Day seven.
Jasper sat dozing in his exclusive large leather chair in the monitoring room at Langley.
He hadn't been ho for seven days.
As an agent, not going ho is normal.
But the monotony of this prolonged surveillance process was driving him insane.
Every day, the drone would hover over the Atlon Oasis, conducting reconnaissance on the base where Song Heping was located.
Every day, it would take hundreds of high-resolution photos of the ground.
Jasper was getting sick of seeing Song Heping's face in the photos; he'd never stared at a picture this long, not even when he was in love and carried his partner's photo around.
"Huh—"
He yawned and stretched lazily.
He looked at the clock on the wall; it was three in the morning.
At that ti, it was dayti in Sudan.
With a 6-hour ti difference, it was past nine in the morning at the Atlon Oasis.
He leisurely poured himself another cup of coffee, then slowly turned his gaze to the screen.
At this ti every day, Song Heping would wake up and appear on the camp's open space to run, then return to sit under a tree near his tent and have breakfast with his subordinates.
This was his daily routine, without exception.
Jasper felt that Song Heping was a disciplined person, perhaps due to his military experience. At least, during the days of surveillance, he would routinely jog, and in the afternoons, he would go to the nearby hillside for various rapid-fire and response shooting exercises, occasionally using a sniper rifle.
As seen in the surveillance footage, this guy's marksmanship was indeed excellent, never missing a shot.
No wonder Mossad and the "Watcher" had suffered greatly at his hands before.
Killing him with a bomb might be the best option.
Sending a ground team to eliminate this madman was not a great choice.
But today, he suddenly noticed that Song Heping on the screen seed different than usual.
"Hmm?"
Jasper rubbed his eyes.
On the screen, Song Heping, in tactical gear, with a few rcenary-looking bodyguards, walked out of the tent and stood near the parking lot.
His subordinates gathered around, seemingly discussing sothing.
To Jasper's surprise, rcenaries were loading things onto two SUVs, and Song Heping said sothing to them after talking briefly with his subordinates.
It looked like they were going out.
"Is he leaving?"
Jasper sat up straight suddenly.
"The target seems to be leaving the camp."
The agent responsible for monitoring the screen turned to report: "Sir, what should we do?"
Jasper was wide awake, imdiately grabbing the phone on the table and dialing Pence's number.
Pence had gone ho to be with his wife.
But his house was not far from headquarters, less than five kiloters away.
The phone rang twice before connecting.
"Jasper, waking up this late, you better have a good reason."
"SIR, Song Heping is about to leave the camp."
Jasper got straight to the point.
"What?"
Pence, who sounded slightly tired, imdiately beca tense.
He then heard shuffling sounds.
Jasper deduced Pence was getting out of bed.
"Where is he going?"
"Not sure yet, but we see him in the parking lot, and the subordinates are loading things into the SUV. They seem to be leaving soon. What should we do?"
"I'm coming over right now, but you can give your opinion first."
Pence had already gotten up, hurriedly putting on his clothes.
"I suggest imdiate action because it takes five hours for the attack drones to fly from the Middle East to the sky over the Atlon Oasis, and during that ti, Song Heping could disappear."
"Can't we keep monitoring him with drones?"
"We can, but it's currently unclear where he's going. If the place he goes passes through the radar scan area of UN Peacekeeping Forces, it could expose our drone's presence. Once exposed, it could cause a diplomatic incident, and the President might have to explain."
Jasper pointed out the risks.
The line went silent; only the sound of dressing could be heard.
Finally, the dressing sound ceased, followed by Pence's footsteps down the stairs.
"Jasper, imdiately order the nearest base in the Middle East to deploy the MQ-9, arm it, and head to the Atlon Oasis."
The order had been given.
Pence had finally made up his mind.
He even began to doubt whether the surveillance of so many days before was necessary.
In those seven days, several attack opportunities were wasted.
Now, Song Heping was about to leave the camp.
Pence suddenly felt anxious at this mont.
If they missed this chance, who knew when the next window to assassinate Song Heping would open.
"YES SIR!"
Jasper suppressed his excitent.
He finally got this opportunity.
Fifteen minutes later, a US Air Force base on the outskirts of a coastal city in a certain Middle Eastern country.
The pre-dawn sea breeze carries a salty tang, and the ground crew at the airport is conducting final takeoff checks.
Two MQ-9 "Grim Reaper" drones glimr with cold light in the morning twilight, and the missiles mounted under their wings have been specially painted black.
Lieutenant Mitchell and several colleagues are in the control room of the airport service building, adjusting equipnt with 8 high-definition displays showing flight data, real-ti footage, and electronic maps.
Unlike surveillance drones, these attack drones have a temporary control room set up here to ensure more stable signal transmission.
He puts on noise-canceling headphones and, after adjusting the equipnt for a while, gives a thumbs-up, then requests permission from the control center via the headset.
"'Blood Feud 1' and 2 are ready, requesting takeoff clearance."
The airport control tower responds: "'Blood Feud' formation, wind direction 030, wind speed 8M/S, cleared for takeoff."
On the airport runway, the two MQ-9s slowly taxi onto the main runway one after the other, then gradually accelerate.
Soon, the speed reaches the requirent, and Lieutenant Mitchell gently pulls the control stick, the drones are thrust into the air by the airflow.
Mitchell's fingers fly over the console, adjusting the flaps and throttle.
On the display screen, the drone's perspective rapidly rises, the deep blue of the Red Sea is edged with gold in the morning light.
"First phase navigation point locked, maintain radio silence."
Mitchell speaks into the microphone, knowing that only the technicians in the control room can hear at this mont.
The drones turn southwest, following the predetermined route towards the Sudan coast.
Mitchell glances at the weather forecast on the secondary screen—along the flight path, there will be a sandstorm in the next six hours, providing perfect cover for the drones.
After flying for 3 hours and 17 minutes, over Northern Sudan Desert.
"Altitude reduced to 400 ters, entering terrain-following mode."
Mitchell issues a directive to the attack group via the microphone.
The footage from the drone's cara shows an endless expanse of yellow sand below, occasionally dotted with protruding rocks.
At this point, they have just entered Sudanese territory, and ultra-low altitude flight can evade ground radar scans; with the Sudan Governnt Army's radar equipnt level, they cannot detect low-altitude flying MQ-9s.
Technician Thom watches the radar screen: "'Blood Feud' formation is about to enter the fringe of the first air defense identification zone, the UN's 37th Brigade radar station is at our 11 o'clock direction, 80 kiloters away."
Mitchell adjusts the control stick, letting the drone fly along a dried-up riverbed. The cliffs on both sides of the riverbed effectively shield radar waves.
"Activate ECM (Electronic Counterasures), turn the frequency to the UN's common band."
A red alert box suddenly pops up on the screen—radar contact!
A UN military mobile radar vehicle seems to have changed its patrol route and is heading towards the drones.
"Damn!" Mitchell quickly inputs a series of commands, "Initiate active jamming, turn right 20 degrees, use that ridge for cover!"
The drone sharply veers, the cara footage shakes violently.
A few seconds later, the radar warning disappears.
"They didn't find us," Thom breathes a sigh of relief, "but the radar vehicle stopped, possibly checking for faults."
Mitchell wipes sweat from his forehead: "Continue forward, maintain minimum altitude."
After flying for 4 hours and 42 minutes, in the Northern Darfur region.
The sandstorm has arrived earlier than anticipated. The drone's cara footage becos blurry, forcing Mitchell to switch to synthetic aperture radar navigation.
"Fuel remaining at 63%," Thom reports on the drone's status: "76 kiloters to target overhead."
Thom pulls up satellite images: "Camp activity at Atlon Oasis is normal, thermal imaging shows about 80 people. Latest images show the target—" he enlarges the image, "yes, that's Song Heping, he was active on the west side of the camp an hour ago, hasn't left yet... wait..."
Thom turns to inquire with Mitchell: "Wasn't it said that he was going to leave the camp hours ago? Why is he still there?"
Mitchell imdiately contacts Langley Headquarters.
Jasper replies: "He hasn't left, he's still there, probably due to so issues, wait for other notices, you guys continue the mission, disregard other factors and focus on eliminating the target, I'll notify you of any unexpected situations first, no need to ask."
"Copy."
Lieutenant Mitchell turns his gaze to the screen, fixing on the blurred figure in the image: "Prepare second phase weapon unlocking. I want to ensure missiles can be launched imdiately once within range."
After flying for 5 hours and 30 minutes, over Atlon Oasis, on the outskirts of the "Musician" defended Sudan Camp.
The sandstorm has passed, and the afternoon sun casts a layer of golden light over the desert.
The drones have climbed to an altitude of 5000 ters, activating high-magnification optical caras.
"Camp sighted," Thom points to several tents and makeshift structures on the screen: "Magnify Sierra-3 area."
The image enlarges, showing two n conversing on a slope at the edge of the camp.
Mitchell activates the facial recognition system, and after a few seconds, the computer emits a confirmation tone—a 98.7% match.
"High-value target confird, Song Heping, formation reduce altitude to 3000 ters, prepare for attack."
Mitchell's voice trembles slightly with tension: "The one next to him is Jiang Feng, number two target."
He initiates the weapon system, and the two Hellfire Missiles complete final self-checks.
"'Blood Feud One' target locked, Two has weapon lock engaged, requesting launch permission."
The control room suddenly falls silent.
Everyone stares at the two figures on the main screen—they are facing the direction of the slope, apparently unaware.
Pence's raspy voice cos through the communicator: "Permission granted to fire. Send that son of a bitch to Hell."
Mitchell's fingers hover above the launch button, suddenly, sothing jumps on the edge of the screen, a red exclamation mark appears in the corner.
Beep beep beep beep beep—
Beep beep beep beep beep beep—
Warning buzzers sound.
A warning box pops up in the center of the screen, electronic voice issuing continuous notices—
"Locked! Locked! Locked!"
"FUCK! There's an anti-air missile!"
Lieutenant Mitchell screams in shock.
"Evade! Evade!"
Before his voice lands, a fireball rises suddenly from a depression between two dozen-ter sand and rock hills on the east side of the camp, a SAM-6 missile shoots skyward, like a Poison Snake lunging at its prey, rapidly hurtling towards the sky…
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