"Director Simon."
Song Heping interrupted his opening speech, finally turning around.
"If apologies were enough, what would we need justice for?"
He looked at the leader of America's intelligence with a contemptuous smile, his fist clenched tightly.
Simon was embarrassed, momentarily at a loss for words, unsure how to continue.
Song Heping continued:
"You Americans, are you used to pushing so-called 'allies' out to take bullets as cannon fodder when you need others to risk their lives; and when not needed or cumbersome, mercilessly stabbing them in the back, under the guise of 'strategic adjustments'?"
Simon's face momentarily stiffened, and the muscles of the two bodyguards behind him tensed instantly, instinctively reaching for the holster under their arms, their eyes sharpening.
However, when they saw the surrounding "musician" employees with colder and unmistakably murderous gazes, their inflated momentum deflated like a punctured balloon, forcing themselves to relax, yet their hands remained on the gun grips.
Here, in this command center, they were the ones vulnerable and their lives dependent on others.
"Song, I understand your anger and dissatisfaction. But please believe me, this does not reflect official policy, nor does it represent the White House's intentions—it's merely the unforgivable mistake of certain individuals."
Simon attempted to deflect blame, but inadvertently his tone had weakened.
"Mistake?"
Song Heping sneered, full of unrestrained disdain.
He casually walked to the steaming coffee machine, poured himself a cup of black coffee, showing no intention of offering the weary Simon a cup, this subtle gesture revealing his contemptuous attitude.
"A trivial 'mistake' cost me over twenty of my elite soldiers! You think just a flimsy 'mistake' and some seemingly sweet but actually hollow promises can easily cover this up?"
He took a sip of the steaming coffee, then fixed his gaze on Simon: "I'm not one of those local warlords who you can manipulate at will with a few dollars and empty words, nor am I one of those Baghdad politicians who can't survive without your economic and military aid. If cooperation is possible, my doors are always open for profit. But now, the rules must be set by me."
Simon's heart sank further.
He knew, the toughest, most crucial bargaining phase was beginning.
He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady: "So, what are your terms? What exactly do you want to continue the 'Furnace' operation and immediately deploy forces to attack Hulmatu?"
Song Heping slammed the coffee cup onto the table, producing a clear sound.
He raised three fingers:
"First," his voice echoed in the silent command center, "I want a formal, legally binding defense contract with the US military—mind you, not with CIA hiding in the shadows, but with the Pentagon, the Ministry of Defense, the official US military."
"All military operations of the 'Furnace' initiative, from frontline combat to logistical support, must be executed under the name of my 'Musician' Defense Company. I want proper status, with official documents endorsed by the Ministry of Defense! I want the world to know it's your US Army hiring me, Song Heping, to fight!"
Simon's eyelids couldn't help but twitch.
SHIT!
This demand was like stabbing at Washington's political heart!
This meant publicly incorporating Song Heping, once openly listed and deemed a "terrorist," into the US Army's cooperation framework, albeit under the guise of a private military contractor, with political symbolic significance not merely confined to a contract.
"Second,"
Song Heping gave no time for digestion or rebuttal, continuing in a cold tone, "The contract amount, 1 billion dollars. Moreover, 30% must be prepaid, that is 300 million dollars, as startup capital and personnel settling fees. Furthermore, 48 hours after I successfully seize Hulmatu, the US Army stationed in Illiguo must unconditionally, immediately provide a batch of urgently needed equipment and arms."
He casually slapped a pre-prepared document onto the table in front of Simon, the action as casual as discarding a piece of scrap paper.
Simon suppressed his feelings of humiliation, picked up the paper and scanned it quickly, even at a glance, his breath abruptly became difficult, his heart tightly seized by an invisible hand.
The paper listed—
At least one battalion of M777 ultra-light howitzers.
One company of "Striker" wheeled armored vehicles.
At least 200 units of "Spring Blade" 300/600 model drones.
50 "Javelin" anti-tank missile launching units, along with a large quantity of matching ammunition, communication equipment, and individual gear…
This is almost a configuration for a modern light composite battalion, and many are first-line equipment current with the US military!
"These."
Song Heping's voice interrupted his shock, "Are necessary preparations for my next attack on the Conquest Front's stronghold—Titrick. You wouldn't expect me to go at that tough nut with AKs and RPGs, would you?"
A 1 billion dollar contract!
Plus these sensitive, advanced American-made equipments enough to arm an elite battalion!
Simon felt his temples throbbing painfully.
This isn't cooperation! This is outright robbery!
It's an exorbitant demand!
"Third,"
Song Heping's voice suddenly turned even colder: "Arrange for me to have an exclusive television interview with 'Horizon' News Group. Note, it's a global live broadcast interview. During the interview, I want to reveal my real identity, clarify all my past. And your US military and CIA must simultaneously release a clear public joint statement when my interview airs, admitting that listing me as a 'terrorist' was due to 'the need for confidentiality of special military operations,' was an 'unfortunate misunderstanding' and 'intelligence identification error.' I want a complete vindication!"