A few pickups accelerated recklessly, slamming open the rusted wire fence at the edge of the warehouse area.
The wooden barriers were easily snapped like matchsticks.
The convoy followed the pre-planned Gobi route, flooring the gas pedal, desperately racing toward the Iligo border!
As the convoy burst out within a kiloter and the warehouses were only slightly obscured by a few low sand dunes behind them—
Bang!!!!!!!!!!
A terrifying explosion suddenly erupted from behind!
Despite the distance, and being in a speeding, violently jostling vehicle, everyone could clearly feel the intense tremor of the earth beneath them, as if a high-intensity earthquake had occurred!
Song Heping glanced back through the rearview mirror and saw a massive fireball rising from the warehouse area, enveloped in thick, ink-like mushroom-shaped clouds, soaring into the sky!
The shockwave from the explosion stirred up ripple-like sand waves on the surface of distant dunes.
The massive steel skeleton of the warehouse was torn to shreds like a child's building blocks by this destructive force, then flung into the air hundreds of ters high like straw!
Countless concrete debris, twisted tal components mixed with the pungent sll of chemicals, scattered like teors, showering within a radius of hundreds of ters.
The chemical weapons warehouse that stored the plot to topple the Hafez Regi, along with the Mossad agents inside, was completely erased from the earth, leaving only a massive crater and burning ruins.
No one in the convoy cheered.
Everyone's face was tense.
It's not over yet.
Even though the mission was accomplished, whether they could make it back alive to Iligo was still uncertain.
"At least 90 minutes to the border! Damn, the road condition is awful! It's like a tank testing ground!"
The lead car driver "Shadow" watched the navigation screen showing the route and estimated ti, his voice filled with imnse anxiety.
"Hopefully, we have 90 minutes of safety!"
Petrovsky growled while also keeping his eyes fixed on the sky.
There, the deadly duel between US and Russian fighter jets seed to have beco more intense due to the ground explosion.
Sky, Latamira, altitude 21,000 feet.
"Poison Snake 1-1, three o'clock on the right, enemy aircraft approaching! Distance 100 ters, altitude level!"
The voice of the wingman "Poison Snake 1-2" pilot blasted through the encrypted channel, each syllable strained like a taut bowstring.
No need for radar, just visual, he clearly captured every detail of the Su-35S—grey-blue low-visibility coating, large red star insignia on the fuselage side, and beneath the cockpit, the blurred yet cold outline of the Russian-helted pilot's face.
Close enough to see the missile details under the opponent's wings.
"Maintain formation, 1-2. Steady."
Major Mitchell's voice was icy, his left thumb hovering over the weapon control panel's safety switch, ready for the worst-case scenario.
His gaze pierced the F-15E "Strike Eagle" cockpit canopy, locking onto the Su-35S main jet that was slowly approaching.
A few fighter jets representing the pinnacle of eastern and western aviation achievents paralleled in Latamira's darkening sky at relative speeds of over 800 kiloters per hour, wingtip distances less than 100 ters.
For supersonic aircraft, this distance is equivalent to dancing on a knife edge; any minor airflow disturbance or operational mistake could lead to catastrophic collisions.
"Scythe 1-1's" Su-35S continued to approach, its movents bold and risky.
In close-range combat, the Su-35S was not afraid of the F-15E.
Suddenly, the Su-35S's nose sharply angled upwards, its two AL-41F1S engines' nozzles spewed longer ghostly blue flas, afterburners instantly engaged.
This action exposed its weapon pylons beneath its belly completely to "Poison Snake" formation's view—slender R-77 dium-range air-to-air missiles, short and nimble R-73 combat bombs, reflecting a cold, lethal glow under the starlight.
Displaying weaponry, it's the most primitive yet powerful aerial warning.
Imdiately following, "Scythe 1-1" perford a dangerous maneuver.
Utilizing its unparalleled thrust vector technology, the Su-35S fuselage rapidly began high-speed rolling around the central axis, like a weightless top, with an air-slicing howl, from the F-15E's right side, with an almost arrogant posture, flipping instantly to the left.
The intense vortices generated during the roll violently hit the F-15E fuselage, causing intense shaking, the instrunt panel's attitude indicators instantly wobbling.
This isn't a show; it's humiliation, a crushing technical declaration.
"Son of a bitch! He's doing barrel rolls in front of our faces! CAOC! CAOC! Poison Snake 1-1 calling! Russian fighter jets are conducting extrely dangerous provocations, distance less than 50 ters! Weapon display and tactical deterrence maneuvers completed! Request permission for equal counteraction! Repeat, request permission!"
Wilson, the Lieutenant in the F-15E wingman's cabin, began swearing on the channel.
The channel was filled with static noise, response from the rear was slow.
Every second of silence from the command center felt like torturing the nerves of the two US Army pilots.
Seconds later, the directive from the Combined Air Operations Center (CAOC) at the Iligo Air Force Base finally arrived, the voice as bland as tap water:
"Poison Snake formation, CAOC received. Highest directive: maintain maximum restraint, avoid actions that could lead to escalation. Imdiately terminate current confrontation, head 195, altitude down to 15,000, return to base. Repeat, disengage imdiately, return to base. Over."
"What? Disengage?!"
Wilson almost spat out the words through gritted teeth, "We're just going to leave? Let them plant a flag where we just took a crap?!"
"1-2! Execute the order!"
Major Mitchell appeared more composed, commanding with an indisputable sternness.
He knew better than Wilson, behind this seemingly humiliating order was the Pentagon and White House's assessnt of the situation—there must not be a direct military conflict with Russia over the exposure of a secret mission.
No one can afford this cost.
Mitchell took a deep breath, suppressing the anger and sense of humiliation churning in his chest, pushing the control stick, F-15E began to turn smoothly.
Simultaneously, he switched to the international aviation ergency frequency, his voice as cold as Siberian permafrost:
"Russian 'Scythe' formation, due to your dangerous and unprofessional flying behavior, my aircraft is ordered to leave this airspace. This incident will be recorded and reported. Over."
In the channel, after a brief silence, a clear, unabashedly mocking laugh ca from "Scythe 1-1", then communication cut off.
The two F-15E "Strike Eagles" increased thrust, their large bodies drawing an arc, flying toward the base, leaving air superiority over Latamira to those four Su-35S, hovering like vultures.
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