Chapter 1378
Deploying to the Special Operations Joint Team
Chapter 1378 Deploying to the Special Operations Joint Team
A sandstorm has arrived.
The sky in the Mosul region is not blue.
It was a color somewhere between earthy yellow and rust red, as if the entire sky was infected by the wounds of this city.
A dust storm swept in from the west, carrying mud from the banks of the Tigris River and black particles from burning oil, creating an eerie halo in the afternoon sun.
Visibility was less than 500 meters; the whole world looked like it was being observed through dirty amber.
Inside the middle bulletproof vehicle, Song Heping pressed the call button: "All vehicles, maintain distance and turn on your fog lights."
His voice was calm and steady as he slid his fingers across the tactical tablet, his eyes fixed on the screen.
On the screen, thirty-four green dots representing the convoy are passing through the industrial ruins on the eastern outskirts of Mosul, like a group of cautious beetles.
"Three hundred meters ahead, there's a reflection at the third-floor window on the right." The voice of the lead vehicle's scout came through the headset: "Weapons on duty have been marked."
Song Heping zooms in on the image.
Thermal imaging revealed the silhouettes of two human figures, holding long weapons.
He switched to the optical lens.
Behind the broken window, two Iligo soldiers were smoking, the barrel of one of their AK-47s flashing in the occasional sunlight that pierced through the sand.
“Friendly forces.” Song Heping recognized the Ilgothic flag on the other side’s arm patch: “Continue the advance.”
But his hand did not leave the Glock 19 at his side.
In Mosul, the line between friend and foe can sometimes be drawn in the blink of an eye.
Three months ago, in this very area, a former Levantine militia platoon that had been incorporated into the army suddenly defected, resulting in a tragedy in which two U.S. special forces soldiers were killed and five wounded.
"Musicians Battalion, this is 'Sentinel One,' your location has been confirmed."
A new voice joined the channel, carrying the nasal tone characteristic of American English.
"Proceed 800 meters along the current route, and you will see a five-story concrete building with an M2 heavy machine gun emplacement on the roof. That is the Joint Operations Center."
"Received, Sentinel One," Song Heping replied. "Estimated arrival time: five minutes."
He turned off the microphone and looked at Milos in the passenger seat: "We're almost there. Tell the brothers to get ready."
Milos grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by nicotine.
"Americans aren't going to greet us at the door with coffee and donuts, are they?"
“They will signal with the safety switch on their rifles,” Song Heping said. “They will tell each vehicle that once inside the restricted area, no one may get out of the vehicle unless I give the order. All weapons must be kept in the safe position, but fingers must not leave the protective ring.”
The command was transmitted through the vehicle-to-vehicle communication system.
The atmosphere in the entire convoy changed.
Engine speed is reduced, and the distance between vehicles is increased.
The machine gunner adjusted his posture, shifting from a relaxed sitting position to a tense combat stance.
These subtle adjustments are instincts accumulated over years of combat experience, and they demonstrate a unit's professionalism more effectively than any slogan.
The lead vehicle rounded the last bend, and the target building appeared in the dust.
That building used to be the office building of a textile factory, built during the heyday of Saddam Hussein.
The five-story concrete structure, square like a tombstone, had twelve windows on each floor, but now less than half of them still have glass remaining.
The exterior walls are riddled with bullet holes, and judging from the caliber, they have been subjected to a variety of weapons, from AK-47s to 12.7mm heavy machine guns.
There were obvious rocket hit marks on one side of the third floor, with steel bars exposed like twisted ribs.
But the Americans turned it into a temporary operations command center.
Not only were there two M2 rifles on the roof, but Song Heping also saw at least three sniper positions—bunkers built with sandbags and bulletproof steel plates, with openings facing different directions.
Inside one of the bunkers, an observer dressed in a ghillie suit was watching the convoy through high-powered binoculars.
The instant his gaze swept over the sniper, Song Heping accurately determined the opponent's position and weapon model: an M2010 enhanced sniper rifle, a powerful weapon with an effective range of 1200 meters.
"Rooftop, 11 o'clock position, sniper team," he warned in the internal channel.
“I saw it.” Milos squinted. “There’s movement in the windows on the second and third floors, at least six firing positions. They’ve also set up concealed firing positions in the ruins on both sides—see that pile of concrete debris? It’s so neatly arranged, it was piled up manually.”
Song Heping nodded.
That's the Delta Force style.
It may seem random, but every angle has actually been calculated.
The bunkers made of concrete fragments could accommodate a three-man fire team, which could both block the main road leading to the building and provide crossfire support in the event of an attack.
Although they had fought before and he had defeated them, Song Heping admitted that these guys were definitely top-notch fighters.
The convoy stopped fifty meters from the building.
A U.S. soldier wearing Multicam camouflage walked out of the building entrance.
He held the rank of captain, but his arm patch was not typical of regular troops.
Black delta wings with a short sword pattern in the center.
As expected, it's Delta Force.
He wasn't wearing a helmet, just a tactical baseball cap, which was a sign of absolute confidence in the area.
His right hand hung naturally at his side, but Song Heping noticed that his left shoulder was slightly tilted forward, which was to quickly draw the pistol from the holster on his thigh if needed.
“Mr. Song?” Captain Walker’s voice came through the dust: “I am Captain Walker, General Duke’s assistant. Welcome to the Joint Operations Center.”
Song Heping pushed open the car door, landed on both feet at the same time, and kept his body in a half-squatting position.
This is a subtle but important detail.
Standing straight will make you a better target.
Milos got off the vehicle from the other side, and the two formed a natural cross-cover angle.
“Captain Walker.” Song Heping walked over without extending his hand: “My troops need parking spots and encampment areas.”
“It’s all ready.” Walker pointed to an open space on the left side of the building. “However, according to security protocols, all heavy weapons must be stored in a central location. Personal weapons can be carried, but they will need to be checked before entering the main building.”
Milos raised his eyebrows and moved his lips, as if he wanted to refute.
Song Heping stopped him with a look and turned to Walker: "Okay. But my troops need to be on high alert, so the weapons storage point must be guarded by my soldiers."
There was a brief silence.
Walker sized up Song Heping, then nodded: “That makes sense. You can send two people to guard the armory, but they can’t carry rifles, only pistols.”
"make a deal."
Song Heping turned and gestured to the convoy.
More than 30 vehicles began to drive in an orderly manner toward the designated area, the sound of their engines echoing among the ruins.
He noticed that each parking space had been carefully selected.
No two adjacent parking spaces are in a straight line, which means that if attacked by mortars, at most one vehicle will be lost.
Furthermore, sandbags were used to separate the parking spaces to prevent a chain reaction of explosions.
profession.
A cold, hard profession.
The interior of the main building looks more dilapidated than the exterior.
The marble floor of the hall was covered with cracks, and the murals on the walls were propaganda posters from the Shadawood era. After many years, only mottled patches of color remained.
The Americans have already made some simple modifications to this place.
The windows were fitted with bulletproof steel plates on the inside and controlled by hydraulic devices; all passageways were equipped with improvised explosive device (IED) detection stations; and there was a panoramic camera every five meters on the ceiling.
The air was filled with a mixture of sweat, coffee, and the plastic smell from electronic devices.
There was also a certain sharper smell.
It has the characteristic sweet smell of C4 explosive.
It seems the people in the Delta have stockpiled a lot of explosives here.
The door to the second-floor briefing room was open, and smoke was drifting out.
It wasn't a cigarette, but a cigar.
Expensive Cuban cigars.
Song Heping paused at the door for two seconds, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim indoor light.
The main light in the room was off; only the beam of light from the projector and a few tactical flashlights provided auxiliary illumination.
A dozen or so people sat around a makeshift long table, the tactical computer screen on the table glowing with a ghostly blue light.
As soon as Song Heping entered, everyone turned their attention to him.
On the left are three Delta Force squad leaders, all of whom are senior officers judging from their shoulder insignia.
They were wearing almost identical equipment.
The Crye Precision combat suit, with its bulletproof vest covered in magazines and equipment pouches, and its helmet equipped with a quad-eye night vision goggle mount.
But subtle differences revealed personal preferences: one preferred shotguns as breaching tools, with a Remington 870 hanging on his sling; another had a longer suppressor on his rifle than usual; and the third had a custom-made holster, angled for the fastest draw.
The CIA team is on the right.
The four people, dressed in civilian clothes, stood out conspicuously in this environment.
The one leading the group was Station Master Lamont.
He held a half-smoked cigar in his hand, the smoke swirling slowly in the projector beam. The man standing by the window was the last to turn around.
It's Major General Duke.
"Song," Duke greeted warmly, "Thank you for arriving on time. Was your journey smooth?"
“Three checkpoints, two identity checks, no unexpected incidents, no firefights.” Song Heping walked to an empty seat at the table and looked around at everyone. “However, we encountered a sandstorm, which took twenty minutes longer than expected.”
“That’s how Mosul is right now,” Lemont interjected, his voice hoarse from a long-time smoker. “Although this is currently Samir’s controlled area, it’s still not peaceful. Please have a seat.”
He pointed to a chair in front of him.
Song Heping and Milos sat down.
As soon as he sat down, he could feel the eyes of all the Delta Force team members in the conference room focused on him and Milos.
It wasn't hostility, but rather a professional assessment.
They observed the equipment's maintenance status, the habitual way people held their guns, and their instinct to maintain a clear field of vision when sitting down.
There's always a subtle rivalry between mercenaries and special forces; it's an unspoken rule in the industry.
Remont stood up and walked to the whiteboard. The whiteboard was already covered with photos, maps, and intelligence summaries, connected by lines of different colors to form a complex network of relationships.
"Gentlemen, time is of the essence, so I'll get straight to the point."
He pointed a laser pointer at a photo in the middle.
“Masour is the target of this operation.”
The man in the photo is in his forties, wearing metal-framed glasses, with neatly combed hair, and dressed in a suit.
He's more like a university professor than a terrorist.
But Song Heping noticed some details.
The gaze behind the glasses lacked the gentleness often seen in scholars, instead displaying a cold, focused intensity; the left lapel of his suit jacket was slightly raised, perhaps concealing something beneath; a ring was worn on his right ring finger, but there were traces of a ring on his middle finger.
It was obvious that the wedding ring had been removed.
"PhD in Chemical Engineering, University of California graduate."
Lamont switched photos to display a report card.
"A typical academic elite trajectory, until 2013."
The new photo was projected onto the screen.
Mesour is in a lab at Baghdad University, wearing a white lab coat.
"According to our intelligence, Masour began to show interest in extremist ideologies in early 2014 when the civil war in Silia escalated."
Lamont's voice was steady, but Song Heping noticed that he skipped some time points.
The report jumps directly from 2013 to 2014, missing nearly a year's worth of information in between.
“In August 2014, Masour left Baghdad for Siri. At that time, the 1515 militia was expanding rapidly by taking advantage of the Siri civil war and was in dire need of technical personnel.”
Lamont switched the photo, and the screen became a surveillance screenshot of the border area, blurry but Maisour's face was recognizable.
"He quickly gained prominence through his expertise, becoming a key member of the 1515 chemical weapons project and being received by Bakdadi, becoming one of his confidants."
Quickly switch between photos.
A rudimentary laboratory, chemical containers, and personnel in protective suits. One photo shows Mesour standing next to a pile of cylinders labeled "chlorine."
"Between 2015 and 2017, 1515 carried out at least twelve confirmed chemical weapons attacks in Iligor and Seria, resulting in the deaths of more than 800 civilians."
Lamont's voice grew heavy.
"All of the chemical weapons used in these attacks came from the laboratory that Mesour was in charge of. He not only manufactured the weapons, but also trained others to use them."
A Delta Force captain raised his hand: "So he's a complete extremist?"
"Looks like it is."
Lemont nodded, but Song Heping noticed that he slightly avoided eye contact.
interesting……
Lemont continued, “We are still studying the process of how he transformed from a mild-mannered scholar into a key technical expert of 1515. But the point is now, he is one of Baghdadi’s most trusted technical experts and may have clues about Baghdadi’s whereabouts.”
General Duke walked up to the whiteboard and began the conversation: "Our mission is clear: find Masour and extract all the information from his mind—especially about Baghdadi's hiding place. Masour is one of the few people who might know Baghdadi's whereabouts."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the room: “But I want to make the rules of operation clear. The priority is capture alive. But if the situation doesn’t allow it, if he is about to escape, or if the capture operation would endanger our personnel, then lethal force may be used.”
Song Heping's brain was rapidly analyzing the situation.
Prioritize capturing alive, but killing is permitted.
If Masour is truly the key to finding Baghdadi, then he should be captured alive, even at the cost of casualties.
Unless they don't want him to live and speak.
“Song,” Duke looked at him, “I need your troops to be deployed along the border. This is your area of operation—”
A dozen or so blue markers appear on the map, distributed along the Iraqi-Syrian border, from the Sinjar Mountains to the Rabia Plain.
“One squad will be stationed at each point for 24-hour surveillance. Your advantage is your mercenary status, and this is your territory, so you won't be as conspicuous as us. Report any suspicious activity immediately, and Delta Force will deploy to carry out the mission. You only need to be responsible for perimeter monitoring and interception. Understand?”
"It sounds simple," Song Heping laughed. "My troops can be in position before dawn tomorrow."
“Very good.” Duke nodded, turning his gaze to the Delta Force captain. “Meanwhile, Delta Force will act on another CIA lead. We have a suspicious individual in the border town of Badi in Nineveh province, a retired teacher and one of Masour’s few relatives in Iligo—his uncle. Intelligence indicates he may have had contact with Masour last week. Team A will make the arrest tomorrow morning, hoping to obtain Masour’s real-time location.”
The briefing lasted another forty minutes.
Lamont then provided more details.
The possible aliases that Masour might use, the types of transportation he usually uses, and his health problems, such as having mild asthma and needing to use an inhaler regularly.
But Lemont has remained vague about Mesour's activities from 2013 to 2014, or about the specific process of his transformation.
After the meeting, the Delta Force team members quickly left to prepare for the operation in the early morning.
As the CIA team packed up their documents, Lemont gave Song Heping one last look, his expression complex and unreadable.
Captain Walker approached and said, “Mr. Song, your accommodations are on the third floor. The rooms have been assigned, and each room has basic amenities. The mess hall is on the first floor, serving hot meals. Please let me know if you need anything.”
"Thank you," Song Heping said. "Can the communication equipment used by my troops be connected to your command network?"
“We will provide encrypted radios, but the command network is separate.”
Walker answered cautiously.
"You can receive commands and send reports, but you cannot access the intelligence database. This is a security protocol."
"Oh alright."
Song Heping nodded meaningfully.
These Americans are still very wary.
The third-floor corridor was covered with a worn-out carpet, which may have once been red, but was now stained dark brown with dirt and grime.
There were bullet holes in the walls; some were hastily filled with putty, while others were left exposed, revealing the bricks and electrical wires inside.
A musty smell permeated the air.
Song Heping's room is at the end of the corridor, number 310.
The door is an ordinary wooden door, but the hinges are newly replaced with heavy-duty steel hinges, and the lock is a high-security electronic lock.
Walker gave him a key card and a six-digit password.
“The password is changed every day, updated at six in the morning,” Walker said. “In case of emergency, there are evacuation routes inside the building, and the map is behind the door.”
The room was very small, less than ten square meters.
A cot, a metal table, and two folding chairs.
The window glass was broken, and it was covered with plastic sheeting and taped up. It rattled loudly when the wind blew.
There was a simple clothes rack in the corner and a military storage box on the ground.
Song Heping checked the room to make sure there were no eavesdropping devices or hidden cameras.
He quickly discovered three hidden cameras.
One was inside a smoke detector, its lens pointed at the bed; another was behind the grille of an air conditioning vent, covering the entire room; the third was the most concealed, hidden in a screw hole in a power outlet, well disguised, but the slight color difference between the metal screw and the edge of the plastic hole gave it away.
The Americans wanted to spy on him.
This was both expected and revealed more information.
They didn't trust him, or rather, they were afraid he would discover something.
Song Heping simply removed all the cameras.
This kind of mess, well, everyone knows it's a secret anyway.
Even if you demolish it, the other party won't admit it, much less use it as an excuse.
The competition behind the scenes is so tacit.
After checking the room, he walked to the window and looked at the sky outside, which was gradually darkening.
After admiring the scenery for a while, I checked the time.
Then he took out his satellite phone and dialed Henry's number.
Requesting monthly votes! Requesting monthly votes! If I get more monthly votes today, I'll continue with 10,000 words a day.
(End of this chapter)