The heavy blast door silently closed behind Song Heping, severing the last trace of outside clamor.
Inside the intelligence analysis room, only the cold white LED lights emitted uniform, temperature-less light, illuminating the enclosed space cast in reinforced concrete.
The massive main screen nearly occupied the entire wall, and at present, it displayed a harrowing image—a military situation map of the entire Siria.
These were battlefield command systems provided by Russia, as indicated by the Russian labels on them.
The governnt army's blue-controlled areas were compressed like flickering candles in the wind, primarily concentrated along the western coast and around Damascus. anwhile, the red, black, and yellow representing the opposition ard forces and extremist organizations were spreading and eroding like corrosive toxic pus, aggressively advancing from the north, east, and south, piercing sharply towards the precarious blue core.
In one corner of the screen, data stread silently like a waterfall, automatically refreshing casualty numbers, equipnt losses, and information on positions changing hands at regular intervals.
Song Heping stood in front of the screen, taking a deep breath, akin to a diver's final preparation before subrging, expelling all chaotic emotions and distractions, leaving only absolute calm and focus.
He sat at the main console, pulling out the keyboard and multiple touchscreens.
In the next mont, his hands moved.
Without any extra movents, the rhythm of typing was steady and swift, fingers gliding, clicking, and dragging fluidly across the touchscreens.
The images on the screen shifted rapidly: zooming in on the intense conflict points in Idlib Province, retrieving the latest satellite high-definition images of Aleppo, comparing the thermal signal changes in the eastern desert area from an hour ago to now, reviewing the encrypted communication excerpts intercepted by the signal intelligence departnt, and continuously opening tactical evaluation reports and casualty lists marked "Top Secret"...
His gaze tightly captured every subtle change and every inconsistent anomaly on the screen.
His brain operated at unprecedented speed, like the most efficient parallel processor, cross-referencing, analyzing, synthesizing, separating the genuine from the false, perpetually searching for the "key" that could determine success or failure hidden in the vast, chaotic flow of information.
Ti lost its usual asure in this absolute silence.
Only the crisp sound of typing on the keyboard, the subtle friction sound of fingertips gliding over the smooth glass touchscreen, and the nearly imperceptible, long and steady breathing during monts of deep thought marked the passage of ti.
Outside the window, the last glimr of dusk had already been swallowed by night, gradually replaced by the gray-white of dawn.
The constant cold white light in the analysis room blurred the transition of day and night.
Hours later.
A very faint knock on the door broke the prolonged absolute silence within the room.
"Mr. Song, your midnight snack..."
Song Heping's eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly, seemingly displeased with this brief interruption.
"Hmm, co in."
Without getting up, he briefly responded through the internal communicator near the door.
The door opened a crack.
A young rcenary wearing a Wagner combat uniform sidestepped in, holding a tray.
A large bowl of steaming Borscht, the strong aroma of beets and beef instantly filled the air, accompanied by a few slices of rough black bread and a bottle of cold mineral water.
"Mr. Song, our boss instructed to bring this."
The rcenary spoke softly, daring not to look at the screen for more than a mont.
"Thank you. Put it there."
Song Heping gestured towards the table beside him, his gaze not leaving the continuously scrolling data stream on the main screen concerning ammunition consumption on the southern front.
The rcenary obediently placed the tray on a small table by the door specifically for placing items, nearly tiptoeing out and closing the door gently.
The heat from the bowl of soup gradually diminished, eventually ceasing to evaporate, and a layer of grease congealed on the surface.
Only during a long data comparison break did Song Heping quickly walk to the door, consu the bread in a few bites, and gulp a few mouthfuls of Borscht, the entire process taking less than three minutes.
Even during this mont, his gaze remained fixed on the continuously updating real-ti enemy and ally dynamic markers on one corner of the screen.
To him, food was rely necessary fuel to keep his body functioning.
Ti sped by.
Song Heping hardly left the intelligence analysis room except for bathroom breaks.
Early the next morning, Song Heping departed from his small realm to wash his face and brush his teeth—sothing he would do whenever possible.
Cold water kept him more awake.
Brushing his teeth refreshed his breath, making his thoughts sharper.
Returning to the command center door, he heard soone's shouting and cursing in Russian, sounding particularly jarring.
It was Chef Yevgeny's voice.
Next was a brief silence, followed by the sound of sothing being viciously thrown to the ground.
Upon seeing Song Heping enter, Chef was montarily stunned, turning his head to the side, seemingly unwilling for Song Heping to see him in such a frantic state.
Song Heping said nothing, directly returning to his room, burying himself again in the mountainous battlefield data and past intelligence analysis reports.
Now, he had to compare the attack patterns of enemy forces on the northern Aleppo front and eastern Deir Ezzor region to find the weakest link in the enemy's strategy.
User Comments
0 comments from readers