The na "Song Heping" shattered the quiet air of the office like a thunderclap.
Simon's pupils contracted ever so slightly, his body leaning back in the chair seed to stiffen for an instant.
On the screen of an internal monitoring terminal in front of him, a low-level yellow warning box had popped up automatically due to the reappearance of the na, silently flashing.
He didn't speak imdiately, just slowly leaned back, the expensive leather chair making a slight creaking sound.
He raised his right hand, his index and middle fingers together, subconsciously tapping lightly and rhythmically on the smooth tabletop, making a "dub, dub, dub" sound.
His gaze returned to the image that had captured Song Heping's profile, his expression complex and unreadable.
Why is it this guy again...
Simon's inner turmoil was far more agitated than he appeared on the surface.
If possible, he'd rather never deal with that na for the rest of his life.
From personal feelings and departntal interests, he wished he could crush this stumbling block imdiately.
But on a personal level, if sothing happened to this guy, sothing would happen to him too...
Reporting this intelligence ant the military would be unleashed imdiately, and precision-guided bombs from an F-15E or the 105mm howitzer of an AC-130U would soon erase Song Heping and his damned mixed squad from the face of the earth.
This was undoubtedly the most direct and satisfying way.
However...
A cooler, even colder voice echoed from deep within his mind.
If he dies, I'm finished.
SHIT!
Simon cursed harshly in his mind.
At least for now, Song Heping couldn't die.
However, this piece of intelligence couldn't be concealed, even for him as the acting director.
Facts are facts.
If Song Heping operated in Northeast Syria with the Russians, it would be impossible to hide eventually.
If I conceal the intelligence, it will bring trouble.
What to do?
The scales of pros and cons swung violently.
The office was so quiet that only the "dub, dub" tapping and the hum of the air purifier could be heard.
Ramins stood quietly in place, eyes straight ahead, patiently waiting for the director's decision.
He was sowhat puzzled.
What was the director hesitating about?
Finally, the tapping stopped.
The complexity in Simon's eyes was completely suppressed, returning to a routine calmness.
He reached for the encrypted internal phone on the table and dialed a short number.
"It's , Simon."
His voice sounded exceptionally calm, even with a hint of routine laziness, "I've read the intelligence from Latamira. Regarding Song Heping's identification, I believe further confirmation is needed. An eighty-seven percent match isn't low, but there's a risk of misjudgnt. It has to reach at least ninety-five percent, especially since the image quality isn't ideal. I need your analysis departnt to deploy all resources to deepen image enhancent, skeleton structure comparison, and dynamic behavior analysis. I need a definitive report, eliminating any possibility of misjudgnt, I an any possible misjudgnt. You have thirty minutes to ensure everything is fail-safe."
His tone was steady, his wording precise, perfectly fitting the persona of a cautious and responsible CIA director.
Putting down the phone, he gave a slight nod to Ramins, who was still standing: "Well done, go follow up, verify the intelligence's reliability, and report the final result directly to ."
"Understood, sir."
The doubt in Ramins' eyes disappeared.
He picked up the folder, turned, and quickly left.
The office door closed softly.
Simon was alone once again, his gaze falling back on the enlarged, blurry profile of Song Heping on the terminal.
He picked up his now lukewarm coffee, taking a sip, the bitter taste spreading across his tongue.
Half an hour...
Song Heping, I've given you half an hour.
He silently thought to himself, whether you can seize this half-hour window depends on your skills and fortune.
This gamble involves not only Song Heping's life, but possibly his own future.
Thirty minutes later, Kurdish Control Zone, US Special Operations Command.
Jas had just finished communicating with the front-line ODA unit and was about to take a few bites of his cold lunch when an intelligence officer nearly sprinted over with an urgent expression on his face.
"Major! Urgent intel! From Langley, top priority encrypted channel!"
Jas frowned, put down his lunch box, and took the tablet handed over by the intelligence officer.
The screen displayed the intelligence brief that had been "finally confird" by the CIA, accompanied by clearer satellite images and analysis conclusions.
When his gaze swept over the bold words "Confird Target: Song Heping," "Location: Northeast Latamira," "Status: Hostage Orwell, currently evacuating by car," the fatigue on his face was instantly replaced by disbelief and anger, his complexion turning livid with visible speed, and the veins on his temples subtly pulsated.
"Son of a bitch!"
Jas slamd a fist down on the tactical table beside him, causing the mug on it to jump, "We've been fucking played! The intense firefight over at Gunea Mountain was just a ruse! A decoy! He drew all our attention there and sneaked into Latamira to pull Orwell out!"
He paced quickly in front of the command table like a trapped beast, his chest heaving violently, fury almost bursting out.
He knew Orwell.
The importance of this person was well understood by Jas. Should he fall into enemy hands, especially potential Russian hands or their collaborators, the consequences would be unimaginable!
What made it even more unacceptable was that he had been so easily lured away, which was a disgrace to his career!
Without any hesitation, he grabbed the secure communicator directly connected to the Battlefield Air Operations Center (CAOC), almost shouting his orders: "This is the Syrian Front Command, Major Jas! Top ergency priority! Confirm high-value target 'Song Heping' and associated SSO Squad, located in the northwest wilderness of Latamira, specific coordinates transmitted! They have taken our key personnel hostage and are attempting to escape towards the border! I request imdiate, repeat, imdiate authorization for aerial interception and destructive strike! Utilize all available aerial forces; they must not cross the border with personnel and intelligence! I want them gone! Now!"
Forty minutes after Jas issued the request, inside Iraq, near an air force base in Baghdad.
The piercing combat alarm sliced through the relative tranquility of the base.
In the flight ready room, several F-15E "Strike Eagle" pilots abruptly jumped up, grabbed their helts and anti-G suits, and dashed to the tarmac.
Ground crew were already in place, busy as bees. On the munitions carts, GBU-38 JDAMs (Joint Direct Attack Munitions) and AGM-65 "Little Bull" air-to-surface missiles gleaming with a matte tallic hue were precisely mounted on the hardpoints of the "Strike Eagle's" wings and fuselage.
Refueling booms quickly connected, filling the aircraft with fuel.
The pilots listened to the briefers swiftly relay target information and mission overviews while nimbly climbing into their cockpits.
"Start engines!"
"Check avionics!"
"Power up weapon systems!"
The roar of engines ignited in sequence, with long blue flas spewing from the rear of the two F100-PW-229 engines, instantly erupting with massive thrust.
Soon, two fully-ard F-15Es accelerated on the runway and lifted off, shooting into the sky like eagles out hunting.
Following closely was the roar of a large, rugged-looking AC-130U "Ghost" gunship taking off. Its side-mounted weapon stations, equipped with 40mm Bofors guns and 105mm howitzers, signaled impending destructive lateral firepower coverage for ground targets.
The formation completed its assembly in the air, adjusted its course, and headed towards the Syria-Iraq border area with a nacing intent.
Northwest Latamira wilderness, within the speeding pickup convoy.
The sunset left only half a face on the horizon as several pickups furiously bounced over the undulating Gobi, kicking up long trails of dust.
Inside the vehicle, the team mbers who had just completed a high-intensity raid and capture mission hadn't had a chance to catch their breath before a more lethal crisis lood.
Major Petrovsky's personal satellite communication terminal suddenly emitted a sharp, continuous alarm different from regular communications, with the screen flashing urgent red codes.
Petrovsky's face changed, and he quickly grabbed the terminal to answer.
The atmosphere in the cab, initially relaxed due to exhaustion, instantly froze, and everyone instinctively clutched their weapons, eyes fixed on the increasingly grim-faced major.
After tens of seconds, Petrovsky ended the call, raised his head, scanned the faces inside the vehicle, including Song Heping in the front passenger seat, and said in a low, solemn voice that felt like a block of cold steel dropping onto each person's heart: "Command center urgent report! Our movents have been exposed! The US forces reacted quickly, with fighters already airborne from Baghdad! At least two F-15Es and one AC-130U gunship! Their trajectory is directly towards our area, and they could reach an attack position in as little as forty minutes, or even less!"
"Shit!"
"Frost," in charge of driving, couldn't help but mutter a curse, pressing the gas pedal harder, eliciting an almost tearing roar from the engine.
There was no trace of panic in Petrovsky's eyes, only the fierce determination and resolve of soone cornered.
He imdiately reconnected the communication, near-shouting in Russian to the command for support: "Command! We are under air threat from US forces! Repeat, US F-15E and AC-130U are coming for intercept! Request urgent air cover! Deploy our fighter jets imdiately to the Latamira airspace to establish a no-fly zone, intercept the US attack aircraft group! We cannot confront an air strike in open terrain! Repeat, request air cover!"
After a brief silence, the command responded, their tone equally urgent: "Major Petrovsky, request acknowledged! Situation understood, and Air Force standby fighters have been alerted and are urgently airborne heading to intercept the zone! They'll strive to buy you ti! You must complete the mission and withdraw to the safe zone as quickly as possible. Good luck!"
Ending the call, Petrovsky looked at Song Heping, then glanced at the other two following pickups in the rearview mirror, and shouted into the vehicle's communicator to all team mbers: "Did everyone hear that?! The Arican planes are coming! But our military's wings aren't made of paper either! From here on, it's a race against the Grim Reaper! Let's see if our fighters get there first to stop the Aricans or if their bombs hit us first! All vehicles, maintain maximum spacing, fast maneuver! Keep your eyes peeled, watch the skies! Quick! Quick! Quick!"
The convoy instantly widened its distance to reduce the risk of being bombed over a large area.
The engine roars seed particularly shrill in the vast wilderness, with the kicked-up dust resembling three twisting yellow dragons.
Everyone was on edge, occasionally glancing at the sky through the windows, trying to spot the ominous black dots that might appear at any mont with the sound of death's whistling approach.
Beyond the horizon, aside from the eternal wind of the wilderness, there seed indeed to be a faint, low continuous hum coming, the sound of jet engines tearing through the air, closing in from afar.
Death's shadow was enveloping this reckless fleeing squad with unprecedented speed.
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