Chapter 1991 - 1444: Net_2

It seems Song Heping is unwilling to be merely prey.

He is the Hunter.

He is going to counterattack.

Northwest Illinois skies.

The cabin of the Mi-17V5 "Hippo" armed transport helicopter has been transformed into a mobile command post.

Four fortified tactical tablets are fixed on foldable brackets, displaying the real-time GPS locations of six convoys, standby positions of six battle teams, surveillance images from twelve reconnaissance squads, and an electronic map covering the central and northern Illinois.

Satellite communication antennas continuously operate under the belly of the aircraft, weaving 8,200 combat personnel scattered across six transport routes into an invisible net.

Song Heping sits by the window with a seatbelt slung across his chest, holding a stainless steel thermos filled with strong tea.

Outside the porthole, the western desert of Illinois glows a scorched brown under the afternoon sun, with occasional patches of green oasis like desperate patches on the land.

His face shows no expression, only the pupils reflecting the green dots flickering on the tablet screen.

"Twenty minutes until Suleiman Pass."

The pilot's voice comes through the headset, heavily accented in Russian.

Song Heping does not respond, only nodding slightly.

His gaze falls on the screen where the red area represents the territory of the Dulaimi Tribe.

That is the most likely place for bloodshed today.

Sitting opposite, Safar has adjusted the velcro on his tactical vest for the tenth time.

This young Illinois Special Forces commander is accustomed to charging on the battlefield but not to overlooking it from 200 meters above steel plates.

What he is less accustomed to is finding himself completely unable to understand the deployment of this Eastern person beside him.

"Mr. Song." Safar finally can't hold back: "Can I ask a question?"

"Ask." Song Heping is still looking at the screen, not turning his head.

"Six convoys, with a total value of fifteen billion dollars. You're only assigning over three hundred armed guards to each convoy..." Safar hesitates with his words: "This violates any military textbook severely."

"I know."

"Yet you still do it?"

Song Heping finally turns his head, looking at Safar.

His gaze is calm to the point of cruelty, like a surgeon gazing at the skin to be incised before an operation.

"Who writes textbooks?" he asks.

Safar is stunned for a moment: "Military academies of various countries..."

"No." Song Heping interrupts him: "Textbooks are written by losers. Winners only write one thing — war history."

He switches the tablet screen, pulling up a tactical indication map.

Six convoys extend from south to north like six thin threads, and around these threads, twenty-four reconnaissance squads are scattered like nerve endings on all strategic heights, traffic hubs, and tribal settlements within a 30-kilometer radius.

The six combat teams, made up of over eight thousand people, lie dormant at strategic nodes between the threads, ready to strike in any direction.

"Have you learned Go?" Song Heping suddenly asks.

Safar shakes his head.

He has only learned how to load shells and bullets.

"Go masters don't rush to surround the opponent's pieces."

Song Heping points at the screen with the six seemingly fragile transport lines.

"You set the formation first and then make the move. Let them feel there's a gap to drill, meat to bite. When their hand reaches in, or is in, you then—"

His fingers suddenly close, forming a circle on the screen.

"Grip him, then—cut it off."

Safar stares at the screen for a long time.

Each dot representing combat and reconnaissance units writhes on his retina, then forms into a net...

Understood!

His pupils dilate twice, his Adam's apple moves.

He finally understands why he feels fear.

Not fear of failure, but fear of success.

Fear this Lord Dong really can use two thousand "bait" to fish out thousands of sharks, then gut them all with six thousand quick blades.

"Milosh is in position."

Jiang Feng's voice comes through the headphones, as steady as ever.

"Team A is seven kilometers north of the Dulaimi Tribe, Wadi al-Murr Valley, camouflage completed."

Song Heping presses the communication button: "Reconnaissance team report the latest movements of the Dulaimi Tribe."

"Chieftain Abdul-Razak convened the tribal elder council one hour ago. All eighteen main chiefs were present."

The reconnaissance team's report is succinct and clear, with the sound of dry wind even audible in the background.

"Two additional observation posts on the mosque's minaret. Frequent vehicle movement in the warehouse area, at least eighty armed pickup trucks observed, equipped with recoilless rifles and heavy machine guns."

"Personnel scale?"

"Around eighteen hundred people, mobilizing in three batches to the assembly point. The vanguard is only four kilometers from the ambush point on Highway Seven."

Song Heping checks his tactical watch.

3:22 PM.

The Dulaimi Tribe's actions are quicker than he anticipated.

This largest Sunni Sect tribe in central Illinois had cooperated with the US Army to combat 1515, retaining a complete armed system post-war.

Their chieftain is a 62-year-old old fox, navigating between tribal forces, Baghdad politicians, and Americans for thirty years, never failing.

This time, gathering eighteen hundred people, evidently isn't just to "watch the scene."

Song Heping's corner of the mouth slightly raises.

Robbin not only wants to see him robbed but also wants to see how he responds to the robbery.

This is both a trap and a pressure test.

So what?

Song Heping thinks.