Chapter 1849 - 1393: Detainment

The helicopters get closer and closer, and Milosh's heart is increasingly clouded with doubt.

The altitude of those helicopters is not the usual patrol height, but employs a rapid low-altitude combat formation.

That's a combat posture!

A subordinate runs over hurriedly to report: "Our communications are blocked, boss. All external frequencies are experiencing high-intensity interference; our external communications have been cut off."

"Cut off?"

Milosh's heart is suddenly gripped tightly as if by an enormous hand.

Something's gone wrong...

His instincts tell him at that moment.

Something doesn't feel right!

"Attention all, level one alert."

Milosh's right hand rests on the grip of the Glock 19 at his waist.

"Emergency assembly immediately!"

Interference.

This word feels like ice water pouring down the spine.

Professional-grade, full-spectrum, sustained electromagnetic suppression requires frontline electronic warfare aircraft or large ground equipment.

Local militants or remnant terrorists can't do that.

Milosh returns to his room, grabs the night vision device on the table, and rushes down the corridor.

Through the night vision goggles, he looks east.

Four helicopters emerge from the darkness of dawn, with silhouettes gradually becoming clear.

Two Black Hawks, two Chinooks, with bodies coated entirely in matte black wave-absorbent paint, no markings, no numbers, even the rotor hubs are painted black.

"It's Special Forces!"

Milosh realizes things are seriously wrong and rushes downstairs.

By now, the gathering sirens are already sounding in the mercenary camp.

The two Black Hawks arrive first, suddenly lifting their noses above the camp, with their MX-15 searchlights illuminating simultaneously.

The beams of light pierce through the darkness like divine punishment swords, instantly lighting up the entire mercenary camp like daylight.

Not only does the intense light blind, but it also creates overwhelming psychological intimidation.

Two Chinooks land directly in the open space central to the camp.

The rotor blades whip up a sandstorm like a brown tsunami, engulfing the nearest two prefab houses.

The cabin doors are yet to open fully, and silhouettes in the cabin have already leapt out.

Twelve people to a group, landing silently.

Rather than jumping down, they control their descent professionally to absorb the shock with slightly bent knees.

When rising, their gun muzzles are already aimed at their respective sectors without a single wasted movement.

Their gear is not like regular Special Forces but rather higher-grade experimental kits, enhanced tactical vests, helmets integrated with dual-mode thermal fusion night vision and tactical HUDs, and SCAR rifles across the board.

Ghost units.

Typical products of the Pentagon's black budget.

"Attention all personnel within the camp!"

In the air, the voice from the helicopter loudspeakers is digitally processed, cold and devoid of human emotion.

"We are the Direct Action Group of the Joint Special Operations Command. Under the emergency order no. 7-11 from the Defense Minister, we now fully take over this area. Everyone immediately lay down your weapons, kneel with your hands on your head. Resistance will be met with lethal force."

Milosh presses the walkie-talkie, his voice cuts into the mercenary's internal encrypted channel: "Do not open fire, repeat, do not open fire. Lay down your weapons, do as they say. This is an order."

He knows how humiliating this order is.

Over two hundred elite mercenaries from the 'Musician' company, each a veteran weathered through blood and fire, now surrendering without firing a single shot to a group whose faces aren't even visible.

But he knows the consequences of resistance even more.

Their deployment shows precise knowledge of the camp's layout.

Two three-person teams rushing to the generator room and communication station, while another two teams control the armory and garage.

Most deadly of all, the dominance of vantage points around the camp—the water towers, warehouse rooftops, lookout posts—sniper thermal signals have already appeared.

They are executing a surgical decapitation, not merely a takeover.

More crucially, as the Chinooks descend, the Black Hawk helicopters begin to circle, the pitch-black muzzle of the Sterling machine gun pointed menacingly at the ground.

Facing immense firepower and aerial superiority, ground resistance would be fruitless and utterly meaningless.

Milosh has just come downstairs when he sees Ryan walking down from the ramp at the rear of the Chinook.

He doesn't glance at the mercenaries being disarmed all around, his gaze directly locks onto Milosh as if he has memorized this face from a dossier photo.

Four soldiers automatically form a diamond-shaped guard formation.

Ryan makes an extremely subtle gesture, a slight move of his little finger, two soldiers immediately break off and rush towards the camp's command room.

The other two remain in place while Ryan himself strides towards Milosh.

The two meet at the entrance of the command room.

"Milosh, Battalion Commander of the 'Musician' company's mercenary battalion." Milosh speaks proactively: "Please show your authorization documents and explain why you're taking hostile action against Allied contractors within a Joint Operations base."

Ryan doesn't even pause.

He brushes past Milosh, his body grazes Milosh's combat pants, emitting a faint friction sound.

Only after reaching the command room and standing before the operation map does he retrieve a folded document from his chest pocket.

The document unfolds.

White House exclusive stationery, the Defense Minister's handwritten signature, countersigned by the Justice Minister.

The title reads "Authorization Order for Temporary Extension of Operational Authorities."

The content is concise yet terrifying: "Authorize Special Action Groups to temporarily control any personnel, facilities, and intelligence assets related to this operation as necessary, including but not limited to Allied and contractor units."

"Seen enough?"

Ryan's voice is cold and sharp like a scalpel: "Now, I need you to provide three things: Song Heping's real-time location, his meeting plan with 'Misu', and all encrypted communications' raw data from the past seventy-two hours."