Chapter 1864 - 1397: Why Don’t You Just Rob Us?!_4

Continuing to linger here is meaningless and will only waste time.

Every second that passes means getting closer to the bombardment.

Eventually, Lemont just shot a fierce glare at Song Heping, and if looks could kill, Song Heping would have died a hundred times by now.

Then he turned around and strode out of the tent, the canvas flap heavily falling behind him.

On the way back, the cabin was deathly silent.

Jackson drove the Hummer at high speed, the tires kicking up a long trail of dust on the gravel road.

Lemont sat in the back seat, his hands clenched into fists, with nails deeply embedded into his palms, leaving crescent-shaped blood marks.

When they returned to the base, Ryan was already waiting at the entrance of the command center.

Seeing Lemont's expression as he got out of the car, he understood everything.

"Gather all the officers."

Lemont took off his dust-covered coat and harshly threw it onto a nearby chair.

"We need to formulate an emergency plan. Then..."

He took a deep breath, "I want a direct line to Washington."

Five minutes later, all the officers who were still able to move gathered in the briefing room inside the base.

Twelve people, seated around a long table, all wore varying degrees of anxious expressions.

The commander of the Delta Force was at the rightmost seat, the camouflage paint on his face looking patchy under the lights.

Ryan sat to Lemont's left, having already set up the projection equipment.

Lemont stood in front of the projection screen, which displayed the thermal imaging map of the encirclement taken by a drone half an hour ago.

Dense red dots encircled the green area representing the base like cancer cells.

"Ahem, the situation is basically like this..."

Lemont cleared his throat twice before speaking.

"We are completely surrounded. The opposing force has approximately four thousand troops, including artillery, tank units, and a large number of infantry as well as supporting armored vehicles. The commander is Song Heping."

He glanced at everyone present, giving them a moment to digest, then continued:

"He issued a thirty-minute ultimatum. The conditions are three: First, release Milosh and his 247 men and return all equipment; second, purchase all remaining US military munitions left from their withdrawal at scrap iron prices, including Stinger missile launchers; third, the White House signs a written promise not to pursue the involved personnel anymore and allows him to keep a copy of the evidence as insurance."

The room was silent. Only the low hum of the ventilation system could be heard.

The Delta Force commander was the first to speak: "Sir, we can hold on. The fortifications of the base are quite solid; we have enough ammunition and supplies to hold out for at least an hour. As long as the Air Force can arrive within an hour—"

"No Air Force." Lemont interrupted him: "Or rather, the Air Force would need at least ninety minutes to arrive, assuming Washington orders their deployment right now. And Song Heping knows this."

He pulled up another map, showing the air defense deployment recently analyzed by the electronic reconnaissance unit.

"Look here, here, and here. At least eight air defense systems, including four Armour S1s, two Tor M2s, and at least twelve portable air defense missile teams. Even if we attempt to escape by helicopter, we have no chance, and as for fixed-wing aircraft..."

He switched to satellite images, zooming in on several areas.

"The artillery positions of the Tenth Division are spread across six locations within a fifteen-kilometer radius, all hidden in residential areas or industrial buildings. If the Air Force bombs, it would result in at least two hundred civilian casualties, which would be politically unacceptable."

"Then let them attack!"

A young agent at the end of the table excitedly stood up; he was an operations analyst from the Witness Department and looked no older than twenty-five.

"We're Americans! They wouldn't dare actually attack us! It's all just bluster!"

Ryan gave him a cold look: "Twenty minutes ago, our eight-member reconnaissance team was detained and is still in their hands. Furthermore, based on the last reconnaissance imagery from the drone, the Tenth Division's tanks have already warmed up, all gun barrels loaded with live ammunition, and the artillery positions have dismantled their camouflage nets; they've been ready for a while."

He pulled up a video.

The footage was somewhat blurry, but clearly showed six 152mm howitzers deployed in a yard of an abandoned factory three kilometers away, barrels raised, with gunners standing by.

Even more chilling, the shell cases were already open.

"Those are high-explosive shells," the Delta Force commander said softly: "One can destroy a three-story building."

The room plunged into silence once more.

This time it was a silence of despair.

Lemont checked his watch.

On the watch face, the second hand clicked forward, its sound particularly distinct in the quiet.

"Twenty-seven minutes left," he said. "Let's start the vote: Fight, or negotiate for peace?"

No one raised their hand.

No one spoke.

All eyes were downcast, staring at the tabletop, their hands, or anything avoiding Lemont's gaze.

Fight?

A hundred seventy men versus four thousand, with tanks and artillery.

Negotiate?

Accede to those humiliating terms, sell twenty billion dollars in US military munitions like scrap iron, and sign that document tantamount to a surrender.

Either choice feels like hell.

"Then I'll decide," Lemont's voice broke the silence: "All Delta Force soldiers and combat personnel enter the highest state of readiness, inspect all weapon systems, and allocate anti-tank missile and heavy machine-gun positions. But—unless they fire first, we will absolutely not fire the first shot. This is an order."

The Delta Force commander stood up: "Understood, sir."

Lemont turned to Ryan: "Set up a video conference immediately, with the highest encryption level. We need to contact the White House Situation Room directly and have Walter, Hillary, and the Ministry of Defense involved."

"Do we need to draft a briefing first?"

"There's no time," Lemont shook his head. "Direct connection. Tell them we have... twenty-five minutes left."

Ryan quickly headed to the communications room.

Lemont stood in place, looking at the encirclement image on the projection screen.

Those red dots were so dense, so orderly, like a meticulously woven net.

And his base was the moth trapped in the center, unable to escape.

He raised his hand and touched the inner pocket of his combat uniform.

Inside was an M9 handgun, the magazine full, and one bullet in the chamber.

It was the last resort.

He hoped he wouldn't have to use it.