The embers of the airstrike haven't fully cooled, the sky north of Homs City is stained with dirty gray-black smoke, and the air is filled with the pungent slls of gunpowder, burning rubber, and an even more nauseating scorch.
The battlefield that was once deafening with roars has now plunged into an eerie silence, with only the crackling of the remnants of burning vehicles and the distant wails and chaotic shouts of fleeing Freedom Army soldiers.
The Russian Aerospace Forces' textbook precise strike was like a hot iron burning onto butter, instantly crushing the seemingly fierce armored offensive of HTS and the Freedom Army.
Facing the absolute technological and power disparity, those militants relying on fervor and rudintary equipnt were vulnerable and no match.
Governnt army soldiers began cautiously erging from their cover, cleaning the battlefield, and collecting weapons, faces showing the bewildernt of surviving disaster and a trace of awe towards mighty power.
Song Heping, "Chef," and "Hunter" returned from the observatory to the relatively safe command post.
The taut nerves suddenly relaxed, and fatigue surged like a tide.
Several of them found a few ammunition boxes to sit on casually, and "Chef" pulled out crumpled cigarettes to distribute.
When it was Song Heping's turn, he still waved his hand, "I don't smoke, you know that."
With that, he took out chewing gum and threw it into his mouth to chew.
"You ought to learn to smoke; this thing can calm the nerves."
Chef smiled indifferently and lit a cigarette, taking a deep puff as if to replace the gunpowder in his lungs.
"Damn, we've finally gotten through it..."
He exhaled a smoke ring, looking at the black smoke gently rising outside, feeling a lingering fear, "Song, honestly, every ti I'm in combat, I wonder... Damn, what if one day I don't co back."
Song Heping said nothing.
Discussing this topic is actually aningless.
In this line of work, death can never be predicted.
"Hunter" remained silent, carefully wiping his beloved handgun, his movents gentle and focused, as if everything around him was irrelevant.
"Give one then."
Song Heping reached out his hand.
Chef was taken aback, then grinned, hurriedly taking out a cigarette and tossing it to Song Heping.
Song Heping lit the cigarette but didn't inhale, rely watching the smoke rise gracefully.
His thoughts were not fully relaxed.
Major Petrovsky's words, "Sothing personal, I'd like to talk to you alone," echoed in his mind.
The SSO of such caliber units wouldn't be interested in soone like him without reason, especially in such war-ridden scenarios.
"That Petrovsky, his look at you is a bit off."
Chef obviously noticed this too, lowering his voice to speak to Song Heping, "Like a wolf eyeing its prey. Did you piss off the Old Russians' Special Forces sowhere before?"
"Could it be that last ti you left Moscow without a word and angered your boss?"
Song Heping furrowed his brows slightly, "I've never directly dealt with the SSO. But I've heard of the SSO's reputation; they handle the dirty and tough jobs. If they're seeking out, it won't be for sothing simple."
Just then, the light at the command post door dimd as a tall figure walked in.
The one leading was none other than Major Petrovsky, who they were talking about.
Most of the paint on his face was wiped off, revealing his sharp-featured face.
He strode directly toward Song Heping, his gaze sweeping past "Chef" and "Hunter" before settling on Song Heping.
"Mr. Song."
Petrovsky asked very politely, "Is now a convenient ti? Shall we talk?"
What must co has finally co.
But judging by the tone, it seemingly wasn't to pick a fight.
Song Heping extinguished the cigarette butt, stood up, and calmly nodded, "Sure."
"Please follow ."
Petrovsky gestured, turned, and walked out.
Song Heping gave a reassuring glance to "Chef" and "Hunter," stepping up to follow.
Petrovsky didn't walk far but led Song Heping to a relatively intact two-story building in the corner of the military camp.
It was evident that this place was temporarily requisitioned by the SSO Squad as a base.
Governnt soldiers standing guard outside the building, but entering inside, the atmosphere was completely different.
In the first-floor hall, several SSO team mbers were busy with their tasks.
Soone sat in the corner, quickly dismantling and maintaining his AK-12 assault rifle, the parts neatly arranged; soone was checking and adjusting the drone and control terminal; others were organizing a dical kit, with dicines and equipnt appearing more advanced than those in a governnt army hospital.
The air was filled with a mix of gun oil, sweat, and tobacco scents.
When Song Heping followed Petrovsky inside, nearly all the SSO team mbers paused their actions, eyes uniformly focused.
These gazes were complex and sharp, mixed with scrutiny, curiosity, and even a bit of subtle provocation.
So people's eyes were like cold detectors, scanning up and down Song Heping, assessing his threat level; so had a faint cold smile at the corners of their mouths, appearing curious about what's special about this "outsider" personally brought by the Major; even one sturdy team mber with scars on his neck explicitly tilted his neck with a faint crack, a look of eager challenge in his eyes, seemingly wanting to test Song Heping's weight.
They are a group of proud, top-tier professional soldiers who have undergone the harshest selection and combat, naturally bringing instinctive vigilance and scrutiny to the sudden appearance of Song Heping.
Song Heping could feel the invisible pressure but maintained a normal expression, eting the gazes calmly without a hint of dodging or faint-heartedness.
He knew well, in front of such people, any trace of weakness would be magnified.
Petrovsky ignored the team mbers' gazes and led Song Heping directly to the second floor, into a separate small room.
The room was simple, with only a table, two chairs, and bullet holes remaining on the walls. Petrovsky closed the door, isolating the outside gaze and sounds.
"Sit."
Petrovsky pointed to the chair, then sat opposite, hands on the table, body upright.
Song Heping sat down as instructed, without speaking proactively, rely quietly watching the interlocutor, awaiting his intention.
Petrovsky didn't beat around the bush, directly cutting to the chase, "Mr. Song, let clarify first that our squad deployed to the Homs area for a reason other than to assist in combat here."
Song Heping raised his eyebrows slightly; this indeed was sowhat unexpected.
The Homs defense line was precarious, and it made sense for Russian forces to send the most elite SSO to guide airstrikes.
Could there be sothing more important than stabilizing the Homs frontline?
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