7 PM at night.
Sky, direction of Baghdad, altitude 25,000 feet.
Two F-15E "Strike Eagle" heavy fighters tore through the thin and icy air at the bottom of the stratosphere.
Under the wings and on the hardpoints of the fuselage, they were loaded with Grim Reaper's supply—GBU-38 JDAM precision-guided bombs and AGM-65 "Little Bull" air-to-ground missiles.
In the cockpit, the highly integrated display screens emitted a bluish light, illuminating the faces of pilots "Poison Snake 1-1" and "Poison Snake 1-2" like sculptures.
"Poison Snake 1-1, this is 'Dark Blade,' I've reached the designated standby airspace and am establishing a circular defense route. Weather conditions in the target area are good, visibility is excellent. Ready to provide ground support anyti."
The voice of the AC-130U gunship commander ca through the radio on the public tactical channel.
"Poison Snake 1-1 received, 'Dark Blade.'
The "Poison Snake 1-1" lead pilot, a veteran with over two thousand hours of flight experience, quickly responded:
"We'll enter the optimal attack position in ten minutes. As planned, my team will use JDAM for the first round of high-altitude precision strikes, you will handle the subsequent low-altitude sweep, suppress any surviving mobile units, and ensure damage effectiveness. Over."
"Dark Blade understands. The gun system is preheated, the 40mm Bofors cannon and 105mm howitzer are ready, optical and infrared sensors are scanning. Wish you a successful hunt, 'Poison Snake.'
Behind the "Strike Eagle" formation, in a slightly lower airspace, the large AC-130U "Ghost" slowly circled in a giant circle like a vulture looking for carrion.
On its specially reinforced fuselage's side, multiple weapon firing ports were already open, revealing nacing cannon barrels inside, silently declaring its absolute supremacy in ground attacks.
"Poison Snake 1-2, final system check, JDAM target paraters fixed, GPS signal secondary confirmation."
"Poison Snake 1-1" issued a command, fingers gently sliding over the weapon select button beside the control stick.
"1-2 received."
The wingman's voice sounded younger, carrying a hint of barely noticeable excitent.
"All GBU-38 fuses set to attack mode, GPS signal locked and stabilized, differential correction passed, waiting to enter range."
Ground, about 30 kiloters northeast of Latamira, outside Warehouse No. 3.
Ti: 20:05.
A few dusty pickup trucks quietly hid like lurking cheetahs within the deep shadows of partially collapsed mud brick houses.
Song Heping half-squatted behind a broken wall, his gaze like the most precise probe, scanning Warehouse No. 3 two hundred ters away inch by inch.
Major Petrovsky was beside him, the tactical terminal screen's glow casting light on his sharply contoured face.
The warehouse was large, an old steel structure building, worn by ti and scarred by warfare, its rusted exterior walls marked with countless blemishes, so of the corrugated panels warped or even fallen off.
However, a closer look revealed sothing unusual—
The main door was a heavy, reinforced steel plate, with several cleverly camouflaged spherical caras distributed around strategic points and blind spots, rotating slowly and steadily, monitoring every possible approach route.
In the open space, several n wearing locally common robes or tattered jackets appeared to wander aimlessly, or gather to smoke, but their sharp eyes like hawks and the frequency and thod of scanning the surroundings revealed their alertness. More importantly, their weapons—TAR-21 Tavor assault rifles and Uzi submachine guns—were starkly different from the old AK series favored by local militants, compact and formidable.
"The defense setup is professional, loose outside and tight inside. Caras cover without blind spots, patrol personnel are pros, not ordinary amateurs."
"Hawkeye" lowered the reconnaissance instrunt, voice suppressed to a whisper.
Petrovsky's gaze lifted from the terminal screen: "Ti's tighter than expected. According to the intelligence from command, the US Army air threat is accelerating towards us."
Song Heping's face showed no excess expression, only absolute calm.
He turned around, his gaze sweeping over a few SSO team mbers beside him:
"Twenty minutes. I estimate only twenty minutes."
He raised two fingers, "Starting from the first gunshot. Solve the battle, find the target, plant the explosives, and evacuate all personnel within twenty minutes. Whether the target is confird destroyed or the battle is over, ti's up, disengage unconditionally. Otherwise—"
He paused, his gaze turned towards the ink-colored sky.
"All of us and these vehicles will beco cold numbers and coordinates on the US Air Force pilots' record reports. Understand?"
"Understood!"
The response was deep and firm.
"Peter."
Song Heping looked at Petrovsky, "Major, you handle the specific deploynt, I'll take care of overall coordination and outer periter alert. Ensure smooth communication, 'Hawkeye's' drone footage must be shared in real ti."
Petrovsky nodded heavily, imdiately turning to the team mbers, speaking fast and clearly: "'Frost,' take your group to flank from the western depression, silently eliminate all outer sentries and roving patrols, clear the assault path. 'Hawkeye,' drones launch imdiately, focus on monitoring warehouse rooftop, surrounding strategic points, and potential sniper positions, sync footage to the terminal."
"'Shadow,' you'll form the first assault group with , strong attack from the east main entrance. 'Angel,' you and Orwell stay in Safety Vehicle No. 2, keep your distance, but be prepared to advance for urgent dical aid anyti. 'Cold Blade' as usual, you and Hunter handle remote support."
"Yes!"
In the low-pitched response, the team mbers swiftly dispersed like precision instrunts wound tight, lting into the increasingly heavy twilight.
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