Chapter 1311 - 1120: 24-Hour Crisis (Part 3)

The Chef slammed his fist against the table covered with maps, making the Mark cup jump: "Border?! What do they want? Are they trying to draw the war to the Golan Heights?! Will those Jews just sit and watch?! Idiots! A bunch of fools whose brains have been fried by religious fervor!"

He panted heavily and abruptly looked at the tightly closed door of the analysis room, a trace of uncontrollable anxiety flickering in his eyes for the first time.

"Song..."

He muttered softly and then forcibly suppressed his emotions and yelled at Vasily: "What are you still standing there for! Get our helicopters out! Keep a close watch on that advancing convoy! Call for air support, even if it's just a single MiG, we must blast them to smithereens in the wilderness!"

"Yes..."

Vasily saluted and turned to leave.

But bad news followed one after another, as if endlessly.

Less than half an hour after Vasily left, another person came...

Still bad news...

This time it was a senior liaison officer of the government army, his face ashen, eyes evasive, barely daring to meet the Chef's eyes: "Colonel...from the north, Aleppo Industrial Zone...is completely lost. The 'Conquest Front' has occupied the last few factories. They've gotten a large batch of foreign anti-tank missiles, our tanks and armored vehicles have become sitting ducks. During the retreat... the only safe passage to the city, 'Death Highway', was fiercely ambushed, casualties... extremely heavy."

The Chef was silent for a moment, feeling a bit numb to such bad news.

"How heavy?"

The liaison officer swallowed and struggled to report a number.

The Chef closed his eyes and didn't open them for a long time.

Aleppo, once an economic hub, is now mostly ruins, and every street's contest is soaked in blood.

The fall of the industrial zone not only means the loss of a strategic stronghold but also the loss of an important arms factory and supplies depot for the government army.

The command center was dead silent, only the sounds of pleas for help and urgent reports from the communications equipment piercing everyone's eardrums over and over again.

Despair seeped into the air like thick ink, almost suffocating.

The next day's evening, as the sun once again sank behind the mountains west of Damascus, the Chef in the command center paced anxiously between the map-covered command table and the communications equipment.

His eye sockets were sunken, stubble was in disarray, one day seemed to have made him age ten years.

Bad news was hammering in almost every half hour, the defense line of the government army and Wagner was leaking everywhere, rushing to save their lives.

The red zone representing enemy control on the map was advancing toward Damascus, the last blue fortress, at a visible rate from the north, east, and south.

His trusted subordinate, Major Vasily, again silently approached, this time no longer just plainly nervous but mixed with suspicion, anxiety, and impatience.

He glanced at that still motionless iron door of the analysis room, lowered his voice, almost whispering:

"Boss, how long do we have to wait for that Eastern guy? He's been shutting himself in there for a whole day! Except for asking for some coffee and going to the toilet twice, he hasn't done anything! People are dying outside every minute, the defense line is continuously retreating! Our people are talking if he's scared silly by this situation, or maybe he's just asleep in there?"

His voice raised unconsciously as he spoke: "If this pace continues, forget three days, I don't think we can hold out even for two! The defensive line in the Damascus East Suburb is on the verge of collapse, the madman of 1515 and the Freedom Army could launch an all-out attack at any moment! Shouldn't we consider...consider the final contingency plan?"

The so-called final contingency plan refers to the emergency evacuation of key personnel through special channels.

The Chef suddenly stopped, his bloodshot eyes fiercely glaring at Vasily.

Vasily instinctively took half a step back.

"Shut up, Vasily!"

The Chef's voice was low and dangerous, like the roar of a wounded beast, "Put away those stupid thoughts! Contingency plans? That's the choice of cowards! I invited Song, and I know him! Since he asks for time, it means he's digging at things we cannot see! Do you think everyone is like you, just yelling at maps and bad news?!"

He stretched out a thick finger, almost poking Vasily's nose: "Control your men, tell them whoever dares to make comments about Song again, I'll throw them into the front lines to fill trenches! Now, get out! Guard your post!"

Vasily's face alternated between red and white, ultimately not daring to say more. He saluted quickly and turned to leave.

After driving away his subordinate, the Chef's chest rose and fell violently. He walked to the corner, grabbed a bottle of Vodka, and took a fierce swig.

The fiery liquid burned his throat but couldn't dispel the chill in his heart and the increasingly heavy, even he did not want to admit, doubt.

Really...

Is there still hope?

Song Heping, although formidable, is after all just one man. Facing such a chaotic, seemingly doomed situation, what can he do?

Can we really expect him to create another miracle?

Enormous pressure and a pessimistic outlook on the future gnawed at his confidence like a Poison Snake.

He suddenly put down the bottle, like making some decision, grabbing a secure satellite phone directly connected to a certain powerful person in Moscow's Supreme Command.

This phone, unless absolutely necessary, he would never use.