Chapter 1999 - 1447: Submission

At two in the morning, Song Heping, having returned to Mosul, still sat in the small office of the Tenth Division.

He didn't turn on the main light, leaving only an adjustable brightness LED desk lamp on the table.

The tactical tablet was connected to the real-time data flow of six convoys, twelve reconnaissance teams, and five combat units, with dots moving slowly across the map like stars in the night sky.

He poured half a pot of warm tea into his thermos cup, sipping it slowly.

The door was knocked.

Milosh pushed the door open and entered.

"Interrogation report." He placed a paper document on the table: "The small leader of the Dulaimi Tribe confessed the features of the contact: voice processed through a frequency modulator, age hard to determine, English with East Coast accent, possibly highly educated. Each call lasts no more than three minutes, never discloses any traceable information."

Song Heping picked up the report and quickly glanced over it.

"It's Robbin." He said.

Milosh raised his eyebrows: "Someone from AAFES?"

"That's right." Song Heping put down the report, "It must be him. This setup is typical in the defense circle — finding intermediaries, using voice changers, leaving no written records, and changing phone numbers with each contact. It ensures that even if the target is exposed, the source cannot be traced."

He paused: "He plans to let the tribal armed forces deplete our troop strength, then strike personally when we are exhausted. Tonight's events will make him reassess."

Milosh walked to the window, looking at the silhouette of the military camp faintly visible in the night.

In the distance, the temporary camp of Team A still had lights flickering.

Post-battle routine equipment maintenance, ammunition replenishment, combat reviews.

"Boss." He asked Song Heping: "How do we handle those prisoners?"

Song Heping didn't answer.

Instead, he picked up the thermos cup and took a gentle sip.

Then he stood up, walked to the window, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Milosh.

"Tomorrow." He said: "People from various tribes have already started contacting me one after another. Tomorrow, they'll come here to 'negotiate.' You will come with me to receive them."

"Okay. I'll go prepare."

Milosh nodded, turned around, and got ready to leave.

"Milosh." Song Heping suddenly called out to him.

The Serbian stopped in his tracks.

"You fought well tonight." Song Heping said: "Well done, tell the brothers that this month's battlefield allowance and mission bonus will be doubled."

Washington D.C.

In an office in the Langley Headquarters Building, the morning sun had just filtered through the cracks in the blinds, casting parallel bands of light on the carpet.

A senior analyst named Erin Foster walked into the office holding a cup of coffee, sitting in front of her computer.

Her forty-eight-hour shift had just ended, and she should have gone home to catch up on sleep immediately, but the encrypted email marked "urgent" in the system stopped her in her tracks.

Sender: Baghdad Station

Subject: [King Hunt Operation] Target Threat Level Reassessment

Attachment Size: 47MB

Foster sighed and double-clicked to open the email.

A forty-seven-megabyte attachment.

This means hundreds of pages of intelligence reports, satellite photos, intercepted communications, and human intelligence summaries. She poured herself a second cup of coffee and began reading.

Three hours later, she put down the mouse, leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes.

On the screen, a satellite photo was enlarged to maximum resolution.

It was a certain desert in Central Illiguo, the timestamp showed it was around six o'clock in the evening local time.

In the center of the photo, a pickup truck burned to a husk was still emitting faint blue smoke. Around the pickup, at least twenty bodies lay in a radial pattern.

This is the typical feature of a close-range high-explosive detonation.

In the corner of the photo, Milosh stood on the edge of the battlefield, speaking into his throat microphone.

Foster stared at this face for a long time.

Serbian, forty-five years old, former Special Forces officer of Serbia, had also served in the French Foreign Legion, with combat experience covering the Balkans, Africa, and the Middle East.

A few years ago, he was poached by a private defense company called "Musician" from South Africa.

Before this, his employer was a PMC on the verge of bankruptcy, with a monthly salary of three thousand two hundred US dollars, often delayed.

Three years ago, after changing jobs, his monthly salary increased to eighteen thousand US dollars.

He also received four months of paid vacation annually, full medical insurance, and child education subsidies.

There was a line in the intelligence report highlighted:

Target Milosh has a strong personal loyalty to Song Heping, attributed to "the respect Song offers that other employers did not provide."

This loyalty is extremely rare among mercenaries and could become a major obstacle in our plot to turn him.

Foster copied this highlighted note into the draft of her analysis report, then supplemented at the end:

Recommend listing Song Heping as a "high-value target," equivalent to regional major powers' proxy armed forces in priority. Suggest initiating a cross-departmental joint assessment, redefining his "arms dealer" identity label. Recommend the station adjust the "King Hunt Operation" timetable, postpone the planned second phase contact execution, pending our comprehensive assessment of the target's military capabilities.

She clicked send, then shut down the computer.

The coffee had gone cold.

The morning in Mosul arrives very early.

Around five o'clock, the eastern skyline began to lighten, sketching the continuous sand dunes into indigo silhouettes.

The morning prayer broadcast in the military camp sounded on time, the prolonged chants of the muezzin echoing among the low-rise buildings.

Song Heping stood at the office window, watching soldiers gradually emerge from the barracks, lay down mats on the open ground, and kneel facing Mecca.

Their actions were devout and unhurried, starkly different from those cold-blooded killers on the battlefield last night.

The door was softly knocked.

"Come in."

Jiang Feng pushed the door open, holding two cups of hot coffee.

He placed one cup on the table, holding the other as he stood by the window.

"The Dulaimi Tribe sent someone," he said. "They arrived two hours early. They're already in the reception room."

Song Heping asked, "Who's leading them?"

"The old chieftain's son-in-law. He brought three attendants and no weapons." Jiang Feng paused, then added, "They look very tense."

Song Heping nodded but showed no intention of standing up.

"Jiang Feng," he said, "what do you think will happen next?"

Jiang Feng thought for a moment, "Robbin will pause his actions and reassess us. 1515 will abandon the recent attack plan and wait for us to show weakness. The Juburi, Zumaili, and Obaidi tribes will successively send people to discuss cooperation. Over at the Ministry of Defense, Minister Rashim will rely on us more, but also be more wary."

"That's enough." Song Heping gently interrupted him.

He stood up and adjusted the collar of his tactical jacket.

The jacket was the same one from yesterday, after sitting for six hours in a helicopter and staying up all night, the collar had some creases and a bit of a sweat smell.

The battlefield is just like that.

"Let's go to the reception room," he said.

Jiang Feng followed behind, watching his upright back and suddenly realized something.

Since last night, the old Master Sergeant hadn't shown any emotional fluctuations. No excitement, no fatigue, no relief, no satisfaction.

Destroying a thousand-strong armed force, killing 873 people, and intimidating the entire Central Illigo tribes—these events would be memorable for anyone, yet to him, it seemed just another ordinary workday.

He pushed open the reception room door.

The representatives of the Dulaimi Tribe stood up simultaneously, their movements as synchronized as if struck by electricity.

The leading middle-aged man had a pale face and puffy eyelids, clearly hadn't slept all night.

His gaze met Song Heping's and lingered for only half a second before quickly shifting.

"Sit," Song Heping said in Arabic.

He was the first to sit down on the wide leather sofa.

"How is Chief Abdul-Razak's condition?" Song Heping asked.

"The chieftain's... the chieftain's condition is stable," the middle-aged man spoke with difficulty, "The doctor says there's no life threat."

Song Heping nodded.

He picked up a bottle of mineral water from the table, poured himself a glass, and gestured to the other to do the same.

"I heard the Dulaimi Tribe has about 1,200 households."

The middle-aged man froze, unsure why this topic was suddenly brought up.

"Yes... yes. To be precise, it's 1,147 households spread across three settlements."

"With an average of six people per household, that's nearly 7,000 people," Song Heping said. "In last night's battle, you lost 873 warriors. That's one-tenth of your tribe's population."

His tone was calm as if stating an irrelevant statistic.

The middle-aged man's face turned paler.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found his throat too dry to produce a sound.

"I'm not here to discuss compensation," Song Heping said. "The battle last night was a result of your attack on my convoy. You received incorrect intelligence, made wrong decisions, and paid the wrong price. I'm not planning to pursue this any further."

He paused.

"But I need you to remember a few things."

The middle-aged man nodded vigorously, like a drowning person clinging to driftwood.

"First, in the future, my convoy passing through any area of Anbar Province and Nineveh Province does not need to pay any protection fees to any tribe. You are not protecting the convoy, you are simply not attacking it. There's a difference."

"Second, if anyone secretly receives information about me that you discover - including convoy routes, troop deployments, cargo lists - you must notify me within 24 hours. Provide intelligence sources, contact methods, liaison characteristics, all details."

"Third, the Dulaimi Tribe will no longer collaborate with any foreign intelligence agencies. I know you've taken money from the Americans in the past, and from others, and even from Turkey. From today on, you will only take my money."

He took a bank card from his briefcase and placed it on the table.

"This card will have $100,000 deposited each month. Cash, anonymous, exchangeable for dinar or US dollar at any underground money exchange in Baghdad. The condition is simple: the Dulaimi Tribe does not attack my convoy, does not assist anyone in attacking my convoy, and does not provide anyone with intelligence about my convoy."

The middle-aged man stared at the bank card as if staring at a snake coiled on the table.

"The chieftain... the chieftain needs time to consider..."

"You have two hours," Song Heping stood up, "I have other arrangements in two hours. If we can't settle today, then it doesn't need to be mentioned again."

He turned and walked towards the door.

Upon reaching the door, he stopped and glanced back at the middle-aged man.

"By the way, your name?"

"Ahmed... Ahmed Dulaimi."

"Ahmed," Song said, "you weren't on the battlefield last night."

The middle-aged man's pupils suddenly constricted.

"Your three brothers were on the battlefield. One died, two were captured." Song Heping's voice remained calm. "Have you thought about why they let you negotiate?"

He didn't wait for an answer, pushed the door, and walked out.

In the corridor, Jiang Feng was leaning against the wall, holding a second cup of coffee that had already grown cold.

"He'll sign," Jiang Feng said.

"I know," Song Heping said.

"One hundred thousand dollars buys the Dulaimi Tribe seven years of peace. Seven years later, Abdul will likely be gone, and Ahmed will be the new chieftain."

"I know."

"You deliberately brought up his brothers earlier, to make him remember resentment or to instill fear?"

Song Heping didn't answer.

He simply continued walking forward, heading downstairs towards the waiting jeep, towards a new day's schedule.

Two hours later, Ahmed Dulaimi signed the agreement.

He didn't negotiate.

He didn't even call Abdul for instructions.

He merely gripped the pen with trembling hands, signed his name at every blank spot on each page, then pushed away the chair, escaping the office like fleeing from an execution site.