Chapter 1121 - 1008: Dismantling the "Sam-6" System

Song Heping's orders were a hurricane sweeping the base.

One second, the air defense squad was conducting routine maintenance, engineers were inspecting the generator, the next second, all actions came to an abrupt halt.

The air seemed to freeze for a moment, then was replaced by a higher frequency, more urgent energy.

No questioning, no hesitation, only gears driven by absolute will began to frantically mesh.

Task priorities were completely overturned, and the focus of the entire base instantly tilted towards the huge, brightly lit warehouse deep underground.

The enormous underground warehouse was like an illuminated steel cavern.

High-powered spotlights cast a pallid glow over the cold concrete walls and steel frames, the air filled with the heavy smell of engine oil, metal dust, and the pungent scent of melting solder.

Here, two complete sets of Sam-6 (SA-6 Gainful) mobile air defense missile systems were stored.

At this moment, it was surrounded by a group of figures in oil-stained dark blue overalls, busy like worker ants.

These were the core of the "Musician" defense technology engineering group—a team of engineers and technicians from Eastern Europe, Russia, and other places, skilled yet carrying a strong "workshop-style" roughness, led by the burly Russian Vasily, his whiskers dusted with welding slag.

The disassembly work was fraught with hardcore antagonism right from the start.

The heavy triple missile launcher was the first target.

It needed to be disassembled into smaller units to fit inside custom reinforced containers. The challenge lay in its complex hydraulic lift and swivel mechanisms.

According to manuals, this requires specialized tools and at least half a day of meticulous dismantling. Clearly, the "Musicians" didn't have this time.

Vasily circled the launcher twice, a half-burned cigarette in his mouth, his gaze as sharp as a grinding wheel.

He swung his hand fiercely, shouting loudly, "Ivan! Sergei! Sledgehammer! Crowbar! Hold this place with a hydraulic jack!"

A few sturdy Slavic guys immediately rushed up.

No careful detachment of pipelines, no complicated valve closures.

They directly and violently pried open the protective cover plate with crowbars, exposing the tangled hydraulic hoses and precision servo valves.

"Cut off! All hydraulic hoses, cut them off at the root!" Vasily ordered.

A technician grabbed hydraulic shears, amidst flying sparks, high-pressure hoses were cut at the base, the remaining hydraulic oil spraying out like black blood, splattering over the operator's face, who indifferently wiped it off with the back of his hand.

To prevent oil stains from contaminating subsequent packing, they roughly stuffed large rolls of absorbent cotton into the severed openings and wrapped wide waterproof tape like bandages haphazardly around them.

"Reinforcement points! Here and here, weld them with angle iron!"

Vasily pointed at several key joint connections.

The welding gun roared again, the glaring blue arc lighting up, burning metal droplets splattering, a few strong men jammed crowbars against the parts needing fixation, letting blazing welding slag scorch their thick canvas gloves.

The crude welding spots were like ugly scars, yet exceptionally solid, completely immobilizing the moving components.

Afterward, enormous shockproof sponges were forcibly stuffed into gaps, the entire launcher was roughly wrapped in oilcloth and bundled, finally hoisted by a crane with a roar, stuffed into a container with a dull thud.

Klein, supervising from the side, felt his eyebrows twitch uncontrollably.

The harsh clanging, every strike seemed to pound at his dental roots, causing a sour sensation.

"Vasily, does this work?!"

Known for his rigorous meticulousness, he couldn't help but question, "Don't break it! This stuff is worth quite a bit!"

"Doesn't work?"

Vasily lifted his head from the equipment heap, eyes with a taste of provocation turned to Klein, stretching out the hammer in his hand.

"If I can't, you do it?"

"..."

Klein suddenly went silent.

These Russians and Eastern Europeans, each one more direct and brutal than the last.

If they can confront you, they absolutely won't go around.

Seeing Klein dare not speak up, Vasily then proudly turned back to work.

After the launcher was disassembled, it was the turn of the giant "Straight Flush" radar antenna array.

This thing's disassembly was equally challenging.

That iconic square array was the system's eyes, also one of the most precision components.

It's composed of hundreds of precise waveguide elements and radiators, extremely fragile and sensitive to deformation.

Normal disassembly requires a dust-free environment and specialized stands. Here?

"Disassemble into four pieces! Maximum size to fit into the container!"

Vasily shouted at the connection bolts on the antenna array's edge.

Technicians climbed up the high scaffolding, using giant adjustable wrenches and even breaker bars, crudely twisting those bolts that might never have been fully loosened, the metal friction issuing teeth-gritting groans.

A critical connection point had rusted shut.

A technician sprayed a large amount of rust remover and hammered fiercely at the wrench handle's side.

"Bang! Bang!"

The loud bang echoed in the warehouse, jarring the eardrums.

The bolts finally loosened, but the connecting parts visibly deformed.

"Forget it! As long as the signal lines aren't cut, we'll fix it when we get there!"

Vasily impatiently waved his hand and yelled.

The edges of the disassembled huge antenna panel were sharp, and several strong men wrapped the edges with thick canvas, chanting as they lifted it off the brackets. During the process, the canvas was torn, revealing the cold gleam of the metal edges.

Reinforcement?

Without customized protective frames, they simply nailed thick wooden boards on both sides of the panel and then tightly strapped them like bundling firewood. The edges of the wooden boards were deeply indented.

The sophisticated antenna array now looked like a pile of crude construction materials awaiting transport.

The dismantling of the command shelter and the generator truck was relatively "gentle," but also brutally handled under time pressure.

Song Heping demanded delivery to northern Egypt within three days, awaiting Toby's message to dock and load on a ship, and then to set up and test.

Every minute, every second was a matter of life and death.

Because the time for the Brits and Ibis Military to act jointly was getting closer, leaving no room for delay.

The shelter and accompanying generator truck were not transported whole, but their core components disassembled.

Inside the command shelter, complex electronic cabinets were "pried" off their bases—not by disconnecting cables, but by cutting the dense bundles with hydraulic shears!

The colorful cable ends lay exposed, like severed nerves.

Vasily spat at the mess of cables on the ground: "Remember the colors and interfaces! We'll connect them back one by one when we get there!"

The generator truck was even worse.

To reduce weight and size, they decided to only remove the diesel engine and main generator.

Several engineering technicians surrounded the roaring unit, crudely disconnecting the fuel, electric, and cooling lines while it was still running, resulting in another splash of grease...

Then, using huge crowbars, they pried off the engine base bolts, and finally lifted the still hot unit off the chassis with a small crane!

The scorching exhaust pipe nearly brushed the operators' shoulders, as a burnt smell filled the air.

The suspended engine dripped with oil, quickly wrapped in oilcloths, and secured on a specially crafted steel rack.

The whole warehouse resembled a mad steel symphony in progress.

The blue arcs of the welding torches flickered, slashing the air like the Grim Reaper's scythe, each flash accompanied by sizzling sounds of melting metal and the pungent white smoke.

The cutting wheel spun at high speed, emitting a piercing grinding noise, with sparks raining down on the concrete floor like molten golden showers, leaving scorching marks.

The heavy clang of wrenches, the cranking of crowbars on metal, the roar of pneumatic tools, the Russian technicians' shouts in Slavonic mixed with broken English, and the heart-pounding groans of forcibly separated and twisted metal parts, all converged into a raging, suffocating flow of industrial noise.

Sweat, mingled with grease, flowed down the strained cheeks and necks of the technicians, dripping onto the cold or scalding metal, evaporating instantly or coagulating into black stains.

The air was filled with the smell of ozone, burning metal, diesel, sweat, and an almost savage fervor of achieving the goal at any cost.

As the first batch of disassembled, reinforced, and packaged core components—the mummy-wrapped launcher container, the radar antenna panel nailed with ugly wooden boards, the oil-dripping engine unit—were transported out of the warehouse by forklifts and trailers, it was already approaching the darkest hour before dawn.

On the base perimeter, the engines' low growls sounded like the dreams of a sleeping giant.

Collins stood like a steel statue in the shadow of a desert-camouflaged civilian heavy-duty MAN truck.

Behind him were two elite special operations squads, each member's eyes sharp as eagles, expertly equipped, exuding a cold aura of battle-hardness.

They silently checked their weapons and equipment, actions precise and efficient, forming a stark contrast to the industrial madness in the warehouse, yet equally oppressive.

The heavy military trucks and the camouflaged heavy civilian trucks were parked side by side, their hoods emanating residual warmth, like iron behemoths about to set off, ready to devour those war machines just freshly "operated" on.

"The stuff is here!"

A brief report came through the intercom.

The forklift pushed the first container forward slowly, the heavy metal wheels rolling over the ground with a rumbling sound.

Collins raised his hand to check his luminous watch, his eyes without a flicker, only giving a concise and forceful gesture to the soldiers behind him: "Load the trucks! Follow the planned schedule, bind and reinforce, check three times! We depart in ten minutes!"

The mercenaries silently dispersed, moving swiftly and expertly as if precise gears engaging.

Heavy chains, thick tarpaulins, and extra reinforcing steel cables were swiftly employed, securing the invaluable yet battered "cargo" firmly in the truck beds.

In the base command center, Song Heping stood alone in front of a massive electronic sand table.

On the sand table, a thick red arrow extended from the Negev Base, representing the flight path of the F-15I "Thunder" attack hawks and the KC-707 "Sword" refueling aircraft executing the mission.

Time flowed quickly in silence. On the huge electronic screen, the countdown numbers changed coldly:

Time to "Storm Arrival Day": 76 hours 15 minutes 08 seconds…

"Report! Collins group has successfully crossed the border point 'Sand Fox' with the first set of Sam-6 core components, entering Egypt's Sinai Peninsula! Heading full speed to Alexandria Port! The Bedouin guide is reliable!"

"Report! Klein group has completed loading of the second system (radar, command vehicle) and has departed! Route 'Vulture'!"

One encrypted message after another transmitted back like the pulse of life, sparking faint hope in the dark of despair.

Song Heping's gaze was fixed on the sand table, on the blue and red trajectories soon to converge deep in the Mediterranean Sea.

His fingers tapped unconsciously on the cold metal edge of the control console.

"War is a fog... Come on, M, I'm waiting for you!"