The line connected quickly.
The Chef couldn't bother with pleasantries, he almost shouted the current extremely dire situation report, his voice trembling slightly due to excitement and anxiety.
"...Yes! The situation is just like this! Collapse is imminent! We're retreating on all three fronts: north, east, south! We lack heavy equipment, air support, everything! The soldiers' morale has sunk to the lowest! I predict, at most three days, if there's no radical change, Damascus will definitely fall!"
He took a deep breath, trying to make his tone sound calmer, more strategically persuasive: "Once Damascus falls, the current regime collapses. Whether those Western-supported so-called Freedom Army, or the more extreme 1515 Armed rise to power, can we still hold our naval port in Tartus? Our only foothold in the Mediterranean, all our investments and strategic layouts over the years, will be completely ruined! I urge you to appeal to the Kremlin again, we must immediately, right now, conduct direct military intervention! Even sending over a few squadrons of fighter jets can stabilize the situation!"
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then a voice, calm to the point of chilliness, characteristic of bureaucratic, measured slow speaking: "Yevgeny, I understand your pressure on the front line, and I appreciate your… um… vivid battlefield description. However, the opinion of the highest decision-making body is clear and consistent: at this stage, the Russian Federation Armed Forces' direct involvement in the Siria conflict is not yet mature."
"Not yet mature?! What more is needed to mature? Why?!"
The Chef could no longer suppress his anger, roaring into the receiver, "Do we have to wait until Damascus becomes another Mogadishu, until our flag is pulled down from the ruins of Tartus, to call it mature? My people are bleeding here! Whose interests are they fighting for?!"
"Mind your tone, Yevgeny!"
The other voice suddenly became stern too, "This is not an emotional plaything! This is a national strategy! What does direct deployment mean? It means handing the West a perfect excuse to sanction us! A new round of harsher economic blockades and political isolation is waiting for us! For a Middle-Eastern ally already pierced through, making the whole country bear such enormous risks, this does not align with our highest national interests! Do you understand?"
The bureaucrat's tone slightly softened but remained uncompromising: "Your current task is to do your utmost to assist our Siria friends in stabilizing the frontlines, under the guise of 'military advisors' and 'volunteers'. We will consider increasing support in materials and equipment. However, there will never be regimented troops in Russian Army uniforms appearing in Siria. This is the final decision. Yevgeny, do your part."
"To hell with your national interests! To hell with your part!"
The Chef completely exploded, blood vessels bulging on his forehead, "This place is damn well going to hell! You in your warm office in Moscow don't know a damn thing..."
"Beep—beep—beep—"
The call was rudely disconnected by the other party.
The Chef froze in place, maintaining the posture of holding the receiver, his arm trembling slightly due to extreme anger.
The color on his face instantly faded, replaced by a pallor and twistedness that were close to despair.
"Suka!"
Finally, as if all his strength had been drained, he slowly lowered the receiver, letting out a low growl suppressed to the utmost.
His hands propped on the table, breathing heavily, as if the whole world was collapsing and dimming before his eyes.
Moscow's refusal felt like the final giant stone, crushing the last remaining chance in his heart.
He even began to regret, regret getting Song Heping involved in this doomed predicament.
Just as this suffocating despair was about to completely swallow him whole —
"Click."
A soft electronic lock opening sound was exceptionally clear in this deathly quiet command center.
The thick anti-explosion door, closed for over twenty-four hours, slowly opened inward.
Song Heping's figure appeared at the doorway.
His face showed unmistakable fatigue, eyeballs filled with bloodshot, yet his gaze was sharp as ever.
The Chef noticed Song Heping holding a thick tactical tablet in his hand.
All eyes instantly focused on Song Heping.
The bustling noise in the command center seemed to hit a mute button, even the sound from the communicator seemed to quiet down.
The Chef sharply raised his head, bloodshot eyes fixedly staring at Song Heping, like a drowning man seeing the last piece of driftwood, mingled with the last bit of hope.
Song Heping's gaze calmly swept across the chaotic command center, flashed over every officer's face filled with despair and fatigue, finally locking onto the Chef's twisted and pale face.
Without wasting words, he directly said:
"Chef. Immediately gather all decision-makers. The highest commander of the Siria Government Army, your core tactical advisers, all brigade-level commanders you can reach, video conference is also acceptable."
He raised the tablet in his hand, speaking decisively:
"The meeting starts in half an hour. We don't have much time."
Pausing briefly, he continued:
"Also, tell me where to connect to the main screen?"
The Chef was stunned, for a full two seconds.
Song Heping's appearance, and that decisive, unquestionable tone, along with the tactical tablet in his hand seeming to hold some answers, like a shot of adrenaline, instantly pierced into his heart nearly frozen by despair.