40 hours later.
Late night.
The C-130 "Hercules" transport plane tore through the deathly silence of the North African stratosphere, the rear cabin door hydraulic system roaring open on both sides.
The violent negative pressure airflow instantly sucked dry the cabin air, emitting a hellish abyss-like shriek.
Sixteen mbers of the SAS "Chair" squad were like black statues welded to the deck, the temperature-regulating fibers of their pressurized suits frosted in the -56°C cold.
The red light at the top of the cabin pierced the darkness.
"Green light thirty seconds!"
The jump master's shout was hamred directly into the eardrums by bone conduction headphones, overpowering the furious roar of the four Allison T56 turboprop engines.
Sergeant Macmillan, the commander, had ice crystals forming on his oxygen mask, and the ice-blue pupils behind the night vision goggles remained unmoving.
He raised two fingers wrapped in fireproof Nox gloves and chopped forward—"GO! GO! GO!"
Dozens of shadows resolutely plunged into the night.
In the mont of free fall, the G-force hit the chest like a giant hamr.
The display screen on the back of his hand showed the altitude numbers jumping wildly—
28000...
27000...
26000...
"Stable posture! Maintain formation! Follow the guide!"
Macmillan adjusted to a head-down diving posture in the turbulent airflow, his arms tightly against his body.
Below, Northern Darfur's terrain unfolded in the eerie green view of the AN/PVS-31 binocular night vision goggles—the dried riverbeds like cracked veins of the earth, jagged ridges cutting through the boundless darkness.
The coordinates of the rally point "Tombstone" were steadily flashing on the GPS interface of the arm terminal.
"Two thousand five!"
The Vanguard's voice was calm as precise instrunts.
"Eight hundred! Open parachute!"
Sixteen MC-5 wing parachutes exploded simultaneously with a muffled sound.
The high-strength nylon canopy caught the airflow instantly, turning the descent into controlled gliding. The parachute control bar was pulled sharply downward, the wing parachute cutting into the preset airflow layer with a low tearing sound.
Sixteen black bats glided silently toward the target at 60 kiloters per hour, as the flight computers automatically corrected course deviation.
"Three-minute countdown to Tombstone contact. Land and imdiately switch to combat configuration, fan-shaped alert."
Macmillan's voice transmitted into each team mber's ear through an encrypted UHF channel, as hard and cold as steel under forging.
At the sa ti.
Fifty kiloters east, a radar-absorbing coated "Gulfstream" G550 glided like a ghost across the edge of the clouds.
In the cabin, sixteen mbers of the "Masada" action team had checked their equipnt and fastened their breathing masks.
The Mossad and British Special Forces have completely different styles.
If conditions permit, they prefer to infiltrate using civilian aircraft.
Since the civil war, Libya's airspace is a virtual void, with the modified Gulfstream G550 moving as if it were in an uninhabited realm.
The cabin door silently opened, and sixteen figures queued up at the cabin's edge, plunging into the abyss.
They were shrouded in thermo-optical camouflage cloaks, with infrared signals suppressed to within ±0.3°C of the ambient temperature by a nano-scale cooling circulation system.
Mossad's "Masada" Operation Team Alpha—Bayonet Unit's sharpest edge.
Team leader, Major Eitan Lavide, unfolded his left arm during the free fall.
The tactical terminal screen glowed faintly, as the nurical elevation model of the landing point precisely integrated with real-ti satellite infrared images.
With a flick of a finger on the mask sensor, the quantum encrypted channel instantly connected: "All have received, altitude two thousand, prepare to open parachute."
As the highest-ranking Alpha team of Mossad's "Masada" action group, "Masada" carries a significant legacy.
The insignia of this team is embroidered with the historical Jewish ancient city of Masada.
In 73 AD, when the Roman Legion breached the walls, nine hundred and sixty Hebrew soldiers chose suicide over slavery.
"Masada Lo Tipol Shnit!" (Masada will not fall a second ti!)—this is their national vow, becoming the soul totem of the Daishe Bird Country Special Forces.
Mossad's Special Operations Departnt has three Bayonet Teams: Alpha Team specializes in high-value target elimination; Bravo Team is responsible for sabotage behind enemy lines; Charlie Team handles hostage rescue.
Each mber is tempered by the "Wild Boys" Special Forces before undergoing two years of "Sand Demon" boot camp in the Negev desert, mastering unconventional skills like poison formulation, archeological camouflage, and fighter plane piloting.
"Open parachute!"
Sixteen GTX-9 wing parachutes burst open. The diamond formation precisely adjusted its angle in the night sky, silently cutting into the space above the "Hyena" pass.
Their equipnt is the crystallization of technology and slaughter: silenced TAR-21 assault rifles integrated with laser indicating/ranging modules; backpack-based "Iron Do" electronic warfare systems can incapacitate communication within a 1.2-kiloter radius; heel-embedded ultrasonic generators can shatter electronic lock cores.
"Twenty seconds to the landing zone."
Eitan's voice was unwavering.
The wing parachute control lines were finely adjusted, as the rocky slope expanded rapidly within the quad-view night vision device.
"Switch to camouflage according to plan post-landing. Doron, activate 'Ghost' communication barrier imdiately upon landing."
---
West side of E7 canyon, the British team's rally point.
The mont the last SAS mber touched the ground, the MC-5 wing parachute was already tucked into the pressure-resistant backpack by the special silencer folding device.
Sixteen people seeped into the sand like ink, only the moving thermal images in the night vision goggles exposed traces of life.
Macmillan knelt beside an erosion-resistant rock, revealing the standard Multi-Terrain Pattern camouflage after unpacking the parachute.
The screw-on silencer of the L119A2 assault rifle reflected a matte glow.
The tactical tablet emitted a faint light in the darkness:
"Third drone scan complete, thermal signal background clean, surroundings are safe."
The intelligence officer's voice was as thin as a thread.
Team leader Macmillan glanced at the electronic map to confirm his location: "No deviation in position, deploy search-forward formation, and head toward the target."
Sixteen shadows split into two teams, one in front, one at the back, swiftly delving into the darkness.
The custom Vibram rubber soles adhered to the gravel, the L119A2 muzzle directed at a 45-degree angle toward the threat axis.
They adopted the "search-forward" formation: two Vanguard teams responsible for path scouting and trap clearing, subsequent mbers following in a staggered sequence at 5-ter intervals, firepower fan covering a 360-degree threat zone.
This is SAS's "Ghost Step" honed by two hundred years of the Empire's shadow hamr—advancing at 1.8 kiloters per hour, with heartbeats not exceeding 90 tis per minute.
---
The Hebrews' rally point.
Sixteen "Alpha" mbers completed camouflage conversion in 28 seconds, disguising themselves as oil exploration crew.
The worn khaki workwear was dust-covered, canvas backpacks bulging with rock samples, holding geological hamrs for sampling on porous basalt.
Only experts could notice the flaw—they maintained a tactical interval of 7.5 ters at all tis, with the hard edge of quick-draw holsters hidden under the work pants at their waists.
Leaning against the wind-eroded rock pillar, Eitan unfolded a yellowing geological map, his fingertips, however, were pressed on the edge of the concealed tactical tablet.
An encrypted channel vibrated:
"'Alpha' calling 'King,' requesting final action confirmation."
In Hebrew, Eitan whispered, his gaze sweeping over the laser communicator disguised as a compass.
In the underground command center in Tel Aviv, Yager stared at the satellite surveillance screen.
The blue dots representing the British Army SAS were moving toward the E7 Canyon as planned, but mistrust surged in his ice-gray pupils.
He didn't imdiately answer Eitan's call.
"Yager."
In the radio, Eitan continued to ask, "How credible is the route given by the British?"
"The British intelligence network has long been full of holes."
Yager's voice cut into the dedicated channel.
"Change the route, don't use the planned route, execute the backup plan."
"Alpha received, executing imdiately."
---
London, MI6 operation command center.
On the huge curved screen, the red dot representing Alpha Team suddenly turned ninety degrees, changing the marching route.
Ms. M's silhouette in a charcoal gray suit stood as firm as a sword, her fingertips tapping a cold rhythm on the alloy control console.
Tap, tap, tap-tap—
"Alpha Team deviated from the coordinates, they are marching according to the original plan again."
The senior analyst's voice suddenly tensed.
Without turning back, Ms. M's icy blue pupils reflected the cursor's abnormal movent: "Yager activated an independent signal source, they don't trust us..."
"What do we do now?" The analyst appeared slightly nervous: "Will this affect the entire operation?"
"Ignore them, Hebrews are inherently suspicious. If they want to act independently, let them." After saying this, Ms. M added: "Tell the 'Chair' squad to carry out the reconnaissance mission as originally planned."
West side of E7 Canyon.
SAS "Tombstone" assembly point.
The cool night wind whipped sand and gravel against bare rocks, making a faint weeping sound.
Sergeant Macmillan leaned against the cold, weathered rock, his eyes fixed on the tactical tablet in his hand.
The screen was dark, the ti showed: 03:17.
He put away the tablet and looked around.
Darkness, nothing but darkness.
He felt a vague unease in his heart.
It always felt like a fierce beast lurked behind the darkness.
So, he took out the night vision goggles and carefully observed the surroundings.
Still, nothing...
"Jensen, did you launch the drone?"
"Launched it, checked it half an hour ago, no movent."
Jensen, the officer in charge of the drone, shook his head.
"Haven't seen the GNA reconnaissance team appear."
According to the original plan, the SAS team would et with a GNA reconnaissance team here.
The latter had infiltrated here across the border half a month ago and had been active here for a long ti.
They were the advance reconnaissance team.
After all, MI6 had suffered too many losses at the hands of Song Heping, they had learned to be cautious and wary.
Losing a dozen GNA ard reconnaissance soldiers was more cost-effective than losing British Special Forces mbers.
These people had been operating here for a long ti and were very familiar with the area.
Tonight, once Macmillan's team joined them, they would be able to infiltrate smoothly near the base controlled by Song Heping, wait there for the air forces' attack, and prepare ground guidance.
As the airstrike proceeded, the ground advance plan was also in motion.
Sayif's army of twenty thousand gathered at the border had already begun to set off.
Air-ground coordination, attacking from two sides.
This ti, the British were determined to see Song Heping dead.
However, more than half an hour had passed since the scheduled eting ti.
The GNA people had not yet appeared...
A cloud passed over Macmillan's heart, an ominous premonition crept in.
"'Chair' calling Deep Well."
He imdiately contacted the operation command center.
"No movent at the GNA contact point, scheduled eting ti overdue by 47 minutes. Repeat, no response. Requesting instructions."
In his earpiece was a brief static hiss, followed by a calm, unruffled reply from the duty analyst at 'Deep Well' command center: "'Chair,' maintain position and alert. They may be delayed due to unexpected circumstances. We are currently contacting Sayif to locate his reconnaissance team, attempting secondary communication channels, please remain in position and await further instructions."
"Copy that."
Captain Macmillan reluctantly ended the call, his ice-blue eyes surveying the team mbers on circular alert around him.
In the shadows, sixteen SAS team mbers blended into the rock like sculptures, only the lenses of night vision goggles occasionally flickered with a faint green reflection.
The air was thick with unease, more chilling than the desert cold.
Sergeant Boynes crawled in from the flank, his voice pressed very low: "Boss, sothing's wrong. It's too quiet. Not even a sand rat."
Macmillan's Adam's apple bobbed.
He was just about to order an expansion of the alert range—
Whoosh—!
A piercing sound sliced through the stillness!
"RPG!!!"
The Vanguard Team's roar erupted almost simultaneously!
Boom—!!!
A violent explosion erupted on a huge rock thirty ters in front of Macmillan's right!
An orange-red fireball shot into the sky, the scorching blast swept through carrying stone fragnts and tal shrapnel, instantly knocking two alert SAS mbers to the ground!
"Contact! Ten o'clock direction! Heavy firepower!"
Macmillan's shout was instantly drowned in the sudden hail of gunfire!
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