Chapter 1394
Return to Mosul
Chapter 1394 Return to Mosul
As the last rays of twilight sank into the west bank of the Tigris River, the minarets of Mosul's Old City cast long shadows in the twilight.
The air was filled with the acrid smell of burning garbage, the aroma of roasted mutton, and the lingering smell of war smoke.
Song Heping pulled his checkered headscarf tighter, leaving only his eyes visible. His gray robe was covered in dust, and his old leather shoes were cracked. He looked no different from the thousands of unemployed people on the streets of Mosul.
He was queuing outside the Bab al-Sind checkpoint in the north of the city, ahead of more than twenty civilians who were also waiting to enter the city.
“Documents,” the Iligo soldier said impatiently.
Song Heping handed over a crumpled ID card with a photo of a Shia Arab named Qasim Ali.
That was one of his fake identities in Iligo.
For the owner of a PMC company, it is absolutely impossible to have only one identity in a war-torn region.
The person in the photo was a civilian who died in a firefight three years ago. His identification changed hands many times on the black market before finally ending up in Song Heping's hands. The photo has now been replaced.
The soldier looked at the identification and Song Heping's face for a few seconds.
Song Heping's makeup did have a very good effect.
The beard is fake; it not only conforms to the tradition of YSL men but also covers most of his facial features. The dark eyeliner makes his eyes look more sunken, and he has deliberately smeared a lot of dust on his cheeks, making him look like a weary fugitive from out of town.
"Go in."
The soldier waved, his attention already shifting to the next one.
Song Heping lowered his head and quickly passed through the checkpoint, blending into the labyrinthine streets of Mosul.
Mosul had just experienced three years of rule from 1515 and had only recently been recaptured; the entire city was almost reduced to ruins.
The buildings on both sides of the street were riddled with bullet holes and shell holes, some buildings were completely destroyed, and rubble piled up on the sidewalks.
Even amidst the ruins, vendors still set up stalls, selling everything from vegetables to smuggled cigarettes.
In a teahouse adorned with colorful strings of lights, men smoke hookahs while Egyptian soap operas play on television at blast volume, as if to drown out the gunfire echoing from the depths of the city.
Song Heping avoided the main roads and took the alleys instead.
He could feel the tension in the city.
Armed militiamen sat in the back of pickup trucks parked on the side of the road, sniper observation posts were on the roofs, and checkpoints could suddenly appear at any street corner.
As night fell completely, Song Heping arrived at the edge of the eastern industrial zone.
This place was once the stronghold of 1515, and now it is filled with the wreckage of burned cars and collapsed factory buildings.
Enter one of the dilapidated buildings and go up to the sixth floor.
Song Heping stopped in the shadows of the ruins, the night wind lifting the hem of his robe.
After confirming that no one was around, he loosened his belt, revealing a flat, specially made pocket sewn into the lining.
He reached in with his fingertip and took out a metal tube slightly larger than a lighter.
Gently unscrew it to reveal a folded Steiner M series monocular observation lens. The lens has an anti-reflective coating, so it is almost non-reflective under moonlight.
He tore a hidden opening in the thick collar of his robe and pulled out a tactical scarf that had been compressed into a strip.
The fabric, coated with a special coating, unfolds at your fingertips and automatically shapes itself when draped over your shoulders and neck, blurring infrared signatures.
Finally, he crouched down and pulled out three high-energy compressed candies from the lining of his right boot heel. They were wrapped in tin foil and each could provide six hours of basal metabolic rate.
This is his only "food" at this moment.
There were no guns, no knives.
In this city divided by multiple forces, any conventional weapon at the checkpoint means the death penalty.
All he had were observation equipment hidden in his everyday clothes, a little energy supply, and the fighting instincts ingrained in his bones from years of military service.
He stood up and switched the observation mirror to low-light mode.
The field of vision was instantly tinged with a phosphorescent green, and the outlines of buildings, distant watchtowers, and the thermal images of patrol teams gradually appeared.
He was like a thread pulled from the fabric of reality, silently slipping into deeper darkness, each step treading between shadow and light.
The wind whipped up sand and gravel, which clattered against the broken wall.
At this moment, he was no longer the down-on-his-luck civilian passing through the checkpoint, but had transformed back into the ghost who only needed a little light and a little energy to survive, observe, and wait for his opportunity in enemy territory.
His target was the joint operations team base, three kilometers away.
That is a forward operating base for joint operations by U.S. special forces, and it is currently the operations center of the "Witness" department in Mosul.
Half of the building was blown away during a firefight last winter, but the main concrete structure remains relatively stable.
From here, you can see the entire panoramic view of the Joint Task Force base.
The base is located in an abandoned textile factory, surrounded by a three-meter-high concrete wall, with barbed wire and cameras on top.
There were watchtowers in all four corners, and searchlights slowly swept across the surrounding area.
The main building is a three-story office building, next to which are hangars and helicopter landing pads, where two Black Hawk helicopters and one Little Bird helicopter are currently parked.
Song Heping raised the binoculars and began to focus.
Activities inside the base are clearly visible.
U.S. soldiers in desert camouflage patrolled, while some chatted by Humvees.
Suddenly, the side door of the main building opened, and two people dressed in black combat uniforms without any markings dragged a figure out.
Song Heping's heart sank.
That's Milos.
The Serbian's tall body was now hunched over, with obvious bruises on his face, and his left eye was so swollen that he could barely open it.
He was roughly dragged across the yard and thrown into a detached bungalow.
That was the interrogation room. Song Heping had stayed at the base for a few days before, so he knew the function of every building.
Immediately afterwards, three more mercenaries were brought out; they were all members of Song Heping's "Desert Hound" company.
One of them staggered as he walked, his trousers soaked with blood at the thigh. These people were also pushed into the bungalow.
The telescope trembled slightly in Song Heping's hands.
It wasn't out of fear, but out of anger.
The observation continued until 2 a.m.
Song Heping recorded the patrol team's rotation time, camera blind spots, and the location of the outer sentries.
He also noticed that the base's security had been significantly strengthened, with two more M2 heavy machine guns mounted on the roofs of Humvees, concrete roadblocks added at the entrance, and even the streets outside the walls cleared out to create a wide field of fire.
It seems Ryan brought quite a few new faces with him this time.
In the darkest hour before dawn, Song Heping packed up his equipment and quietly withdrew from the observation point.
He needs to reassess the situation, and what he needs first is a safe place to settle down.
As dawn broke, Song Heping had already transformed back into the commoner in his tattered robe. He bought a prepaid phone card with cash at the market, then went to three different public phone booths. After confirming he wasn't being followed by using a complicated route, he finally dialed the number from the fourth booth.
The phone rang six times, and just as Song Heping was about to hang up, the other end answered.
"It's me, I want to see you."
Song Heping spoke in Arabic, his voice very low.
There was a full five seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then someone exclaimed in surprise.
"God, boss, it's you! Where are you?"
boss.
A familiar form of address.
"The telephone booth 200 meters south of the Nur Mosque in the old city."
"Stay there and don't move. In thirty minutes, a white Toyota Hilux will pass by, license plate ending in 47. Get in."
The phone hangs up.
Song Heping left the phone booth and crouched down in the shadows of the mosque, observing the street.
Twenty-five minutes later, a white pickup truck slowly drove up, its license plate ending in 47.
There was only the driver in the car, wearing an Ilgodrical army uniform.
The pickup truck didn't come to a complete stop, it just slowed down.
Song Heping opened the car door and jumped in; the vehicle immediately sped away.
“Mr. Song, I was sent by Division Commander Samir,” the driver said, glancing warily at the rearview mirror. “Lower your stance. There are a lot of Americans watching in the city.”
Song Heping did as instructed.
The pickup truck weaved through the streets of Mosul, deliberately circling around a few times, before finally driving into the 10th Division's barracks in the west of the city.
The guards at the main gate saw the license plate and let the car pass. The vehicle drove straight to the back door of the command building and stopped.
Samir was already waiting there.
The commander of the 10th Division of the Iligor Army was wearing a neatly pressed uniform, but the dark circles under his eyes showed that he hadn't slept well in the past few days.
Seeing Song Heping get out of the car, he quickly stepped forward and opened his arms to hug him.
“Boss, I thank God that you are still alive.” Samir’s voice was a little hoarse.
“Miloš and the others are in the hands of the Americans,” Song Heping stated bluntly.
Samir's expression darkened.
“I know. The Americans sent a formal notice yesterday saying that your company is suspected of illegal arms dealing and terrorism-related activities, and they are asking us to cooperate in arresting you.”
He paused, then sneered, "They even implied that if you hide in my camp, it might affect US-Iran relations."
The two quickly entered the building and went to Samir's private office.
The entire military camp can be seen from the window.
Neatly arranged armored vehicles, soldiers training, and the Iligo flag fluttering in the wind.
This area and the surrounding region are home to 12,000 soldiers loyal to Samir, making it one of the most powerful military forces in Mosul and even the western region.
“I need food,” Song Heping said. “I haven’t had a proper meal in three days.”
Samir immediately summoned his adjutant.
Ten minutes later, roasted lamb, pita bread, hummus, and a large pot of sweet tea were laid out on the desk.
Song Heping sat down and began to wolf down his food, his brain working at a rapid pace.
"What kind of pressure did they put on you?" he asked while eating.
“Pressure?” Samir smiled wryly. “The military attaché at the US embassy in Baghdad called me personally and said that if I showed up in Mosul, I must be arrested and handed over immediately. Secretary Kerry is visiting Baghdad next week, and they hope to resolve the ‘destabilizing factors’ before then.”
“Unstable factors,” Song Heping repeated the word, his tone sarcastic: “referring to people who know too many secrets.”
He put down the bread in his hand and looked directly into Samir's eyes.
Do you know why all of this happened?
Samir shook his head.
Song Heping spent twenty minutes telling the whole story—from General Duke’s mysterious death, to the secret operations of the “Witness” department, to how the “Sower” program attempted to create controlled chaos in the Middle East to maintain the U.S. military presence, to frame the Hafez regime for chemical weapons attacks, and to use the opportunity of the attacks to conduct new chemical weapons experiments, and finally to how Lamont and Ryan took over the joint action group and made him their target.
"So they killed General Duke?" Samir asked in shock. "A serving U.S. Army major general!?"
“I guess it was Hillary Clinton or her people who gave the order,” Song Heping said. “Duke wants to expose the ‘Sower’ program. If he does, not only will his past misdeeds be exposed, but the entire decision-making process for the 2011 withdrawal will be re-examined, and it will cause a very serious international public opinion storm.”
Samir stood up, walked to the window, and remained silent for a long time with his back to the room.
“Boss, do you know what this means? You’re not just challenging a few secret agents, but a part of the US government. Maybe the White House, maybe the State Department, maybe some department whose name we don’t even know.”
“I know,” Song Heping said calmly. “But this isn’t Washington, Samir. This is Mosul, your territory, and mine. The Americans have withdrawn most of their troops, and now there are less than five thousand left in Iligo, scattered across a dozen bases. The Mosul Joint Operations Group? One hundred and twenty special forces soldiers, and maybe a few dozen 'Witness' agents.”
He walked over to Samir, and the two of them looked out the window at the soldiers training.
“And you have twelve thousand men, while Abuyu has more than ten thousand in Kirkuk. Twenty thousand against one hundred and twenty, Samir. This is not a challenge, this is a crushing defeat.”
Samir turned around, his eyes flashing with a complex light.
"You want me to surround American bases? Arrest American soldiers? Song, that would start a war!"
“No,” Song Heping said firmly. “Because those people dare not expose the matter. The ‘Sower’ program is illegal, unauthorized by Congress, and violates international law. If things escalate, Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign will be over, and the officials who approved the program will be disgraced. Their only option is to negotiate quietly and cover everything up.”
He pressed down on Samir's shoulder.
"Remember when we swept through Mosul in 1515? Where were the Americans? They were drinking coffee in Qatar, holding briefings in Baghdad's Green Zone. It was us, you and me, and Abuyu, who led these soldiers to take the city back inch by inch. The Americans' promises are like a mirage in the desert, beautiful to look at, but forever out of reach. And they're not as terrifying as you imagine; don't overestimate their strength."
Samir's expression began to waver.
Song Heping knew he had hit the nail on the head.
"Moreover," Song Heping added, "if something happens to me, what will happen to you? I personally helped you rise to power. Won't those forces that originally objected to your troops being incorporated into the National Defense Forces retaliate? It won't do you any good."
This is the last piece of weight.
Samir knew that Song Heping was telling the truth.
If they offend Song Heping, or if something happens to Song Heping, neither the 10th Division nor Samir will fare well.
"What do you want me to do?" Samir finally asked.
Song Heping smiled.
He knew that he had regained the upper hand.
Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket!
(End of this chapter)