Chapter 1874 - 1401: Two Phone Calls

Song Heping returned to the command vehicle, the heavy metal door closing behind him, cutting off most of the external explosions and the smell of lingering smoke.

In front of the main console, rows of indicator lights flickered faintly in the dim light, like countless eyes peering into the battlefield.

He sat down, took out the unremarkable black USB drive, and the "click" sound of its insertion was particularly clear in the silent cabin.

The screen lit up in response, with cold white light reflecting off his impassive face.

The screen was divided into four quadrants, displaying real-time imagery from different angles and functions of drones, presenting unabashed scenes of the US Military Base turned into purgatory.

The upper left quadrant focused on the fuel storage area in the northwest corner of the base.

The initial ignition point had expanded into a roaring sea of fire, with thick smoke twisting like a monstrous black column toward the fire-lit night sky.

The fire waves were devouring the adjacent garage at an alarming speed, with the steel structure twisting, turning red, and groaning under the high temperatures.

Three MRAP vehicles had become massive torches, crackling in the flames, with residual ammunition inside occasionally exploding into bright spheres and scattering metal fragments.

The upper right quadrant displayed chaos in the area of Hangar Three.

Surviving US soldiers were racing against time to reinforce the entrance.

They were frantically piling makeshift barriers from the wreckage of damaged Hummers, broken concrete blocks, and anything movable.

The movements, though fast, were disorganized, revealing obvious panic.

Someone kept looking back, someone shouted loudly without getting an effective response, their structure had been disrupted, and coordination was nearly failing.

The lower right quadrant was the most.

A corpse in US digital desert camouflage lay in an unnaturally slumped position next to a partially collapsed ruin, with dark liquid staining the sand beneath.

The camera subtly panned, showing five other bodies lying in disarray near the garage.

Song Heping's eyes scanned across these four quadrants one by one, finally fixating on the tragic scene in the lower right corner.

Ten seconds later, he raised his hand and performed a series of quick operations on the control panel.

The main screen switched.

It was no longer real-time surveillance, but a meticulously edited, accelerated montage of artillery barrage highlights.

Superb editing techniques linked together the most visually impactful moments.

Perfect.

Definitely great material for news.

Shocking enough.

Each frame was filled with the power of destruction and the cruel aesthetics of war, yet skillfully avoided excessively disturbing scenes of extreme gore.

After evaluation, Song Heping did not hesitate any longer.

He reached for the two satellite phones placed side by side on the console.

First, he dialed the first one.

The receiver emitted the characteristic, slight digital noise of an encrypted channel.

After three waiting beeps, Angel's deliberately lowered yet slightly eager and melodious female voice sounded:

"Darling, where are you now? I've been waiting for your call."

"Baby, I don't have much time to talk; the situation is urgent."

Song Heping spoke quickly: "Check your encrypted email in five minutes. Then follow the plan I previously told you and execute phase one."

"How's the quality of the material?" Angel asked bluntly, as this was her main concern.

"You'll be satisfied," Song Heping replied shortly and affirmatively: "There's collapse, fire, bodies, and the background sound of desperate radio communications. But no facial close-ups, no excessive gore. It skirts the boundaries of journalistic ethics but is shocking enough to provoke questions."

"Time stamps? Location verification info?" Angel pressed for details, crucial for turning "material" into "evidence."

"All metadata is complete, including precise GPS coordinates and local time. You can have any trusted third-party technical organization verify them; they're robust against scrutiny."

Song Heping's tone was indisputable.

A quick and crisp sound of keyboard typing immediately came from the other end; Angel was evidently operating in sync.

"Good. Phase one: Globally release the barrage video, with the tentative article title 'Three Possible Attacks on the US Military Base by Allies,' guiding public opinion to question the relationship and legitimacy of the actions between the US military and its local allies. Phase two: One hour later, release the intercepted and edited emergency communication audio clips from within the base, highlighting their chaos and despair. Phase three: Two hours later, release a full timeline analysis report, pointing directly to Washington's decision-making errors and information concealment in this event."

"Correct," Song Heping affirmed: "Remember the rhythm. Crucially: do not prematurely hint that we possess more, deadlier evidence. Let them first deny, defend, hold press conferences stating 'under investigation,' 'information inaccurate.' As they pin themselves on the stand of denial and evasion, after initial public opinion fermentation, we'll release the second and third waves. Each time tightening the noose when they just catch a breath."

"Understood. The timing is perfect. In one hour, the White House is scheduled for a routine news briefing on foreign policy; that will be a 'good opportunity.'" Angel's voice carried a hint of excitement.

"Very good," Song Heping concluded: "Let the bullet fly for a while."

The call ended.

He glanced at the time in the corner of the screen: 00:24.