Chapter 515

Chapter 515: The Veteran Never Ages

"Hurry up, hurry up, you bunch of idiots! If you can’t take off, I’ll break your bones!"

Crack!

A long whip cracked open, drawing a line of blood. A tattered Tajik young man fell hard to the ground, twitching, devoid of even the strength to scream, as the heavy wooden crate pressed down on him, forcing out only faint, powerless groans.

"Tari, Tari, get up quickly."

Behind him, dozens of Tajiks carrying heavy wooden crates, their faces showing signs of aging beyond their years, burned with anger in their eyes but dared not show it. They lowered their voices to urge the fallen young man to rise quickly; otherwise, he would face dire consequences.

Most of their families had been killed, and their homes destroyed by war. If they weren’t still young and strong, they might have already been murdered by these southern bandits.

Now, they were forced to work tirelessly day and night, barely fed, worn to the bone. Those thugs seemed to take turns squeezing out every last bit of their strength.

"Ugh!" The Tajik young man, called Tari by his companions, emitted a weak sound, as if the flame of life within him might extinguish at any moment.

"Dammit, another waste of food."

Bang!

Blood erupted from Tari’s forehead as his body convulsed a couple of times before falling still.

The downcast laborers saw a man in a black leather vest blowing the smoke from his gun barrel, lifting the whip again. He cracked it explosively in the air and shouted, "Lazybones! If you don’t get back to work, you’ll end up like him. Unless you want to taste my gun, you better hurry up!"

The burdened workers internally sighed in despair.

"O mighty Allah! Save the suffering Muslims!"

Some attempted to escape but failed. Their weak bodies and battered skin hardly allowed them to run far. All those who tried fleeing met execution on the spot and were hung on nearby wooden posts as warnings to everyone else. Even more had died from being beaten to death while working or from being thrown to the ground.

In the distance stood a long runway, where, over the past couple of days, hundreds of abducted Tajiks and Pashtuns had been forced to construct a makeshift runway nearly a thousand meters long.

They didn’t know what the runway was for but soon found out. Just a few hours after finishing the construction, the roar of jets filled the air.

Two sleek silver figures shot down the runway at incredible speed, gradually slowing down and successfully landing.

Fighter jets?

The small, slender silver bodies had a round, ducted air intake, a quarter-chord sweep angle of 55 degrees, all-metal mid-wing designs, and all-moving horizontal stabilizers, making them look like silver swallows.

The Tajiks and Pashtuns, who had poured their blood and sweat, even risking their lives to build the runway, were immediately pushed back a kilometer away, behind walls made of barbed wire, while several heavy machine guns were pointed at them, forbidding any movements.

"Mr. Jidin, it’s great to see you again, haha."

The pilot who emerged from the cockpit of the "Silver Swallow," with the armed militants assisting him, took off his helmet, revealing a thick mane of chestnut-colored hair.

At the end of the runway, several dusty open-top jeeps sat, looking exhausted from travel, while a few armed militants carrying AK-47s spread out, maintaining vigilance around a group of men in suits.

"Shkurt Palikonomi, you are right on time! I didn’t expect you to deliver it personally. Can this thing fly? Damn, I want some proper air combat weapons! I’ve had enough of those broken helicopters."

A black-haired, crew-cut white man approached, inspecting the two fighter jets covered in rivets, which seemed to be a bit old.

Shkurt, sporting a thick head of chestnut hair, pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket, looking relaxed as though he was on vacation rather than delivering cargo.

He slapped the supersonic jet, which was slightly hot from friction with the air, saying, “Don’t worry, it’s a beautifully crafted gem made by the Chinese. Oh, the quality is absolutely reliable! I spent a pretty penny to acquire these from Albania. If it weren’t for you insisting on jet fighters, I wouldn’t have gotten my hands on such fine pieces."

Shkurt Palikonomi was a professional arms dealer working in war-torn areas, known for dealing with agents of various powerful factions. His special position meant that even if he played both sides, he remained highly valued, capable of obtaining all kinds of weapons as long as the price was right. There were even rumors of Arab terrorists acquiring nuclear weapon plutonium through him.

"Wait a minute, what kind of antique have you brought? It looks so old! No, no, no, Shkurt, you bastard! I want a fighter jet, not an antique! Can this piece even handle modern warfare?"

Recently, one of the most active agents in Afghanistan, Mr. Jidin, couldn’t identify what kind of fighter jet it was, but he was sure it wasn’t new or even a new model.

"Haha, don’t worry! This is the J-6, a copy of the MiG-19. You only paid me 1.2 million euros. What decent jet fighter can you buy for that? You can’t even buy a training aircraft! Even a modern replica of the P-51 Mustang costs 5 million dollars. This is a great deal; it’s very practical. With a maximum speed of 1.2 Mach and an attack radius of 680 kilometers, it fully meets your needs. I’ve had professional mechanics thoroughly maintain it; it can fly for another 800 hours without any issues."

Shkurt walked over and patted Jidin on the shoulder, boasting as an experienced arms dealer.

"J-6! My God! This is outdated junk that even the Chinese don’t use anymore! My opponent flies a ‘Super Dodo.’ Damn, I’ve been tricked! I want a refund!" Jidin exclaimed, his eyes wide, pounding his chest in frustration, drawing the attention of nearby armed militants.

Shkurt paused for a moment but then burst out laughing. He saw through this cunning guy’s intentions, and without hesitation, he gave Jidin a punch that made him stagger, saying fiercely, "You bastard, pay up! 1.2 million euros, not a single cent less! Watch out, or I’ll turn against you! These two J-6s are 80% new, part of Albania’s strategic reserves. They might be a bit oxidized on the surface, but don’t worry; it won’t affect their performance. They can carry air-to-air missiles, rockets, and aerial bombs. Three 30mm cannons can even pierce tank armor. This is a fine piece of equipment, still sharp like the hero Saladin! After all these years of doing business with you, when have I ever cheated you? Look, I even came all the way from Turkmenistan! If the quality were bad, would I personally deliver them to you?"

"Alright, alright, can you lower the price a bit? It’s a J-6 after all; it’s outdated."

"No way!"

"How about 1 million euros?"

"Not a chance!"

"How about 1.1 million euros?"

"Get lost! If you say one more word, I’ll just fly it back myself!"

"Fine, fine, I’m scared of you! I’ll write the check right now!"

"Now that’s more like it! Earning this little bit of money isn’t easy for me! I’m risking my neck here. If the international community finds out, we could both be in trouble."

In the end, Agent Jidin couldn’t take advantage of the situation and reluctantly wrote a check on the spot.

Hey, a neat profit of 200,000 euros! Shkurt couldn’t contain his joy but put on a facade of hardship.

Ha, intercepted 300,000 euros. Jidin grinned like a fox, his face smiling while his eyes did not.

"You’ll help us train pilots and provide maintenance services for at least half a month! If I need ammunition later, you need to get it for me immediately." Jidin still pretended to be angry, shoving the check into Shkurt’s hands, then gesturing to the mercenary pilots behind him, "Zok and Bell, come take a look at these two J-6s. Can you handle them?"

He estimated that two weeks would be enough to take down the dreaded Dragoon Corporation, and the onboard ammunition and maintenance supplies would arrive via the Amu River by tomorrow.

"Not a problem!" Shkurt said, beaming with joy, kissing the check that smelled of copper and blood.

"Boss, as long as it’s the MiG series, we can manage. The J-6 is a copy of the MiG-19. We originally used it as a training aircraft. Give us just one day, and we can have it flying again. Don’t worry."

The mercenary pilots Zok Niknov and Bell Susanin exchanged glances, stepping forward to examine the two J-6s, their eyes filled with pride and confidence. In their minds, these two J-6s were just toys; they could handle them effortlessly.

"Haha, Jidin, your luck is amazing! You found two great pilots!"

The arms dealer Shkurt was in great spirits, generously flattering Agent Jidin.

The two J-6s, stripped of their markings and paint, gleamed silver as they flew in formation at an altitude of 600 meters, accompanied by the thunderous roar of jets.

Beneath their wings hung two short-range air-to-air missiles and two rocket pods, heading northeast with a fierce determination.

The sleek fighter jets had their tails painted with crude paints displaying the Arabic numerals "1" and "2" for distinction.

There were no ground radars, no communication towers—everything was simplified. Only satellite phones and GPS systems were mounted on the cockpit, marking their locations on Google Maps, hastily pieced together for basic functionality.

"Bell, we’re almost there! Haha, this is a game! My gosh, there’s not even a radar! We’re relying on toy-like civilian satellite maps for navigation and ground satellite phones for positioning."

"Yes, Zok, just three ‘Super Dodos’ out there. They’re slower than half our speed—simply sitting ducks. The PL-1 air-to-air missiles we have can lock onto them with radar waves. Thank you, Albania! If they hadn’t poorly managed these, we wouldn’t have gotten such suitable fighter jets."

"Bell, I see them! Two of them! Oh, they’re as slow as snails, starting to lock on!"

"Yes, there’s no need for fancy maneuvers. Let’s get right to it! Locking completed! Prepare!"