The massive rotor of the Mi-171 helicopter slowly stops turning, eventually landing on the helipad of a heavily guarded private estate in the western suburbs of Damascus.
It's like an isolated island amidst the fires of war, far from the deafening artillery and the aura of death on the front lines, replaced by an unsettling, almost stagnant tranquility.
A three-ter-high concrete wall topped with glistening barbed wire, ubiquitous caras resembling cold, compound eyes, slowly rotating, scanning every inch of land.
Heavily ard Presidential Guard soldiers are spread across various critical nodes, thumbs habitually placed on trigger guards, the "golden finger" movent seemingly interpreting that these are highly trained elite soldiers.
One official from the President's Mansion, dressed in a dark suit, received them.
His English carried an Oxford accent, perfectly prim and proper.
"Mr. Song, Colonel Yevgeny."
After shaking hands with the two, the official procedurally inford them of the upcoming arrangents.
"The President expresses his highest admiration and sincerest gratitude for the remarkable courage and decisive achievents you both exhibited in Halaib. Please take a mont to rest here. Tomorrow evening at sunset, the President will hold a small but grand comndation ceremony at the residence, followed by a private dinner. A special car will pick you up at that ti."
Without much small talk, after completing the procedures, the official politely excused himself and left.
Once the people left, the chef, like a bear finally returning to its comfortable den, completely relaxed.
He clicked his tongue as he took in the lavish decor of the villa's interior—expensive handmade Persian carpet covering the marble floors, intricate gilded decorative lines on the walls, a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, refracting dazzling light.
He heavily flopped his massive body onto a set of Italian leather sofas that appeared expensive, causing the sofa to groan under the strain.
"Damn it, finally made it out alive! This is what living should feel like! That damned place on the front lines, even drinking water tasted of nitrate!"
He sighed a long-held breath of stale air, tugging forcefully at the collar of his combat uniform as if there was a rope around his neck.
Song Heping quietly and quickly checked the villa's main rooms, every window lock, every entrance's view, even looking up carefully at the ceiling and vents, assessing potential surveillance or penetration points.
A professional habit ford from walking the edge of life and death, keeping him instinctively suspicious of any overly comfortable, overly perfect "safe house."
"Don't relax too much, chef."
Song Heping walked to the large floor-to-ceiling window, lifted a corner of the heavy velvet curtain, and sharply observed the regularly patrolling soldier teams and the faintly visible sentry at the distant vantage point.
"The more this place looks like an iron-clad fortress, the easier it is to beco complacent. The real danger often hides in the most unexpected corners."
At these words, the chef's relaxed and leisurely face tightened a bit, body slightly sitting upright: "You worry... this place isn't safe either? The territory of the Presidential Guard, could those opposing riffraff still sneak in?"
"It's not about the opposition."
Song Heping dropped the curtain, walked to a mahogany liquor cabinet stocked with various fine wines, casually picked up a bottle of seemingly old, expensive Macallan whiskey, shook the amber liquid, and then put it back as if it contained a throat-sealing poison.
"Just a habit. Never rely on others' security asures. Let's talk business—why do you think the President summoned us so urgently? Besides the ceremonial honor, what does he truly want from us?"
The chef's expression turned serious, the steady deanor of a battlefield commander replacing the earlier laziness: "What else but the northern ss! Idlib right now is a festering wound, continually oozing. Those HTS religious fanatics, and a dozen or so other ard marauder groups huddled together like a pack of hyenas slling blood, each attack more fierce than the last. Although we've temporarily caught our breath on the southern line at Halaib and the eastern line, if the northern line collapses completely and HTS's main forces move south to take Homs, the strategic hub…"
He picked up a silver ashtray from the coffee table, heavily placed it on the table before the sofa.
"Here you go, that's Damascus."
Another crystal glass was placed behind the ashtray.
"Losing Homs exposes Damascus right under their artillery, defenseless! Worse yet…"
He reached to grab a couple of decorations from the far end of the coffee table, placing them even farther away: "Latakia and Tartus's sea outlets would turn into complete islands! Our Russian Navy's only base outside the Black Sea would be in jeopardy! I'm willing to bet my treasured vodka—the President will definitely ask us tomorrow about the northern situation, and most importantly, what the hell we should do next?!"
He paused, a shadow crossing his rugged face, his voice lowered.
"Truth be told, Song, I heard from so old friends in the Moscow general staff and GRU during private calls. The higher-ups are still hesitant to directly send regular forces, afraid of getting bogged down, even more afraid of a direct clash with those NATO bastards, sparking conflict. They seem more inclined to let us 'private military contractors'—like my Wagner brothers and you—to keep the front lines, using our blood and lives to fill the gaps, while they provide limited equipnt and intelligence support from behind."
Song Heping sat opposite the sofa, still calm and composed: "A year ago, even half a year ago, the Kremlin might have continued to hesitate. But now, the situation has changed completely."
"Oh? How so?"
The chef leaned forward, showing interest.
"The Cria incident at the beginning of the year was like a hard slap on NATO's face, tearing apart the veil of hypocrisy between both sides."
Song Heping calmly analyzed, his tone as if stating a predetermined fact.
"Now, the sanctions against your country are getting harsher with each wave, the diplomatic wars of words are flying in the sky, and relations have fallen to a post-Cold War low. In this life-and-death confrontation, the one at the top of the Kremlin will never sit idly by and watch Siria, their last strategic foothold in the Middle East, completely fall to the West or into the hands of extremists. Siria is Russia's strategic springboard into the diterranean, and Tartus is the naval lifeline they rely on to maintain influence in the region and threaten Southern Europe."
"If, due to montary hesitation and misjudgnt, HTS or the Freedom Army, nurtured by the West, captures Homs, their forces pointing directly at the coastline and even threatening the safety of Latakia and Tartus, by then if the Russian Army intends to intervene on a large scale, the cost will be tenfold or a hundredfold of what it is now, they might even permanently lose this foothold and be completely squeezed out of the Middle Eastern ga."
He looked at the chef, his tone exceptionally certain: "Therefore, they will certainly act. And it will no longer be in the form of 'volunteers' or advisors hiding behind the scenes, but a full-scale military intervention with organized troops and strong air support! Large-scale air raids, Special Forces infiltration, and even direct engagent of ground troops! It's only a matter of ti, and the timing, I believe, will not be far off. Your previous work with Wagner here has been paving the way and buying ti for this mont."
The chef listened intently to Song Heping's detailed analysis, the doubt and gloom in his eyes gradually dissipated, replaced by a spark of excitent.
"Damn! Listening to you, it really makes sense! If those lunatics from the Air Force can use SU-34s to bomb those bastards' positions and supply lines to smithereens, coupled with their armored torrents… Haha! Those sons of bitches are really in for it!"
"So, if the President asks tomorrow, I will mainly answer this question."
Song Heping calmly instructed: "What you need to do is tily emphasize your deep connections within the Russian General Staff and the GRU, as well as your indispensable role as a bridge in future Russian-Syrian military coordination. This can add weight to our words."
Just then, the heavy wooden door of the villa was gently knocked.
A servant dressed in a crisp white uniform and wearing snow-white gloves pushed a gleaming silver dining cart inside, laden with various exquisitely crafted traditional Syrian dishes, among which two slow-roasted lamb legs were most eye-catching, their aroma mixed with various spices instantly filled the living room.
"Honorable gentlen, here is the food prepared for you, please enjoy."
The servant bowed respectfully and then withdrew very tactfully, as if he had never appeared.
The rich aroma of at stirred the appetite.
The chef, looking at the tempting roasted lamb leg, rubbed his hands and got up ready to feast.
"Wait."
Song Heping imdiately stopped him.
The chef froze, puzzled, turning back: "What's wrong? Song. Is there a problem?"
Song Heping walked to the dining cart, his sharp eyes scanning the food, especially the plate of roast lamb and the hummus beside it.
He leaned closer to the chef, speaking in a very low voice: "I just received absolutely reliable confidential information. The CIA Langley Headquarters has formally approved an assassination plan against . The operations departnt is in charge, and their preferred thod, most likely, is poisoning."
"Suka!"
The chef's face changed instantly, the earlier ease and appetite vanished, replaced by an uncontrollable rage and trepidation, he cursed under his breath: "Those Aricans who should go to hell! They just love these dirty, disgraceful thods! When do they plan to act?"
"The plan was just approved at a high-level eting, the specifics, personnel selection, and infiltration arrangents take ti, theoretically impossible to execute imdiately."
Song Heping said: "But we must not have any illusion. 'Better safe than sorry,' is ancient wisdom from the East. Especially food and water handled by others, out of our sight, must be approached with utmost caution. They might exploit any opportunity."
He signaled the chef to cut several pieces of the finest roast lamb and serve a small dish of hummus.
The two walked to the villa's small courtyard.
In the courtyard, a seemingly ferocious Caucasian Shepherd Dog was lazily dozing.
The chef placed the food in the dog's bowl as instructed.
The dog raised its head alertly, sniffing carefully, perhaps the aroma was too tempting, it quickly devoured the food ravenously.
The two stood at the door, silently watching the dog, ti seed to stretch.
A few minutes passed, the dog was not only fine, but also appeared more spirited from the treat, even wagged its tail at them in a friendly manner, making soft whimpering sounds.
"Seems... no problem."
The chef let out a long breath of relief.
Song Heping nodded: "Go ahead and eat. Looks like those CIA agents haven't found the right person yet."
"Hahahaha!"
At this point, both couldn't help but laugh out loud.
...
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