Chapter 1309 - 1120: Crisis 24 Hours

The heavy blast door silently closed behind Song Heping, severing the last trace of outside clamor.

Inside the intelligence analysis room, only the cold white LED lights emitted uniform, temperature-less light, illuminating the enclosed space cast in reinforced concrete.

The massive main screen nearly occupied the entire wall, and at present, it displayed a harrowing image—a military situation map of the entire Siria.

These were battlefield command systems provided by Russia, as indicated by the Russian labels on them.

The government army's blue-controlled areas were compressed like flickering candles in the wind, primarily concentrated along the western coast and around Damascus. Meanwhile, the red, black, and yellow representing the opposition armed forces and extremist organizations were spreading and eroding like corrosive toxic pus, aggressively advancing from the north, east, and south, piercing sharply towards the precarious blue core.

In one corner of the screen, data streamed silently like a waterfall, automatically refreshing casualty numbers, equipment losses, and information on positions changing hands at regular intervals.

Song Heping stood in front of the screen, taking a deep breath, akin to a diver's final preparation before submerging, expelling all chaotic emotions and distractions, leaving only absolute calm and focus.

He sat at the main console, pulling out the keyboard and multiple touchscreens.

In the next moment, his hands moved.

Without any extra movements, the rhythm of typing was steady and swift, fingers gliding, clicking, and dragging fluidly across the touchscreens.

The images on the screen shifted rapidly: zooming in on the intense conflict points in Idlib Province, retrieving the latest satellite high-definition images of Aleppo, comparing the thermal signal changes in the eastern desert area from an hour ago to now, reviewing the encrypted communication excerpts intercepted by the signal intelligence department, and continuously opening tactical evaluation reports and casualty lists marked "Top Secret"...

His gaze tightly captured every subtle change and every inconsistent anomaly on the screen.

His brain operated at unprecedented speed, like the most efficient parallel processor, cross-referencing, analyzing, synthesizing, separating the genuine from the false, perpetually searching for the "key" that could determine success or failure hidden in the vast, chaotic flow of information.

Time lost its usual measure in this absolute silence.

Only the crisp sound of typing on the keyboard, the subtle friction sound of fingertips gliding over the smooth glass touchscreen, and the nearly imperceptible, long and steady breathing during moments of deep thought marked the passage of time.

Outside the window, the last glimmer of dusk had already been swallowed by night, gradually replaced by the gray-white of dawn.

The constant cold white light in the analysis room blurred the transition of day and night.

Hours later.

A very faint knock on the door broke the prolonged absolute silence within the room.

"Mr. Song, your midnight snack..."

Song Heping's eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly, seemingly displeased with this brief interruption.

"Hmm, come in."

Without getting up, he briefly responded through the internal communicator near the door.

The door opened a crack.

A young mercenary wearing a Wagner combat uniform sidestepped in, holding a tray.

A large bowl of steaming Borscht, the strong aroma of beets and beef instantly filled the air, accompanied by a few slices of rough black bread and a bottle of cold mineral water.

"Mr. Song, our boss instructed me to bring this."

The mercenary spoke softly, daring not to look at the screen for more than a moment.

"Thank you. Put it there."

Song Heping gestured towards the table beside him, his gaze not leaving the continuously scrolling data stream on the main screen concerning ammunition consumption on the southern front.

The mercenary obediently placed the tray on a small table by the door specifically for placing items, nearly tiptoeing out and closing the door gently.

The heat from the bowl of soup gradually diminished, eventually ceasing to evaporate, and a layer of grease congealed on the surface.

Only during a long data comparison break did Song Heping quickly walk to the door, consume the bread in a few bites, and gulp a few mouthfuls of Borscht, the entire process taking less than three minutes.

Even during this moment, his gaze remained fixed on the continuously updating real-time enemy and ally dynamic markers on one corner of the screen.

To him, food was merely necessary fuel to keep his body functioning.

Time sped by.

Song Heping hardly left the intelligence analysis room except for bathroom breaks.

Early the next morning, Song Heping departed from his small realm to wash his face and brush his teeth—something he would do whenever possible.

Cold water kept him more awake.

Brushing his teeth refreshed his breath, making his thoughts sharper.

Returning to the command center door, he heard someone's shouting and cursing in Russian, sounding particularly jarring.

It was Chef Yevgeny's voice.

Next was a brief silence, followed by the sound of something being viciously thrown to the ground.

Upon seeing Song Heping enter, Chef was momentarily stunned, turning his head to the side, seemingly unwilling for Song Heping to see him in such a frantic state.

Song Heping said nothing, directly returning to his room, burying himself again in the mountainous battlefield data and past intelligence analysis reports.

Now, he had to compare the attack patterns of enemy forces on the northern Aleppo front and eastern Deir Ezzor region to find the weakest link in the enemy's strategy.