East anchorage of Alexandria Port, the massive steel body of the "Seagull" lay quietly in the lead-gray seawater.
The golden-red afterglow of sunset painted its rust-spotted and peeling hull and superstructure, not bringing warmth, but rather highlighting a sense of decay and aged twilight.
Seagulls chattered noisily near the masts, salty sea breeze carrying the port's unique smell of rust and oil and pouring into the open cargo hold.
Deep in the cargo hold, the light was shattered by the steel jungle.
Huge shadows swayed on the walls; it was the core component of the Sam-6 air defense missile system firmly fixed to the hold's bottom by thick chains and welded brackets—a 2P25 Transporter Erector Launcher (TEL).
The dark green paint was nearly ink-black in the dim light, its outlined edges exuding cold killing intent.
Long missile launch tubes were covered with special canvas, like a sleeping venomous dragon.
The air was filled with the pungent smell of metal coolant, oil, and ozone from welding.
Vasily, a veteran technician from the Former Soviet Union's air defense units, was like an irritable foreman at this moment.
He stood with a bare muscular torso, sweat rolling down his bronze skin and thick chest hair, splattering into dark spots on the oil-stained and rust-covered deck.
He waved a wrench, roaring in heavily accented English, his voice echoing in the huge cargo hold, overpowering the hissing welds and clanging metal:
"Andre! Yous Siberian oaf! That damned hydraulic lock! If it's off by even a millimeter, the missile will topple over like a drunk! Align it! Use your eyes, not your ass!"
He spat, pointing to a crucial securing node at the rear of the launcher.
Andre, another burly Slavic man pointed out, wiped sweat and grease from his face, and silently took up the heavy hydraulic jack, muscles bulging on his strong arms, recalibrating the heavy component with each micro-adjustment accompanied by teeth-grinding metal friction sounds.
At the other end of the cargo hold, the technical team's core, communication expert Igor, was engaged in a silent war.
In front of him, laid out on a portable workbench, was a large schematic of the Sam-6 "Straight Flush" fire control radar system.
Several open-cased radar control units lay scattered, exposed circuit boards and dense cables tangled like nerves.
His brow furrowed into a knot, fingers flying over the dust-covered keyboard, the screen rolling with lines of dazzling diagnostic code and erroneous waveforms.
Sweat slid down his pale cheeks, dripping onto the circuit board, instantly evaporating.
"Damn... damn!"
Igor slammed his fist onto the table, shaking the parts around with a clatter, "Interference... massive background noise! This damned ship is a moving electromagnetic junkyard! Engines, generators, damned port clatter... the radar receiver is being drowned! Without a clean signal, we're blind!"
His voice was hoarse with desperation.
Vasily strode over, snatched up a half bottle of vodka from Igor's desk, and took a deep gulp, the strong alcohol smell instantly permeating the air. "Blind? Igor, listen!"
His bloodshot eyes locked onto the technical expert.
"Boss Song is paying for us handsomely, not to be blind! It's to shoot down those damned 'eagles!' Two days! Just two days! You must make this pile of scrap open its eyes! Or else..."
He made a throat-slitting gesture, eyes fierce, "We'll all end up feeding the Black Sea sharks!"
The cargo hold immediately fell silent, only the dull whimper of ventilation pipes and faint distant port foghorns could be heard.
Enormous pressure weighed tangibly on everyone's shoulders.
Time was an invisible noose, silently tightening with each passing second.
Almost as Vasily's roar and Igor's despair resonated within the sweltering cargo hold of the "Seagull," thousands of kilometers away, at the northeastern tip of Africa, within the Red Sea coastline of Eritrea,
inside a private military base owned by a military contractor.
In the base's core command room, a large rock wall screen displayed a highly encrypted, high-resolution dynamic satellite situation map of North Africa and the Mediterranean regions.
Countless dots representing different satellites, different orbits moved slowly and intertwined on a grid backdrop, forming a complex and intricate cosmic star chart.
Qin Fei, the owner of the base, was standing before the screen examining the situation.
His phone on the desk buzzed suddenly.
He glanced at the familiar encrypted number that had never appeared in his contacts but was already memorized in his mind, his face not showing surprise, only a sense of knowing "It's finally here."
He quickly pressed the call button.
Satellite encryption line connected.
After brief silence, a deep, hoarse yet extremely clear voice came from the other end of the line, carrying fatigue from a long journey and undeniable urgency:
"Qin Fei?"
"Song Heping?"
Qin Fei's voice was calm and steady, seemingly carrying a time-traveling magic, instantly smoothing the anxiety brought by the faint electrical background noise typical of encrypted channels.
"Has your 'cargo' arrived at Alexandria Port?"
He directly cut to the chase, confirming this critical point both sides were highly focused on.
"We have safely arrived at Alexandria Port."
Song Heping's voice affirmed his speculation, but was followed by deeper apprehension.
"But the timing...is too tight. The technical bottleneck is significant, and my people have encountered problems. But time waits for no one; in two days, 'Eagle' will soar overhead."
He paused and said, "I need…the 'Eyes' to see them, lock them on, Captain Lei says you can help me."
On the screen, Qin Fei remained silent.
Those brief seconds, under the cold air of the command room and the weak static unique to encrypted communication channels, felt particularly prolonged and heavy.