Chapter 1814 - 1379: Deployment into the Joint Special Operations Task Force (2)

Standing straight becomes a better target.

Milosh got out from the other side, and the two formed a natural cross-cover angle.

"Captain Walker." Song Heping walked over, without extending a hand: "My unit needs a parking spot and a stationing area."

"It's ready." Walker pointed to a vacant lot on the left side of the building: "But according to security protocols, all heavy weapons must be stored centrally. Personal weapons can be carried, but a security check is required before entering the main building."

Milosh raised an eyebrow and moved his lips, wanting to retort.

Song Heping stopped him with a look, then turned to Walker: "That's fine. But my unit needs to remain in combat readiness, so the central weapon storage must be guarded by my soldiers."

A brief silence.

Walker sized up Song Heping, then nodded: "Reasonable. You can assign two people to guard the armory, but they can't carry long guns, only handguns."

"Deal."

Song Heping turned and gestured to the convoy.

More than thirty vehicles began to orderly drive to the designated area, engine sounds echoing among the ruins.

He noted that each parking spot was carefully selected.

No two adjacent parking spots were in a straight line, meaning at most one vehicle would be lost in a mortar attack.

And sandbags separated the parking spaces to prevent chain explosions.

Professional.

Cold professionalism.

The inside of the main building looked more dilapidated than the outside.

The marble floor of the hall was full of cracks, and the murals on the walls were some kind of propaganda from Sadam's era. After years of wear, only mottled color blocks remained.

The Americans had undergone simple modifications here.

Bulletproof steel plates were installed inside the windows, controlled by hydraulic devices; all passages set up simple explosive detection stations; and the ceiling had a panoramic camera every five meters.

The air carried a mix of sweat, coffee, and the plastic smell of electronic equipment's heat dissipation.

There was also a sharper smell.

It was the unique sickly sweet scent of C4 explosives.

It seemed the Delta personnel stored quite a bit of explosives here.

The door to the briefing room on the second floor was open, smoke drifting out.

Not cigarette smoke, but cigars.

Expensive Cuban cigars.

Song Heping paused at the door for two seconds, letting his eyes adjust to the room's dim lighting.

The room had no main light on, only the projector's beam and a few tactical flashlights providing auxiliary illumination.

About a dozen people sat around a makeshift long table, the tactical computer screens on it glowing with a ghostly blue light.

As soon as Song Heping entered, everyone's eyes turned to him.

To the left were three Delta Squad captains, their epaulets indicating they were seasoned officers.

They wore nearly identical gear.

Crye Precision combat uniforms, bulletproof vests covered with magazine and gear pouches, helmets equipped with quad-goggle night vision mounts.

But subtle differences showed personal preferences: one favored a shotgun for breaching, a Remington 870 strapped on the back; another had a longer-than-usual silencer on his rifle; the third's holster was custom, adjusted for the quickest draw position.

On the right was the CIA team.

Four people, dressed in civilian clothes, looking particularly out of place in this setting.

Leading them was Station Chief Lemont.

He held a half-burned cigar, smoke slowly swirling in the projector's beam.

The man standing by the window turned around last.

It was Major General Duke.

"Song." Duke greeted warmly: "Thank you for arriving on time. Was the journey smooth?"

"Three checkpoints, two identity verifications, no surprises, no exchange of fire." Song Heping walked to an empty seat at the table, glancing around at everyone: "But encountered a sandstorm, took twenty minutes longer than expected."

"That's how Mosul is now." Lemont chimed in, his voice raspy from long-term smoking: "Although this is currently Samir's controlled area, it's still uneasy. Please sit."

He gestured to a chair in front.

Song Heping and Milosh sat down.

Soon as they sat, he could feel the Delta Force soldiers in the room focusing on him and Milosh.

It wasn't hostility, but professional judgment.

They were assessing the maintenance state of equipment, habitual gun handling actions, and the instinct to keep a broad view when sitting down.

There's always subtle competition between mercenaries and Special Forces, an unspoken rule in the industry.

Lemont stood up and walked to the whiteboard. It was already covered with photos, maps, and intelligence summaries, connected by different colored lines forming a complex web.

"Gentlemen, time is tight, so I'll get straight to the point."

He pointed an electronic pointer at a photo in the middle.

"Misu. Our target for this operation."

The man in the photo looked to be in his forties, wearing a pair of metal-frame glasses, hair neatly combed, and dressed in a suit.

More like a university professor than a terrorist.

But Song Heping noticed some details.

The eyes behind the lenses lacked the warmth typical of academics, holding a cold focus instead; the left lapel of the suit was slightly raised, possibly hiding something beneath; the ring finger on the right hand wore a ring, but there were marks on the middle finger from wearing a ring.

Clearly, the wedding ring had been removed.

"Doctor of Chemical Engineering, University of California graduate."

Lemont switched the photo, displaying a transcript.

"Typical academic elite track, up until 2013."

New photo projected onto the screen.

Misu in a Baghdad University laboratory, wearing a lab coat.

"According to our gathered intelligence, Misu started showing interest in extremist ideologies in early 2014 when the Syrian civil war intensified."