40 hours later.
Late night.
The C-130 "Hercules" transport plane tore through the deathly silence of the North African stratosphere, the rear cabin door hydraulic system roaring open on both sides.
The violent negative pressure airflow instantly sucked dry the cabin air, emitting a hellish abyss-like shriek.
Sixteen members of the SAS "Chair" squad were like black statues welded to the deck, the temperature-regulating fibers of their pressurized suits frosted in the -56°C cold.
The red light at the top of the cabin pierced the darkness.
"Green light thirty seconds!"
The jump master's shout was hammered directly into the eardrums by bone conduction headphones, overpowering the furious roar of the four Allison T56 turboprop engines.
Sergeant Macmillan, the commander, had ice crystals forming on his oxygen mask, and the ice-blue pupils behind the night vision goggles remained unmoving.
He raised two fingers wrapped in fireproof Nomex gloves and chopped forward—"GO! GO! GO!"
Dozens of shadows resolutely plunged into the night.
In the moment of free fall, the G-force hit the chest like a giant hammer.
The display screen on the back of his hand showed the altitude numbers jumping wildly—
28000...
27000...
26000...
"Stable posture! Maintain formation! Follow the guide!"
Macmillan adjusted to a head-down diving posture in the turbulent airflow, his arms tightly against his body.
Below, Northern Darfur's terrain unfolded in the eerie green view of the AN/PVS-31 binocular night vision goggles—the dried riverbeds like cracked veins of the earth, jagged ridges cutting through the boundless darkness.
The coordinates of the rally point "Tombstone" were steadily flashing on the GPS interface of the arm terminal.
"Two thousand five!"
The Vanguard's voice was calm as precise instruments.
"Eight hundred! Open parachute!"
Sixteen MC-5 wing parachutes exploded simultaneously with a muffled sound.
The high-strength nylon canopy caught the airflow instantly, turning the descent into controlled gliding. The parachute control bar was pulled sharply downward, the wing parachute cutting into the preset airflow layer with a low tearing sound.
Sixteen black bats glided silently toward the target at 60 kilometers per hour, as the flight computers automatically corrected course deviation.
"Three-minute countdown to Tombstone contact. Land and immediately switch to combat configuration, fan-shaped alert."
Macmillan's voice transmitted into each team member's ear through an encrypted UHF channel, as hard and cold as steel under forging.
At the same time.
Fifty kilometers east, a radar-absorbing coated "Gulfstream" G550 glided like a ghost across the edge of the clouds.
In the cabin, sixteen members of the "Masada" action team had checked their equipment and fastened their breathing masks.
The Mossad and British Special Forces have completely different styles.
If conditions permit, they prefer to infiltrate using civilian aircraft.
Since the civil war, Libya's airspace is a virtual void, with the modified Gulfstream G550 moving as if it were in an uninhabited realm.
The cabin door silently opened, and sixteen figures queued up at the cabin's edge, plunging into the abyss.
They were shrouded in thermo-optical camouflage cloaks, with infrared signals suppressed to within ±0.3°C of the ambient temperature by a nano-scale cooling circulation system.
Mossad's "Masada" Operation Team Alpha—Bayonet Unit's sharpest edge.
Team leader, Major Eitan Lavide, unfolded his left arm during the free fall.
The tactical terminal screen glowed faintly, as the numerical elevation model of the landing point precisely integrated with real-time satellite infrared images.
With a flick of a finger on the mask sensor, the quantum encrypted channel instantly connected: "All have received, altitude two thousand, prepare to open parachute."
As the highest-ranking Alpha team of Mossad's "Masada" action group, "Masada" carries a significant legacy.
The insignia of this team is embroidered with the historical Jewish ancient city of Masada.
In 73 AD, when the Roman Legion breached the walls, nine hundred and sixty Hebrew soldiers chose suicide over slavery.
"Masada Lo Tipol Shnit!" (Masada will not fall a second time!)—this is their national vow, becoming the soul totem of the Daishe Bird Country Special Forces.
Mossad's Special Operations Department has three Bayonet Teams: Alpha Team specializes in high-value target elimination; Bravo Team is responsible for sabotage behind enemy lines; Charlie Team handles hostage rescue.
Each member is tempered by the "Wild Boys" Special Forces before undergoing two years of "Sand Demon" boot camp in the Negev desert, mastering unconventional skills like poison formulation, archeological camouflage, and fighter plane piloting.
"Open parachute!"
Sixteen GTX-9 wing parachutes burst open. The diamond formation precisely adjusted its angle in the night sky, silently cutting into the space above the "Hyena" pass.
Their equipment is the crystallization of technology and slaughter: silenced TAR-21 assault rifles integrated with laser indicating/ranging modules; backpack-based "Iron Dome" electronic warfare systems can incapacitate communication within a 1.2-kilometer radius; heel-embedded ultrasonic generators can shatter electronic lock cores.
"Twenty seconds to the landing zone."