After at least five extrely stringent checks—verifying passwords, inspecting docunts, and even requiring everyone in the vehicle to disembark for a body check and facial verification—the pickup truck was finally allowed to enter the courtyard of an extrely ordinary, low-rise but unusually thick-walled reinforced concrete building.
"We're here. Follow ."
The lead agent seed to breathe a sigh of relief upon seeing Song Heping.
Song Heping got out of the car with the canvas bag and followed him into the building.
The corridor inside was narrow and dimly lit; the walls were rough, unpainted concrete, emitting a pungent moldy sll.
Static noise from radio communications, rapid Russian and Arabic commands, the sound of keyboards typing, and maps being flipped could be heard constantly from behind the tightly closed iron doors on either side of the corridor, creating a highly tense and busy warti command atmosphere.
The agent led Song Heping to a heavy iron door with an electronic combination lock and entered the password, pushing it open a crack.
The scene behind the door opened up suddenly.
A spacious yet crowded underground command center ca into view.
The walls were covered with large detailed military maps of Siria, satellite photos, and real-ti situation maps. They were densely marked with red and blue lines, arrows, and symbols, indicating the unit numbers, control areas, advance directions, and combat hotspots of both sides. The situation looked perilous, with large areas marked in eye-catching red.
In the center were several long tables filled with advanced communication equipnt, computer terminals, and encrypted phones. A dozen or so Russians and Syrian officers were busily making calls, operating computers, and engaging in heated discussions, their faces etched with exhaustion and anxiety.
The air was filled with an almost tangible tension.
Amidst this bustling scene, a conspicuous figure stood out—a man as burly as a bear, wearing a Russian-style digital camouflage combat uniform, yet comically clad in a white kitchen apron stained with a few grease spots.
He was hurling curses at a tactical tablet screen, his thick eyebrows tightly furrowed.
Then, as if sensing sothing, he suddenly looked up, his gaze sweeping over the busy crowd to accurately lock onto Song Heping, who had just entered.
It was Yevgeny, nicknad "Chef," an old friend.
His worried face broke into a huge, radiant, and incredibly sincere smile, like sunshine breaking through the clouds.
He dropped the tablet with haste, opened his burly arms, and strode across the command room, nearly knocking aside obstructing people, and his booming voice imdiately overpowered the indoor clamor:
"Song! Haha! Song! I knew you'd co! My old friend! You damn guy finally made it! How was the journey? Didn't run into any big trouble, did you?"
He gave Song Heping a hearty bear hug, vigorously patting his back with enough force to suffocate an ordinary person.
"Not bad, Chef. It's just that your 'welco route' is getting more and more thrilling."
Even Song Heping managed a rare sincere smile, lightly patting this Russian old friend's iron-hard arm in return.
"Damn, in this godforsaken place, getting in alive is a victory!"
Chef released him and gripped Song Heping's shoulders with both hands, carefully looking him up and down.
"No change! Still as sharp as a drawn sword! Good! Just great!"
His joy was evident, as if the re arrival of Song Heping injected him with a shot of confidence.
Suddenly, he rembered sothing and tugged at the ridiculous apron on him, with a bit of embarrassnt and a deliberate air: "Look! I wasn't lying! I said I'd show off a skill, and I've put on the apron organizing in the kitchen! Authentic borscht! Beef, beetroot, potatoes, onions... damn, to gather these fresh ingredients, my n practically scoured half of Damascus's black market."
"Rember? Back in the Baghdad Green Zone, we used to sit outside our tents eating, you, White Bear, Grey Wolf, Queen... that taste, unforgettable for a lifeti! I've never managed to cook a borscht with that flavor again since!"
Song Heping looked at Chef's abrupt yet warmly humane getup, seeing how amidst such suffocating pressure and crisis, he obstinately cherished the thought of making him a al. Even with a heart as tough as his, a rush of warmth and indescribable emotion surged in his chest at this mont.
This friendship, forged through blood and fire, life and death, was far more solid and precious than any exchange of interests.
"I rember."
Song Heping nodded, his tone very sincere, "Thank you, Yevgeny."
But his gaze imdiately passed over Chef's shoulder, landing on the largest, most detailed battlefield situation map on the wall.
His eyes instantly regained their usual calmness and sharpness: "The soup can wait. I didn't co here just to eat your Russian cuisine, what we need most now is information—the latest, complete information."
He pointed to the few largest and still-expanding red areas on the map, "The situation here looks worse than you described over the phone."
Chef's smile quickly faded, replaced by a heavy gloom.
He sighed heavily, his voice turning hoarse, "Yeah, damn it... every minute, it gets worse, bad news just keeps coming."
He tore off the apron, tossing it to a stunned adjutant nearby.
"Go, watch the pot, call when it's done, no burning it!"
Then he turned to Song Heping, "Song, co, let show you just how ssed up this pot actually is..."
But Song Heping raised a hand to stop him, "No need for a verbal rundown now. Summarize all intelligence, detailed enemy and ally deploynt maps, all battle reports from the past 72 hours, aerial reconnaissance, and signal intelligence summaries. Give so ti, I need to read it myself, assess it myself."
Chef froze for a mont, then understood.
This was the Song Heping he knew—always straight to the core, prioritizing efficiency, only trusting his own analysis and judgnt.
He imdiately shouted to a Russian Army staff mber nearby: "Quick! Like Song said! Bring all the materials, with highest access level, to the adjacent top-secret intelligence analysis room! Now!"
He turned back to Song Heping, "That room is the quietest, the best soundproofed, and the best equipped. You start first, should I bring your food over? We can eat and chat?"
Song Heping was already striding towards that analysis room, tossing a comnt over his shoulder without turning: "Just leave it at the door. Until I fully understand the situation, don't let anyone disturb ."
His figure disappeared behind the heavy anti-explosion door, which clicked softly as it locked tightly.
Chef looked at the closed door, and the fatigue and anxiety on his face seed miraculously lighter, with a hint of hopeful gleam rekindling in his eyes.
He muttered to himself, as if praying, "Goddamn... hope you can really magic the impossible into possible again, like in Illiguo..."
He turned, striding briskly towards the kitchen, his steps even appearing a bit lighter, as if that pot of borscht carried his greatest hope at the mont.
anwhile, inside that cold, screen-filled, and e-map-covered analysis room, Song Heping already stood before the massive main screen, his gaze like the most precise radar swiftly scanning, absorbing, and analyzing the vast but chaotic data and information flow on the screen, trying to make sense of this burning land and endless chaos, to find that crucial breakthrough point.
The situation in Siria had quietly turned a new page with his arrival.
Outside the door, the world was still filled with the roar of cannons; inside, Song Heping's thoughts would decide the life and death of countless people.
In the silent analysis room, only the faint sound of Song Heping's fingers brushing across the touchscreen and his steady breathing could be heard.
A silent battle had already begun.
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