"First Garrison Regiment! Colonel Maxim! Report your position! Respond!"
Again and again.
Only despairing electronic silence, or noise twisted into screaming howls like evil ghosts.
No calls received any response.
Except for his six brigades, all other units deployed in various locations seemed to have fallen silent.
"What on earth is happening..."
Lumar stood rigid in the center of the command vehicle, his tall frame slightly swaying.
The cursor flashing on the command screen reflected his pale face, and beads of sweat like beans slid down his temples.
Immense fear, like cold tidewater, instantly submerged him.
He finally saw the truth of this game — this wasn't a raid, it was a long-planned military coup!
The target is the heart of the nation, Butare!
And he — the supreme commander of the Defense Army, wielding heavy troops, along with his best six brigades, were perfectly maneuvered away from the storm center, becoming a "lone army" hundreds of kilometers away and beyond reach!
"Who is it?! Who on earth?!"
Lumar's eyes were bloodshot, letting out a beast-like low roar, punching heavily on the cold vehicle wall.
Weber?
The British?
No, it couldn't be them!
They are still sharing intelligence!
They are allies!
The French?
They don't have any deployment here; since his and President Du Er's coup d'état, the French were courteously sent out of the country, leaving only some embassy consuls and staff...
Could it be the Isis family?
In Sena, only the Isis family still has the capability for a coup.
But those guys absolutely lack such boldness and means!
Could it be…
A terrifying name flashed across his mind.
Meanwhile, outside Butare.
The dusk was like dense ink, completely engulfing the vast, abandoned rubber plantation.
The sweet and fishy smell of decaying rubber tree leaves mixed with the scent of damp earth, heavily pressing on the lungs of thousands of crouched individuals.
Their dark combat uniforms covered with camouflage nets, faces streaked with black and green paint, only their occasionally moving eyeballs glinted with cold murderous intent under the green glow of night vision goggles.
They are the fangs of the "Musician" Defense, the sharpest blade in Song Heping's hand, the most important asset of the Defense Company — mercenaries.
Jiang Feng crouched in the shadow of a light armored command vehicle, the vehicle body covered with a camouflage net blending into the surroundings.
The headset night vision goggles dyed the surroundings into a clear, eerie green world.
The tactical tablet screen in front of him displayed a map of Butare City like a network of blood vessels, with blue dots representing the main assault teams A, B, and C, like fangs of a poison snake gripping the throat positions of the three main garrison camps on the city's outskirts.
"Hummingbird calling all teams, final communication check. Team A, status?"
Jiang Feng's voice was as cold as ice in the encrypted channel.
"Team A here, signal clear. Target: Garrison Camp One. Infrared thermal imaging confirms that the target area is brightly lit (backup power), personnel activity is frequent, and security is lax. Assault route is locked."
The response was equally cold and precise.
"Team B in position, target Camp Two..."
"Team C in position, target Camp Three..."
Every confirmation was like the crisp sound of a bullet being chambered.
Jiang Feng deeply inhaled the sweet, rotting air, the cold oxygen stimulating his nerve endings.
He lifted the night vision goggles and looked toward the sparse lights of Butare City, symbolizing fragile order.
Tonight his mission was to crush this last obstacle on the capital's outskirts, paving a blood-red road for the main force to the core of power.
At this moment, within the city.
Only an alley away from the back wall of the British Consulate, a shabby van covered in dried mud inconspicuously parked by the roadside.
The van's interior, however, was a miniature electronic warfare fortress, filled with the top-tier American military-grade surveillance and jamming equipment.
The bluish glow of the screen illuminated Collins' focused and slightly fatigued face.
This second-generation Chinese-German, with dual master's degrees, was furiously typing on the keyboard as if playing a silent symphony of death.
The headphones clung tightly to his ears, filtering out useless noise and only capturing specific frequencies.