Captain Wagner was suddenly taken aback, apparently shocked by the deadly order. But when he saw the cold and resolute determination in Song Heping's eyes, and the equally unflinching gaze of the Chef beside him, a surge of courage rushed through his chest.
He instantly straightened his back, standing at a perfectly precise Russian military posture, his right fist pounding heavily on the left side of his chest where his heart was, making a dull "thud," his eyes gleaming with a mix of respect, resolve, and wild battle intent: "Yes! Commander! Defend to the death! Wagner never retreats!")
The captain turned abruptly, storming out of the command post like an enraged beast.
The command post fell into an eerie silence, leaving only the chaotic sounds of various reports and calls for help from the radio, and the now-clearly distinct gunshots and explosions that seed to be coming from the room next door.
The Chef suddenly chuckled subtly, breaking the silence, and said in Chinese, audible only to the two of them: "Lao Song, to be honest, do you regret it? Originally, you were stationed in the Persian Plateau. Though the environnt wasn't great, at least you weren't likely to lose your head. Thanks to my persuasion, you're now in Siria, wading through this muddy water, and we might just end up leaving your hundred-odd pounds in this rat hole today."
His tone carried little fear, sounding more like a jest at fate.
Song Heping looked at this old friend who had fought alongside him through hellfire, showing a rare, complex, and genuine smile.
He retorted, "And what about you? I rember years ago, when you were drunk in Illiguo, you told how you missed the days of flipping the big spoon in your hotown kitchen, saying that the aroma from the pot was the real taste of life. How did you get so deep into this, leaving a well-off restaurant business to start licking blood off the blade and tying your head to your waistband?"
The Chef, hearing this, rubbed his bald scalp with his rough hand, chuckling, "The restaurant business? Oh, that thing's too slow in making money! Too many worries, purchasing, chefs, patrons, each one needs care! My wife manages it all by herself, and she's happy with it. As for this line of work now... hey, damn exciting! And quick money! One deal can fund a restaurant for half a year. But this life, it's like the sand and US Dollar in the Middle East, you never know when the wind will co and it's not yours anymore."
His smile was laced with a strong sense of self-mockery, yet there was also a reckless calmness that had long accepted life and death.
"How's the family... wife and kids, are they alright?"
Song Heping suddenly felt a pang of yearning, his thoughts drifting to the faraway East, his voice tinged with a faint trace of lancholy.
"I... I can't go back anymore. My file probably has long been stamped with the red marks of 'terrorist,' 'dangerous person.' My siblings... it's been so long since I've gotten news from them, don't dare to contact, afraid of bringing trouble to them."
The Chef's smile faded, and he patted Song Heping hard on the shoulder, his broad palm offering solid strength: "Ah, don't think too much. In our line of work, so things are out of our control long ago, we have to accept it."
The two were montarily silent.
Outside the command post, the roar of guns and the thunder of explosions served as the only background music.
A deep understanding and mutual admiration between n flowed quietly in the turbid air, more powerful than any heroic speech.
Suddenly——
BOOM!!!
An unprecedented violent explosion seed to erupt right above their heads!
The entire underground bunker shook wildly like a lone boat in a stormy sea!
Blinding sparks burst from the lighting circuits, the ceiling lights flickered violently a few tis before finally going out completely, only a few ergency red lights cast dim, eerie glows, stretching and distorting everyone's shadows on the trembling walls.
A torrent of dust and concrete debris rained down like a storm, making it nearly impossible to open their eyes, causing relentless coughing.
From the radio ca the desperate scream of an outpost observer: "They used tank guns for direct fire! Entrance number three has completely collapsed! They've broken through! Repeat! They've broken through entrance number three! Advancing towards the main command building! Many of them! At least a platoon!"
"All personnel! Prepare for combat! All non-combat personnel, pick up weapons! For Siria!"
Admiral Jamal fiercely drew the Makarov Pistol from his waist, roaring like a cornered beast.
Song Heping and the Chef stood up almost simultaneously.
Song Heping checked the action of his AK-74M assault rifle, equipped with a PK-AS red dot sight and GP-30 grenade launcher, the motion smooth and steady as if conducting routine maintenance.
He looked at the Chef, extending his right hand: "Looks like our chit-chat ti is over. Brother, this last journey, we still have to walk it together."
The Chef showed no hesitation, laughed heartily, grabbing Song Heping's hand with enormous strength, causing both their arms to slightly tremble: "Of course! Damn it, I've long lived enough! Today, I'll just take a few more with !"
Song Heping nodded heavily, gave a firm shake, then quickly let go, striding to the central communication station, grabbed the microphone connected to the army-wide broadcast channel.
"To all brothers defending Halaib, I am Song Heping. General Jamal and I, along with all staff and communication personnel in the command post, are still here! We are right behind you, and we will not retreat a single step! Our vanguards, 'Steel Blade' and 'Peregrine,' are driving straight into the enemy's heart! Just hang on for two hours, and their rear will soon be ablaze! I promise you, if we die, I'll die with you all!"
His voice suddenly soared, filled with undeniable conviction and a powerful infectious energy: "Hold the line! Brothers! Hold every building, every window, every basent entrance you have! Use your rifles, your last grenades, your teeth, and your fury to tell those traitors betraying the nation and foreign invaders! Halaib, will never fall! For Siria! For your parents, wives, and children behind you! Fight to the end! Glory belongs to you!"
"Fight to the end!"
"For Siria!"
"Victory belongs to the defenders!"
The public channel of the radio instantly erupted with nurous hoarse, fervent, even sobbing responses and shouts!
Song Heping dropped the microphone, slinging the rifle over his shoulder securely, making final adjustnts to the grenade launcher's angle.
"Let's go."
He said to the Chef who was already ready, his tone as calm as inviting an old friend for a walk.
"Let's head to the entrance and 'warmly welco' these 'uninvited guests' sent by Mr. Abu Omar."
The Chef grinned viciously, skillfully feeding the 150-round belt into the PKP "Pecheneg" general-purpose machine gun's feeder.
The gun emitted a reassuring tallic clatter, the heavy belt rattling.
"Sons of bitches, I've been itching for action for too long! Today, you'll get a taste of authentic Russian-style 'Chef' steel feast!"
The two exchanged a smile, one leading and one following, striding with firm steps toward the thick blast-proof iron door of the command post.
Outside the door was a scene forged by raging flas, cold and hard steel wreckage, and freely flowing scalding blood—hell on earth.
User Comments
0 comments from readers