Langley Headquarters.
Pence stared at the screen showing the images returned by the drone.
The surviving mbers of the Delta Squad were gathering the bodies of their fallen comrades, several Black Hawk helicopters were stationed nearby.
dics and team mbers lifted bodies wrapped in black bags onto the helicopters.
But the search images from several drones did not show any sign of Song Heping.
His face was ashen, his lips trembled slightly, then he slowly picked up the red phone and dialed the White House's crisis room number.
"Sir, we may need to discuss an alternative plan..." His voice revealed unprecedented fatigue, "Song Heping is tougher to deal with than we imagined."
A few minutes later.
When the perpetual motion ball on Pence's desk marked a parabolic path for the third ti, the assistant outside heard the sound of tal smashing glass and then hitting the floor.
The titanium ball had left the eighth dent on the oaken floor, rolling like a dud shell under the file cabinet.
This trinket was Pence's favorite.
The assistant had once asked about the origin of this trinket.
Pence told him that the little gadget could keep him calm.
Whenever faced with so difficulty or imnse pressure, he would gently push the tal ball above, and then watch as the ball repeatedly collided, emitting a "tat-tat" sound, slowly calming him in the monotonous yet simple chanical motion.
"Thirty-seven minutes! Thirty-seven minutes!"
In the office, Pence rudely tore open his tie, the blood vessels at his Adam's apple throbbing.
"In just thirty-seven minutes, they were all gone!"
The liquid crystal screen on the wall was still playing the drone images in loops: several silicone dummies lay on the sand dunes, infrared electronic bait flashing with mocking red light.
These were left by Song Heping during his retreat.
The purpose was to deceive Carter and others in Delta into thinking there were still enemies around, making them afraid to leave their positions and rely guard foolishly until rescue arrived...
The secure phone on the desk suddenly began to vibrate.
Pence grabbed the receiver forcefully enough to crush a walnut: "I said don't—"
"Calm down, Pence."
The voice of Richard, the director of the Ministry of Defense Special Operations Departnt, ca through with static noise.
"I've seen the satellite photos; they left tire tracks at the northwest corner of the oasis."
Pence's fingers left five white marks on the edge of the desk.
He recalled the scene in the war room three days ago—the staff officers confidently guaranteeing "an iron wall encirclent," those digital sand tables marked with red arrows, and the last set of coordinates sent back by the Delta Force.
Now it all beca waste paper, along with the lives of more than twenty Green Beret mbers, buried in the desert of North Africa.
"Richard, I feel we don't understand Song Heping deeply enough. During his collaboration with the military in Illiguo, you should have conducted assessnts on him; this is the process you use to recruit suppliers. It was Peter who handled it; the guy never ntioned it before. Now I want all the information he has on Song Heping."
He picked up the mint candy box on the desk, poured a handful into his mouth, and bit down.
The sound of a lighter clinking and the hiss of deeply inhaling then exhaling a cigar ca from the other end of the phone: "Are you sure? Peter didn't give you all the information?"
"I'm sure!"
"Ah..."
Richard seed slightly surprised.
"You can call him directly; isn't that better? You know Peter; you're old friends, so why go through to follow procedure? That would take a long ti."
"This is an ergency situation! I need the information imdiately!"
"Then just go directly to Peter; it's most direct and fastest."
Richard seed indifferent about this matter.
This surprised Pence.
The Green Berets and Delta are their people, now severely damaged, yet Richard's tone sounded uncaring.
As if it wasn't his people who died.
"You are a direct subordinate, how can I find him and under what pretext?"
"Assistance, under the pretext of assistance, or you find the White House security advisor and let him approve a procedure for you."
"Damn it! You're..."
He was about to accuse Richard of dodging when he heard a busy signal.
Richard actually hung up on him...
"FUCK!"
Pence threw the receiver back onto the phone.
The floor-to-ceiling window reflected his distorted shadow, the tie skewed like a noose around his neck.
He opened the safe and took out a black folder labeled "Musician Action."
On the first page, a photo of Song Heping was on a terrace of a Mosul villa, lifting a glass, surrounded by several military figures circled with a marker—among them was Peter's damn smiling face.
Everything seed obvious.
Pence knew the top brass in the military always had a small circle of interests.
If Song Heping was conveying benefits to them during his ti in Iraq...
It must be!
Definitely has!
How else could he obtain transportation contracts worth hundreds of millions of US Dollars?!
"A nest of snakes and rats!"
He helplessly growled in anger once more.
The sunset at the Atlon Oasis dyed the Yed Plateau the color of a blood scab.
Song Heping squatted by the spring water, his tactical knife carving out grooves of varying depths in the sandy ground.
"Here."
The knife tip jabbed at a listone terrace two hundred ters northwest of the spring.
"The command center is built under the rock layer, leaving only a sentry post aboveground."
He then drew three radiating lines.
"The underground tunnels respectively lead to the armory, helipad, and ergency evacuation point."
Jiang Feng licked his cracked lips: "Old leader, will the Sudanese agree to give us this land?"
"Of course they will, the problem is what I offer them in exchange?"
"What exchange? Money?"
"No, three months' ti to help them regain northern oil fields."
The satellite phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket.
Song Heping took it out and glanced at the number, his eyes glowed slightly, and a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Old friend, it's been a long ti since I received your call, why? Calling , aren't you afraid of being implicated?"
"I have no choice either; you guys just took down one of our Delta squads and two Green Beret units in Sudan and Chad, and things are escalating. Song, have you not considered the consequences?"
The voice on the phone was Peter's.
"Of course I considered it, but I have no retreat." Song Heping said blandly, "If I had a choice, I wouldn't go against the world's top three intelligence agencies, right? And it wasn't wanting to kill your US Army people; it was your Special Forces coming to kill . Do you expect to stretch my neck for slaughter? That's not my style."
"Ah..."
Peter sighed on the other end of the line.
"At this ti, calling must an sothing important, right?"
"Yes, Pence has gone crazy, chasing for all your company details and reports from the Illiguo period. He asked once before but I didn't give them, but this ti he's pressuring through the White House and Pentagon. I had to give in. I'm calling to remind you to prepare early; the information involves many private accounts, so clear what needs clearing..."
Peter's aning was evident.
He was worried that the accounts related to his private transactions with Song Heping hadn't been cleaned up, which could implicate himself.
Actually not to help Song Heping, but to help himself.
"Rest assured, my old friend, I've already made arrangents."
"Then I'm relieved."
Peter exhaled deeply.
"You owe a favor, old friend."
Song Heping said over the phone, eyes fixed on the distance.
"Remind those clowns at Langley: better not provoke again."
With that, he hung up directly.
Baghdad Green Zone.
When Peter put down the phone, the whiskey glass on the table vibrated, leaving a circular water mark.
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