The news of Sayif's suicide spread like a plague among the remnants of ard forces loyal to Sayif (GNA).
The self-destruction of their backbone shattered the last will to resist among the city's soldiers.
Despair engulfed Tripoli like a cold tide, subrging the remaining governnt army strongholds.
When the Haftar National Army (LNA) and the Vanguard troops of Song Heping's rcenary Group began advancing into the city, they encountered almost no organized resistance.
Flags made from white sheets or even tattered rags were hastily raised on the war-torn streets, windows, and behind shelters in Tripoli, fluttering weakly in the breeze still thick with gunpowder.
At dawn, Tripoli declared the city had fallen.
At nine in the morning, Song Heping stood next to a BPM armored vehicle mounted with a heavy machine gun, watching as Haftar, surrounded by a retinue of guards, slowly drove into the city—the pinnacle of power—in a Toyota Land Cruiser marked with the LNA symbol.
Haftar was tall and straight, dressed in a neatly pressed khaki officer's uniform, his gray hair ticulously combed, his face glowing with the undeniable glory and sternness of a victor.
"General, congratulations."
Song Heping approached, his voice calm, extending his hand.
Haftar quickly jumped out of the vehicle, approaching Song Heping with the respect of a subordinate.
"Song, without you, we wouldn't have made it here. Libya's history will rember your na."
"History is written by the victors, General."
Song Heping smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping over the surrounding ruins and the mixed looks of fear and confusion cast from door crevices and windows.
"But how it is written determines whether it lasts. As for , you'd better not write into it. I have no desire to leave my na in another country's annals; being too conspicuous isn't good for soone like ."
"I'll do as you say."
Haftar wouldn't oppose anything Song Heping said now.
"Let's go back to the LNA's temporary headquarters; there are so matters I need your opinion on."
"Alright, let's go."
Song Heping knew very well that, despite Haftar being a victor basking in glory, the headaches were just beginning.
Being the head of a war-torn country with many tribal factions and internal divisions isn't easy.
The forr governnt headquarters had long been destroyed by war, and the temporary command was set up in the relatively intact Central Bank Building.
Upon entering the temporary command room, the joy of victory on Haftar's face was replaced by a deep-seated hatred.
He took a report out of his pocket and slamd it fiercely onto the table.
"Damn Arican!"
Haftar's voice was full of fury.
"And that damned envoy, Howard Mitchell! He's still hiding in the embassy like a sewer rat! Does he think I don't know who's backing Sayif? The sinking of the Marlin Fish, he's involved! Soone! Get him out of Libya imdiately! Tell everyone, this is the consequence of interfering in our country's internal affairs!"
The order carried a chilling intent to kill.
A few nacing-looking guards imdiately turned around.
"Wait."
Song Heping's voice wasn't loud, yet it was like an invisible barrier, halting the guards in their tracks.
He walked to the map table, glanced at the report, and then looked at Haftar, his eyes sharp as blades.
"General, driving him out or even putting him to death is easy."
Song Heping flipped through the report in his hand, a slight disdainful smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"But then what? After venting, besides giving Washington a new excuse to fill CNN and BBC headlines with 'Haftar regi brutally expels Arican diplomats,' what other benefits are there? They'll imdiately declare you an 'unpredictable dictator' and then turn to the southern deserts or the western mountains to support another 'Sayif.' Money, weapons, intelligence, to them, are just numbers. And you will fall into an endless cycle of civil war."
Haftar's thick eyebrows furrowed tightly, his chest heaving, clearly trying to restrain his anger.
"Are we just going to let them continue snooping around like nothing's happened? Song, don't forget, they've listed you as 'terrorist'! This is a huge humiliation!"
"I certainly haven't forgotten."
Song Heping spread his hands and continued: "I hate Aricans more than you do, but hatred and impulse are a soldier's instincts. Your role is now transitioning from a successful general to the helm of a country. A navigator needs a broad perspective that weighs pros and cons, the political wisdom to temporarily seat the most hated enemies across the negotiation table, a facade of 'friendly relations,' even if it makes one nauseous."
He picked up a red pencil from the table and drew a circle around Tripoli.
"Tripoli is just the beginning. You need ti to digest the fruits of victory, integrate internal factions, and restore the most basic order to give people hope. Instead of imdiately setting up targets for all Western powers, Britain, France, and the United States, they also have their contradictions. Pushing them all to the opposite side is the most foolish choice. We must exploit these contradictions, make them suspicious of each other, let them still see a glimr of 'cooperation' potential with you, and even if it's just a hypocritical show, it can secure us a valuable ti window."
Haftar stared at the red circle on the map, the anger in his eyes gradually replaced by deep thought.
He had spent half his life fighting wars, accustod to the battlefield's black-and-white decisions.
Song Heping's words were like a key, opening a door for him to a more complex, and even more dangerous, world.
"You an... to appease them?"
Haftar's voice deepened.
"Not to appease, but to make strategic contact."
Song Heping corrected, "Tell them that the war is over. The LNA is committed to restoring peace and stability in Libya. We welco all countries and institutions that respect Libyan sovereignty and are willing to play a constructive role in the rebuilding process. At the sa ti, clearly warn them that any attempt to undermine stability or support remaining hostile forces will be considered a declaration of war against the new Libyan regi, and they will bear the consequences. The wording can be official, it can be mild, but the bottom line must be firm and clear."
He put down his pencil and looked Haftar straight in the eyes, "General, expelling an envoy can only bring temporary satisfaction. But using him to send a 'controllable' and 'negotiable' signal to the Western world, even if they know it's fake, can temporarily stabilize the situation. Once you truly control the whole country and sharpen your blade, then it's not too late to settle accounts. Right now, what we need is ti, not enemies on all fronts."
The command room was silent, with only sporadic gunfire and the low hum of a generator coming from afar.
Haftar took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, as if exhaling all the resentnt from his chest.
He heavily patted Song Heping on the shoulder.
"Song! You're not only a sword on the battlefield but also a beacon in the political fog!"
He turned around and spoke in a deep voice to his adjutant awaiting orders, "Imdiately set up a temporary foreign affairs team. Send formal notices to the embassies and consulates of the United States, Britain, France, Italy in Tripoli: The LNA has taken control of the capital, committed to restoring order and peace. We have no intention of harming any diplomatic personnel, please stay calm and remain inside your premises. We will arrange for a responsible person to et with them soon to discuss ensuring the safety of diplomatic institutions and future cooperation. The wording... should be formal and appropriate, but the core ssage should be as Mr. Song said!"
The adjutant saluted and left to carry out the order.
Haftar looked at Song Heping, with a newfound respect in his eyes.
"Song, stay. I need you. The Libyan Reconstruction Committee, you need a position, one of the top positions!"
Song Heping shook his head and walked to the window, gazing at the distant blue corner of the diterranean. "General, my battlefield is between the dunes and ruins, not in the parliant hall and cocktail parties. The 'Musician's' defense has completed its contracted mission. What you need to establish is a governnt authority belonging to the Libyans themselves. Having a foreign rcenary leader at the forefront will only bring you unnecessary trouble and criticism."
He turned around, his smile carrying a trace of fatigue and relief, "I need a vacation. The sea breeze of Tripoli slls much better than the smoke of gunpowder."
Knowing he couldn't force him to stay, Haftar nodded firmly, "Your accomplishnts, Libya will never forget. If you need anything, co to at any ti. By the sea... I'll arrange the best place for you."
"It's useless to say empty words."
Song Heping half-jokingly raised his hand and made a money-counting gesture.
"I have tens of thousands of mouths in my company waiting to be fed, and the expenses are huge..."
Haftar imdiately understood, laughing heartily, "No problem! The interests you want, I'll take care of them! In the cake of oil, you'll get a generous share!"
A week later, in Tripoli, by the diterranean, on Hadi Beach.
The fires of war seed to have temporarily moved away from this once prosperous coastal area.
Although the buildings were riddled with bullet holes and the beach still scattered with remnants of war, the blue sea water still gently lapped against the rocks on the shore.
Song Heping moved into a relatively intact beach villa, which used to be the property of a wealthy businessman and has now beco his temporary safe haven.
He was dressed simply in a T-shirt and shorts, barefoot walking on the soft sandy beach, enjoying a rare mont of peace.
The sea breeze brushed his face, bringing with it a salty and fishy sll, also blowing away so of the iron-blooded and smoky aroma ingrained in his bones.
The satellite phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated.
Song Heping glanced at the number, a look of surprise imdiately showing on his face.
Why would she call at this ti?
Impossible...
She should have cut off contact with by now to avoid being detected by the CIA.
"Baby."
A familiar female voice with a slight static noise ca from the other end of the line.
It was a standard Arican English accent.
"Angel?!"
Song Heping's voice instantly rose, filled with incredulous surprise.
"You're calling at this ti? Didn't I tell you not to contact for the ti being?"
Instinctively, he looked around, as if worried soone might be listening.
"I'm not in the United States; I'm in Mitiga now."
Angel's voice carried a hint of tease and the weariness of travel, "Mitiga International Airport. Just got off the plane. My identity is the 'Horizon News Group' CEO and special war correspondent. I'm on assignnt to interview the mysterious figure who just 'liberated' the Libyan capital, the 'African Ghost', Mr. Song Heping."
"What?!"
Song Heping's heart skipped a beat, almost leaping out of his chest.
"Are you crazy?! Do you know what Tripoli is like now?! Stray bullets, landmines, unpurged deserters, resentful lurkers... and the Western institutions that wish I were dead all have their eyes on this place! You must get back on the plane and leave imdiately! Now!"
His tone suddenly turned severe, with an unquestionable command.
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