now, it's ti to refocus on those... factors destabilizing regional stability."
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