Chapter 1998 - 1446: Tossing a Bone to the Dogs (Part 2)

"I know," Robbin's voice was calm, unusually calm.

"Our plan..."

"Our plan has no problems."

Robbin turned around, and for the first time, a trace of emotion appeared in his blue-gray eyes that even he was unwilling to admit—an instinctive alertness in the face of an unknown opponent, long forgotten.

"The problem is, Song Heping did not follow our plan to jump into the pit, it was our mistake."

He put down the wine glass and walked toward the large map of the Iligo War Zone on the wall.

Red thumbtacks marked the territorial boundaries of various tribal armed forces, blue thumbtacks were the remnants of US Army bases, green thumbtacks were Iliko Government Army outposts, and there were only six yellow thumbtacks, marking the six main facilities of the "Musician" Defense Company in Illiguo.

Six months ago, there were only two yellow thumbtacks.

Three months ago, it became four.

Today, six.

Robbin reached out, took down a white thumbtack, and pinned it on Mosul's position.

"Reevaluate Song Heping," he said. "Raise the threat level by two grades."

He paused for a moment.

"There's a problem with Song Heping's file... there must be a problem..."

He mumbled, "CIA data shows he served in the PLA Army, but was just a logistics soldier, reportedly a breeder at a husbandry base... how is that possible?"

Craig silently noted every word.

After he finished recording, Robbin added:

"No matter what it takes, no matter how much money it costs, find out exactly which PLA unit he served in. A pig-raising soldier could never have such sophisticated command skills!"

Craig looked up, "Do you suspect he has a Special Forces or military school background?"

Robbin didn't answer directly.

"I suspect," he slowly said, "our understanding of him is entirely wrong. He's not a merchant accidentally entering the war zone, not a profiteer exploiting the power vacuum left by the US Army withdrawal to make war wealth. He's a... a commander who hasn't been on the battlefield for a long time, suddenly remembering tonight what he used to do."

He picked up the wine glass again.

"And I want to know, exactly who he 'used to be.'

Baghdad, Ministry of Defense Building.

Minister Rashim received the war report while signing the agenda for the next day.

The tip of his pen stopped in midair, and a drop of dense black ink dripped from the pen tip, spreading into an irregular black stain on the document.

"Dulaimi Tribe... annihilated?"

His voice was almost a whisper.

"Eight hundred and seventy-three people killed, four hundred and twelve captured."

Colonel Ahmed, the Intelligence Chief, spoke in a low voice, as though sharing nefarious secrets in a closed room.

"Seven wounded from Team A, no fatalities. Six minor injuries, one serious injury, has been sent to the hospital, out of danger."

Rashim slowly put down the pen, leaning back in his chair.

He felt the back of his shirt soaked with cold sweat, sticking to his skin, icy cold.

A few hours ago, he was still questioning why Song Heping only sent three hundred people to escort the convoy.

He thought that Lord Dong had made a grave military mistake, believing that the fifteen billion dollars in goods would be divided in the desert in central Illigo by the tribal armed forces, thinking he could finally take the opportunity to reprimand the increasingly disobedient contractor.

It turned out Song Heping had not made a mistake.

He simply treated the entire tribal armed forces in central Illigo as pawns on his chessboard.

And Rashim himself, was one of them.

He picked up the phone and dialed Safar's number.

"Uncle."

Safar answered quickly, the background still humming with the roar of helicopter rotors.

"Is he next to you?"

"He is."

Rashim was silent for a few seconds.

Separated by seven hundred kilometers, amidst the cryptic noise of encrypted satellite signals, he seemed still able to feel the gaze of that Lord Dong, calm like a deep well.

"Tell him..." Rashim struggled to say, "Tell him the Ministry of Defense is very satisfied with today's escort operation. Tell him... for any needs, contact me directly. No need through official channels."

He hung up the phone, staring out the window.

Under the night sky of Baghdad, there were no stars.

Only the light beams from Green Zone searchlights crisscrossing in the darkness, like the bars of a cage.

He remembered the first time he met Song Heping.

That Lord Dong in a nondescript casual suit handed him a business card with only the company name and a phone number, no title, no position.

At that time, Rashim thought he was just an opportunistic merchant exploiting the power vacuum left by withdrawing US troops to make war wealth.

Now he knows he was wrong.

Song Heping doesn't exploit the power vacuum.

He creates the power vacuum.

When the Mi-17 helicopter landed on the Mosul Camp helipad, it was already eleven at night.

The rotor gradually slowed, the windswept dust settling.

Song Heping put his tactical tablet into his briefcase, stood up, and walked towards the cabin door.

His movements remained unhurried, as if what had ended was not a battle of annihilation, but a mundane business survey.

Safar followed behind him, his young face under the helipad's searchlights weighed down with heavy thoughts.

Jiang Feng was already waiting on the helipad.

The fresh graze on his forehead was from a stray bullet during a minor armed skirmish encountered by the third convoy, which the army medic simply disinfected with alcohol and covered with a dressing.

Other than that, he was unharmed.

"The third convoy has passed through Baghdad, expected to arrive at the Baghdad warehouse at six tomorrow morning," he reported, with no tension evident from the combat he had just experienced. "Encountered two skirmishes en route, both were probing attacks by five men or fewer, repelled by the escort squad. No injuries on our side, no damage to vehicles."

Song Heping nodded: "What about the wounded?"

"Seven injured from Team A have been sent to the field hospital. The severely wounded have just completed surgery, shrapnel removed, vital signs stable. The six lightly wounded can return to the team after their wounds are treated tomorrow."

"The prisoners dealt with?"

"Milosh sent people to extract confessions, but there were no significant results. They've now been handed over to the Tenth Division as per standard prisoner of war protocol."

Song Heping didn't ask further questions. He walked toward the office building, his pace steady.

Jiang Feng followed behind, hesitating, but still spoke up: "Old squad leader, wasn't today's battle a bit too ruthless? Eight hundred plus corpses, once word spreads, won't it provoke other tribes to unite against us?"

Song Heping didn't halt.

"Jiang Feng," he retorted, "What do you think tribal armed forces are?"

Jiang Feng was taken aback: "What?"

"What are tribal armed forces?" Song Heping repeated, "Warriors? Militia? Terrorists?"

Jiang Feng thought for a moment: "All of them. Yet not entirely."

"They're businessmen," Song Heping said, "Each tribal armed force is like a small security company, except their currency isn't US dollars, it's influence, territory, connections. Their convoy attacks aren't for jihad, they're for profits. If they successfully attack us, they can prove their strength to bigger buyers, to the Americans, to the Illigo government, to anyone willing to pay."

He paused before continuing: "But what do businessmen fear the most?"

Jiang Feng didn't answer immediately.

"They fear their strength being proven false," Song Heping finished for him. "Tonight we demonstrated to all of Illigo that the Dulaimi Tribe's strength of eighteen hundred men was reduced to zero in forty minutes. Tomorrow morning, all tribal chieftains will recalculate their costs and benefits. They won't unite against us; they'll rush to contact us, then like dogs, seek a bone to save face, and obediently cooperate with us."

He walked into the command building, ascending the stairs to the second-floor command room.

"This is the spoils of war," he said, "worth far more than eight hundred seventy-three corpses."

"Then..." Jiang Feng cautiously inquired: "Are we going to cooperate with them?"

Song Heping paused, turned back, and looked at Jiang Feng with a smile, then slowly said: "Of course, you have to give a dog a bone, don't you? Dogs have their dignity, too. Don't they?"