On the Avanti's side, after hanging up Song Heping's call, he sat in the chair, pondering for a mont before picking up another landline and dialing a number.
The line was quickly connected, and Avanti said only one sentence: "Tell Intelligence Officer Kazimi to see imdiately."
...
Three days later.
The scorching sun over the Persian Gulf poured its relentless molten gold onto the steel and iron bones of Kuwait's Shuweikh Port.
The air twisted in the heat, with the salty, oily, and rusty sll carried by the sea breeze blowing against the bustling crowd on the docks.
The enormous "Marlin Fish" lay quietly anchored in its designated deep-water berth like a fatigued gray steel whale.
Its massive hull was still intimidating compared to the surrounding container ships, with the prominent Military Sealift Command (MSC) insignia and the star-spangled banner gently fluttering in the hot wind on the bridge.
At this mont, the steel beast was greedily devouring the continuous stream of "cargo" by opening its dark side hatch and giant ramp.
The docks had transford into a huge and efficient war logistics center.
Heavy trucks lined up in a long queue, engines roaring, as they dragged sealed containers or directly moved heavily tarped weapon systems under the large ship-mounted cranes.
US Army logistics soldiers and port workers, drenched in sweat and wearing camouflage, busily operated under the officers' commands and supervision of civilian personnel holding electronic checklist devices.
"Zone B! Secure those last three M777s! Check the cables again! Don't let them fall into the sea out there!"
A hoarse voice sounded through the loudspeaker amid the chaos.
The one shouting was a stout middle-aged man wearing oil-stained khaki overalls and a dark polo shirt commonly worn by CIA operatives.
His na was Terry Walters, Deputy Station Chief of the CIA Kuwait Station.
At the mont, he was standing on a slightly elevated command platform at the dock, grasping a walkie-talkie in one hand and irritatingly wiping sweat from his eyes with the other, his eyes scanning the loading operations like a watchful hawk.
Several dismantled M777 howitzers, painted in desert camo, were being slowly lifted by the huge crane arms and carefully delivered into the "Marlin Fish's" cavernous rear hold.
Below, workers shouted loudly, pulling taut the securing steel cables.
"Zone A containers! Numbers KWT-ALPHA-771 to 785! Priority loading! These are light weapons and ammo heading to Libya! Double-check the inventory! If a box goes missing, I'll skin you alive!"
Terry roared into the walkie-talkie, his voice hoarse from days of shouting and lack of sleep.
Across the dock lay a suffocating pile of war materials: boxes labeled "5.56mm NATO," "7.62x39mm," stacked high; olive green Humrs and armored personnel carriers shrouded in rainproof tarps; bundles of anti-tank missile launch tubes...
Apart from these, there were more sealed containers, the contents known only by the codes on the checklist and people like Terry — possibly communication devices, night vision equipnt, or even parts for small frontline drones.
The entire dock was infused with the intense mix of tal, oil, gunpowder, and sweat, unique to preludes of war.
Terry had been entrenched there for three days straight. Supervising, coordinating, verifying, urging, and losing his temper...
He felt his nerves were stretched to their limits like a tightly drawn bowstring, and his throat felt like it was swallowing sand.
Orders from Vincent at Langley ca one after another, more urgent each ti, with pressure transmitted layer by layer, ultimately landing heavily on his shoulders as the Deputy Station Chief responsible for the specific port loading operations.
Sayif was pressing for supplies on the Sawinu frontline, Washington was desperate to see results from the arms deliveries, while here at the port, the high temperature, massive volus of supplies, and Kuwait's efficiency in cooperation...
All these were driving him to exhaustion.
"Fuck!"
Terry cursed softly, watching as a crane paused its operation due to a slight sway of one container, wishing he could jump down there and handle it himself.
He picked up the walkie-talkie again, his voice distorted by extre fatigue and agitation: "Damn it! Move faster! All loading must be complete before sunset! The ship has to depart at high tide! If we delay, we'll all pay the price!"
Ti ticked away amidst the sweat and roaring sounds.
As the final heavy flatbed truck loaded with ammunition slowly drove into the "Marlin Fish's" abyssal rear hold, and the giant ramp lifted and closed with a hydraulic squeal, emitting a heavy "clunk" sound, Terry's continuously tense shoulders finally collapsed.
The golden glow of the sunset dyed the shimring sea surface, also casting its color on the enormous gray hull of the "Marlin Fish."
The foghorn emitted a long and deep sound, declaring the end of the loading operations. Tugboats began cautiously pushing the ten-thousand-ton giant ship, slowly departing from the dock.
Terry exhaled a long, long breath, as if releasing all the accumulated pressure and exhaustion trapped in his lungs over the past three days.
He felt emptied, with fatigue filling every part of his body like lead.
Sweat soaked through his polo shirt, clinging tightly against his back.
"Finally... damn it... it's done..."
He mumbled to himself, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. He pulled out his phone, intending to send Vincent a brief confirmation report.
Just then, the phone screen lit up, not with an email alert but with a call from a local number.
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