8 PM at night.
Gunei Mountain Area.
Two "Typhoon" mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles, having just escaped the Grim Reaper's pursuit, with bullet marks and dust all over, rushed headlong into this natural sanctuary.
Song Heping leaned against the bumpy wall of the vehicle, eyes closed, but his brain was like an overclocked CPU, constantly calculating the current situation.
Damn it, strolled around the gate of hell and still alive, what a stroke of luck!
The next few hours will be critical in deciding life and death.
Hopefully, the fortune-telling blind man in the village back then didn't fool , and my life is strong enough to survive.
A storm of emotions churned within him, yet his face remained as hard as stone.
He opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the tense faces inside the vehicle, finally falling on the rapidly receding, increasingly rugged terrain outside the window.
"You can stop now!"
Song Heping's voice abruptly rang out, like a cold iron chunk crashing into the heavy air, breaking the suffocating silence.
The driver, upon hearing this, instinctively eased up on the gas.
Petrovsky turned his head to glance at Song Heping, then looked at the terrain outside, releasing a heavy breath.
"Agreed."
His voice was sowhat hoarse.
"Abandon the vehicles, move on foot. This iron coffin's reached its end."
The command was simple and direct, yet it represented a complete change in survival strategy.
From relying on heavy vehicles for mobile protection, reverting back to light infantry relying on legs and tactical skills, the squad was now more flexible but betting everything—if the plan failed, there would be no chance to escape.
The two "Typhoon" vehicles ca to a complete stop at the bottom of a relatively wide, pebble-strewn dry riverbed.
Engines off, the world seed to instantly beco half as quiet.
"Move quickly! Clear out the vehicles, go light, only take what's necessary!"
Petrovsky pushed open the sowhat deford door and shouted.
The SSO Squad mbers moved silently yet efficiently.
Doors opened one after another, shadows flickered, no one spoke, only the crunching sound of boots on gravel echoed.
These special soldiers, who had just survived a missile blast, were now showing extrely high professionalism.
Fear and pressure were forcibly suppressed as they thodically carried out disposal procedures.
Important and necessary equipnt was taken.
Rifles, machine guns and ammunition, essential explosives and hand grenades, single-use RPG-26 rocket launchers were carefully carried on their backs; backpacks filled with C4 plastic explosives were heavy and dangerous.
dical kits were checked over and over, ensuring those lifesaving dicines were included.
The most crucial items were the rugged military-grade laptop storing core intelligence of this mission, and the bulky yet vital satellite communication terminal.
Every piece was handled with care, like a baby, efficiently integrated into everyone's load.
"Maxim, Volkov."
Petrovsky called out the demolition expert and machine gunner's nas.
"Give these two 'old ladies' that served us through this journey their 'last supper'. Set them up with a 'death trap', send them off gloriously."
"Understood, Major."
Maxim sighed.
He and Volkov exchanged a glance, tacitly taking out a few inconspicuous dark gray tal boxes from their gear bags, fitted only with simple military interfaces and a few tiny status indicator lights, exuding a deadly sense of Russian equipnt's minimalist functionality.
"Death Trap".
The na is a term in Soviet Russia Special Forces, originally referring to an undetachable trap mine device.
Its core is a highly integrated, self-contained triggering system, directly linked with the vehicle's residual power supply and multiple sensors, including high-sensitivity vibration, tilt angle, and even temperature change sensing functions.
Once activated, it enters a "sacred and inviolable" state.
Any unauthorized external intervention—whether attempting to cut circuits, pry open the casing, or even violently dismantle the entire device—would be instantly judged by the system as "violent destruction", triggering the command without hesitation to detonate the plastic explosives pre-installed in key parts like the vehicle engine, fuel tank, and onboard communication encryption module.
The result is not disarmant, but complete and devastating self-destruction, ensuring not a single intact chip is left for the enemy.
Maxim, like a nimble prairie dog, clamped a mini flashlight in his mouth and deftly crawled under the V-shaped explosion-proof chassis of the first "Typhoon".
The chassis was still coated with mud and sand from the Gobi, along with scorch marks from the earlier explosion.
He found a concealed spot inside the vehicle's fra, using quick-dry adhesive and zip ties to firmly secure the main control unit of the "death trap". He then skillfully peeled open a section of the vehicle's main cable to splice in the device's power line.
Next, like applying a plaster, he carefully affixed several button-sized vibration sensors and thermal probes to crucial points such as the vehicle fra, engine compartnt wall, and fuel tank casing.
His actions were without a trace of indecision, each step precise and swift, honed by countless training sessions and real-world combat, culminating in muscle mory.
Volkov collaborated with Maxim, his hands accustod to wielding heavy machine guns, deftly molding chunks of C4 explosives akin to yellow clay. He then wedged them into engine compartnt crevices, stuck them to the outside of the fuel tank, and placed so inside the vehicle's onboard communication equipnt that couldn't be quickly dismantled.
He even mischievously attached a small piece under the driver's seat.
"Giving a surprise to the first bastard who cos to ransack the car."
He muttered with a faintly cruel smile.
The sa technique was applied to the other vehicle.
The entire process was astonishingly efficient; in less than ten minutes, the two "old girls" were ard from head to toe, becoming two touch-sensitive bombs.
Maxim erged from under the car, dusted off the dirt on him, and checked the steady, flashing red indicators on the two main control units in turn.
"Setup complete. Now these two 'old girls' are in a bad mood; whoever touches them will have to dance in the sky with them."
Song Heping stood a few steps away, watching them complete all the work, then whispered, "Let's go, to Mannier Valley District."
The team silently proceeded along the predetermined route, heading into the depths of the western Gunei Mountain Area.
Mountain trekking is entirely different from driving in the Gobi; the heavy equipnt weighed on their shoulders, the rugged terrain sapped their strength, and the thin air tested their lung capacity.
After walking for about ten minutes, passing through a relatively soft area ford by weathering and hydraulic erosion, Song Heping's steps slightly paused.
He seed to adjust his pace casually, deliberately applying force with the heel of his military boots, which had a special tread, at several key spots, leaving so footprints noticeably deeper and clearer than the surrounding ones.
Even when circling around a clump of prickly low desert bushes, he lightly brushed a sowhat loose piece of weathered rock with the handguard of his assault rifle, letting it roll into a conspicuous position, seemingly unintentionally.
Petrovsky, closely tailing him, took in every subtle movent. His brow furrowed slightly as he lowered his voice to ask, "Song, are you leaving them trail markers?"
"Mm."
Song Heping didn't even turn his head.
"Those 1515 lunatics aren't blind, nor are they fools. For them to put down roots in this damned place, there must be experts in tracking among them, with noses keener than hounds. On this land, tracking a lost cal or a stray goat for them is faster than us finding our way with this broken map. But if we don't leave so 'gifts', and if these idiots really lose track, who are we performing this show for?"
Petrovsky instantly understood Song Heping's intention—deliberately and controllably exposing their trail to lure them in.
This was a risky gamble, a tightrope only a master could walk.
He said no more, simply turned back to gesture a brief tactical hand sign, signaling to the team behind to maintain a tight precautionary formation while slightly picking up the pace.
Everyone understood that they were not only escapees now but bait for fishing.
In breathless silence and heightened vigilance, the team continued trekking into the mountain's interior for about an hour.
The toll on stamina started showing, with several team mbers who were slightly injured noticeably breathing heavier.
Finding a depression ford by large rocks that could shield them from aerial and most directional views, Petrovsky raised his fist, signaling the team to pause for a break.
"Take ten minutes to rest, and everyone check your gear. 'Signal'—"
He turned to the communications specialist.
"Try again, see if we can restore the satellite link, even if just for a few seconds, to get any battlefield imagery! We're like blind n out here!"
"Signal," Yegor Nikolaevich Lebedev found a relatively flat rock, hid in the shadow, set up the equipnt, and connected it to the spare battery.
His fingers danced swiftly over the waterproof keyboard, the screen glowed, reflecting his focused yet slightly tense face.
On the screen, the data stream refreshed wildly like a waterfall, and the spectral analysis diagram fluctuated violently.
As the minutes ticked by, "Signal's" brow furrowed deeper and deeper, sweat glistening on his brow.
He continually adjusted the reception frequency, trying different encrypted handshake protocols, but the connection status indicator on the screen remained a glaring red or occasionally turned to an extrely unstable yellow, ready to cut out at any mont.
A few minutes later, he suddenly punched the nearby rock, making a dull thud, raised his head, and his face was filled with frustration and a trace of imperceptible panic.
"Boss, it's impossible! Completely impossible!"
His voice, tinged with anxiety, slightly altered.
"The interference is damned strong! It's full-spectrum suppression! The background noise is ridiculously high; our signal is like a few grains of sand in boiling water, barely able to surface! Not to ntion establishing a stable connection to get imagery, even the most basic handshake response is extrely difficult! The Aricans… They've definitely deployed electronic warfare aircraft! Right above our airspace!"
While saying this, he couldn't help but look up towards the sky.
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