Chapter 401

Chapter 401: Dog’s Eye

“Mr. Friedman, we just received news that the entire assassination team from Blackwater in Asia has been obliterated, and the target has gone missing.”

The peaceful atmosphere in the office suddenly froze, then erupted into chaos.

Coffee cups, pen holders, pens, phones, documents, and desk ornaments were violently thrown out as if various types of cluster bombs had been dropped. They crashed onto the polyurethane fiber carpet of the Lockheed Operations Office, with some fragile items shattering into pieces.

A large pool of mocha coffee quickly seeped into the carpet, leaving a dark, bitter aroma on the fabric, with splatters landing on the sofa as well.

The cleaning staff on duty today would surely be in distress; if it wasn’t cleaned within 24 hours, the carpet might permanently stain, even growing hard-to-remove mold.

“Damn it, damn it! Did Blackwater raise idiots? What kind of people did they send? Are they morons? They can’t even handle one pilot! You tell me, who are we up against? Is it God? How can it be this difficult? I’ve paid three million dollars for this, and they said it was foolproof—what a load of garbage! They are useless, a bunch of good-for-nothings! I need an explanation!”

Mitch Friedman, the head of Lockheed Operations, raged, tossing everything in sight off his desk.

The greater the hope, the greater the disappointment.

He originally thought that the seamless plan combined with the best personnel would lead to success, but the harsh reality aged Mitch Friedman ten years in an instant.

As he vented his frustration with no regard for his image, he wondered if he was fighting with God. How could things go so wrong?

“Sorry, Mr. Friedman, Blackwater says they will continue to send people to carry out the mission at no extra cost. They mentioned that the Chinese are too cautious; even their strategic partners providing intelligence incurred significant losses.”

Hegel Morstein, a German employee, regretted why he had buttered up the action planning expert Zariyev, as he took the initiative to report the newly received intelligence to the boss.

In hindsight, this truly seemed like a terrible idea.

Caught in this unexpected disaster, Hegel was splashed by a half-cup of coffee when Mitch Friedman swept everything off his desk in a fit of rage, staining his new suit.

What terrible luck! He had planned to wear this suit only for two days before returning it, the tags still on. Now, he had to face the consequences, as washing it would disqualify it from the unconditional return policy.

Two months’ salary wasted on this high-end suit meant to impress, and now it reeked of coffee.

Oh, God! He should borrow perfume from Miss Trudy at the front desk to cover up the coffee smell and come up with an excuse.

Hegel was feeling incredibly disheartened.

“I don’t care about that! Tell the people at Blackwater that what I want is results. As a client, I’ve paid my dues; the rest is their responsibility. Where are the Battle Robots? Where is the combat-powered armor? Haven’t I already sent a task force equipped with powerful gear to assist them? Are they even using it?”

Mitch Friedman’s furious roar nearly splattered Hegel with spittle, glaring at him as if he was an enemy, practically ready to lunge forward, grab his collar, and demand answers.

In truth, Mitch Friedman wanted to do just that but managed to hold back.

“The report from Blackwater explained this too. The target appeared in environments where they couldn’t possibly bring that equipment along, and the protection surrounding the target was extremely tight. They never found the opportunity to use it. Furthermore, the British sent another email demanding to know when we would transfer the remaining funds.”

Hegel cautiously conveyed the messages from several companies and organizations providing services to Lockheed Operations, glancing at the scattered A4 papers that had been strewn on the floor. One stack was indeed the printed report from Blackwater, but the furious chief likely had no mood to read it at the moment and would have to rely on memory to relay the contents.

“This is such a hassle!” Mitch Friedman forcefully unbuttoned his shirt collar and tilted his tie, hands on his hips, panting and muttering to himself, “Damn those British, greedy John Bulls! They come after just one attempt and ask for ten million dollars—it’s outright extortion!”

Under the chairman’s orders, Mitch Friedman contacted his British counterparts in the fighter jet manufacturing industry, incurring significant costs, but even with the most advanced unmanned combat aircraft and elite operational teams, they returned with nothing. The opposition refused to let their fighter jet be destroyed along with the target; in the end, it was a complete failure.

Because of the damage to the fighter jet, the other party issued an exorbitant repair bill, raising what should have been a one-million-dollar staging fee to ten million dollars in compensation.

The costs fell back on Lockheed; the target wouldn’t pay for the repairs on that battered unmanned combat aircraft.

It was a double whammy—losing both money and face, and Mitch Friedman was ready to personally strangle the pilot known as “Dragon Knight,” the main culprit behind this huge mess, who still enjoyed his freedom while the higher-ups in the Lockheed family unleashed their fury on the operations office.

As long as that “Dragon Knight” lived, Mitch Friedman would have restless days and nights.

“Hegel, you’re done here,” a defeated and weary Mitch Friedman waved his hand, his voice low. “I get it; you can go now.”

“Yes, sir!” Hegel replied with his head down, his face void of any expression.

Even though he had inexplicably spent two months’ salary on this expensive suit today, suffering a significant loss, Hegel Morstein dared not show his dissatisfaction to Mitch Friedman.

An unemployed man had no right to chase after that pretty girl.

As Hegel was about to step out of the office, eager to leave this terrifying place, Mitch Friedman’s voice suddenly called out from behind him. He froze, his foot suspended in mid-air.

“What is it, sir?” Hegel’s face nearly spilled over with tears, yet he held his neck rigidly, not daring to turn around.

He stood at the crossroads of heaven and hell, tormented by the uncertainty of his state.

Oh, God, please spare me! I’m thirty-five this year and still single, having not even touched a woman’s hand besides my mother’s. I was counting on impressing that beautiful lady tonight. Boss, I beg you, show me some mercy and give me a break.

“Get that guy Zariyev to come to me.”

Boom!

Hegel Morstein finally lost his balance amidst the whirlwind of emotions and collapsed hard onto the floor outside the door.

Bad luck these days came with collateral damage.

“Sir!” Zariyev walked into Mitch Friedman’s office, visibly anxious.

“Is your stuff ready? Bring it here…”

…

“Here’s my introduction letter and officer’s ID!”

About 17 kilometers away from the Jiuquan Satellite Launch Center, Lin Mo sat on a motorcycle, handing his documents to a wary soldier with a gun.

The motorcycle remained running, emitting a soft purring sound, with a faint hum of the internal drive chain beneath the engine.

After a mishap on the road, Lin Mo and Nong Lan, who served as bait, abandoned their original route.

Nong Lan and Bayu disembarked from the train at Hengyang Station in Hunan, following Security Bureau agents, but they had no idea where they were headed to fish.

Lin Mo did not wait for the K1168 train to reach its final destination in Xi’an; instead, he got off in Wuchang and took a series of buses, taxis, and local minibuses to Luoyang. He then traveled north to Sunyang before turning back south to Yan’an. This whirlwind of routes left Lin Mo and the intelligence personnel tasked by “Night” in a dizzying situation until they confirmed that there were no trailing tails, officially redirecting towards Xi’an, where they caught a bus to Lanzhou.

In Lanzhou, Lin Mo spent several thousand yuan on a domestically produced motorcycle, securing his large suitcase onto an additional cargo rack. Using the GPS chip in his watch and a map, he navigated to Jiuquan, eventually finding this military training center that was now a restricted area.

This aerospace training center had a higher security level than typical military bases; it didn’t appear on navigation maps or any tourist maps, so Lin Mo had to ask for directions to trace them along the numbered streets.

A long, endless high wall surrounded the center, topped with aluminum wire fences, enclosing the entire training center. Those unaware might think it was just a factory or a farm inside.

“Please wait.” The armed soldier, carrying a professional distrust, signaled to a fellow soldier in the duty room. That soldier produced a scanner and walked out to scan Lin Mo.

The soldier on guard held a Type 95 automatic rifle, which seemed perfectly balanced as he moved it, likely empty, although the four magazines tucked into the black bulletproof vest on his waist faintly displayed the bronze-colored ends of 5.8 millimeter bullets.

Beside the guard post sat a large wolfdog, panting with a bloody tongue, tilting its head to scrutinize Lin Mo. The animal’s instinct sensed a disturbing aura emanating from this human on a motorcycle.