Chapter Sixty-Five: To Capture, Let Go First?

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When the scout carefully extracted the Type-18 anti-personnel mine and, “following the vine to its root,” unearthed another, Huang Xiwen, lying in the grass six hundred meters away, knew his trap had already achieved most of its effect.

Through the night-vision scope, he watched as the scout weighed the two mines in his hand, a look of growing bewilderment on his face. Sensing something amiss, the man straightened slightly, muttered to himself, and glanced warily around him.

“Noticing the weight’s off, are you? You have no idea how many mines that demolition maniac Bei Shiliang has gutted!” With that thought, Huang Xiwen’s right index finger tightened gently on the trigger. Without another glance, he turned and sprinted away. Less than a second later, a pained scream rang out behind him. Huang Xiwen prayed silently, “Let’s hope your mighty country issued you bulletproof underwear!”

Six hundred meters away, the empty mine casings fell from the scout’s grasp as his face twisted in agony. Both hands clutched his groin as he writhed on the ground. A bullet, fired from an odd angle, had grazed his manhood and burrowed into his thigh at the root.

Connor’s eyes reddened, but he did not lose his composure. After checking the wounded scout’s position and quickly calculating the trajectory, he shouted, “Eleven o’clock! Tenth squad!”

Rifles and machine guns roared in unison, unleashing a storm of bullets toward the eleven o’clock direction, a forty-degree arc spanning the area from four hundred to seven hundred meters. The eight soldiers of the tenth squad leapt from cover in quick succession, flanking toward the indicated direction.

Barely five seconds passed between the scout’s injury and the fireteam’s response. The Poseidon Commandos reacted with impressive speed and precision. Yet, by the time they reached the site six hundred meters away and found traces of recent concealment, Huang Xiwen had already sprinted more than eight hundred meters away at an oblique angle.

“Idiots!” Huang Xiwen sneered through gritted teeth. “Fire a shot and change positions—don’t you even know that basic trick?”

Booming explosions erupted in the distance: Bei Shiliang’s infamous “Red Crab Killing Array” had been unleashed. “Here’s a bit of accompaniment for you!” Flattened in the grass, Huang Xiwen watched several opponents in search formation examine the spot where he’d lain. He slammed the remote detonator in his hand. Eight hundred meters—the very limit for such a small device—but it was enough.

A second later, a Type-18 anti-personnel mine buried twenty centimeters beneath the trampled, tangled grass exploded with a deep, muffled roar. Dirt and grass fragments soared into the air, blinding the cluster of commandos. Over a thousand steel pellets fanned out in all directions, pelting those still clustered near the mine—striking their bodies, faces, and legs. Amid the dull, rain-like drumming of steel on flesh, several team members rolled and screamed in agony.

“You’d never guess I was just lying atop a mine myself, would you?” Listening to the distant explosions and screams, Huang Xiwen withdrew with swift satisfaction, a grin playing at his lips.

Suddenly, “Polaris” buzzed with a faint vibration. Huang Xiwen paused, quickly connected, and heard Lei Dong’s voice through his earpiece...

Lang Tianyu had finally found the kind of battle he loved best.

As a seasoned ace sniper, he’d already dispatched fifty-two enemies before this island operation even began. In the scant thirty minutes since this lopsided fight started, that number had risen to fifty-five.

He fired from behind rocks, from within thickets, from beneath the forest canopy—three shots, three men down. Until now, not a single enemy had even glimpsed his shadow.

Bzzz—

“Polaris” vibrated. Huang Xiwen’s order came through: “Draw the enemy toward Area Two. Coordinates: 2-3-0...”

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“Damn, are you trying to force me to expose my position?” Lang Tianyu cursed under his breath, then crouched and fired several shots in quick succession from a patch of thick grass.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots dropped three pursuers, and Lang Tianyu’s position was finally revealed.

“Nine o’clock!” Sinclair shouted. The machine gunner’s Model 32 roared, spraying a furious barrage at Lang Tianyu’s hiding spot.

Clutching his Type-21 sniper rifle, Lang Tianyu zigzagged madly through the grass. A dozen enemy soldiers, fanned out in four inverted-triangle assault formations, gave chase with relentless fury. Bullets tore up the ground at his heels, casting up clouds of dust and smoke.

Lang Tianyu remained confident. Once he lured this wave of enemies into the designated zone, he would have his revenge for this ignominious retreat—for that area was precisely where Lei Dong and the hostages were stationed.

He didn’t know why Lei Dong had suggested such a seemingly unsound tactic, one that so obviously deviated from their plan. But Lang Tianyu trusted him: that place would become the enemy’s hell.

Almost simultaneously, Luo Haoran, harassing the enemy along a neighboring route; Wu Yun, who was wreaking havoc three kilometers from the dock; and Bei Shiliang, now reunited with Huang Xiwen, all began “exposing” themselves along different paths, guiding the enemy southwest across the island.

No one raised a single objection. With Lei Dong, there was an unspoken, absolute trust among them all.

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Despite repeated ambushes and harassment along the way, the twenty-strong assault team under Ark Bevin’s command pressed on, ignoring all distractions and hurtling toward the designated zone at a breakneck pace across the island.

Every battle or campaign has its focal point, its essence. Ark Bevin was certain that, for the fight he now led, that essence was the aircraft forced down on this subarctic island, along with its two hundred-plus passengers and crew. As long as he seized this focal point and controlled both the plane and the hostages, Ark Bevin believed that, no matter how despicable his foes, ultimate victory would belong to him and the glorious Menea Federation.

From the repeated attacks along the way, it was clear the cunning enemy was trying to prevent their approach to the aircraft—sometimes even deliberately exposing themselves to lure the team away. This only confirmed Ark Bevin’s judgment, right up until he reached the plane.

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” Staring at the empty, abandoned aircraft, the blood-stained bodies of terrorists strewn within the cabin, and splatters of fresh blood everywhere, Ark Bevin could no longer contain his rage and cursed aloud.

After all his efforts, overcoming countless obstacles to reach his goal—triumphant, convinced he’d taken control—he discovered it was nothing but an empty ruse, a trick from start to finish. It was like finally seducing a stunning beauty who agreed to spend the night, only to pull off her pants in a rush and find she was a transvestite.

Utterly nauseating!

May the Holy Emperor punish these cunning yellow monkeys!

Furious, Ark Bevin spat another curse, though inwardly, he was piecing together the chain of events. The sly Reds had not truly sought to prevent his team from reaching the plane, but had instead used harassment to keep his focus fixed there, to confuse his vision and, above all, to buy time—giving over two hundred hostages the best possible chance to escape their captors’ grasp.

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“So this is your art of reality and illusion?” Ark Bevin, renowned as the most celebrated mid-level commander of the Poseidon Commandos’ sixth detachment, quickly regained his composure after understanding the enemy’s trickery, and began plotting his next move.

The situation was clear: a small, roughly platoon-sized special operations team from the Republic had stormed the island and rescued over two hundred hostages. Because his assault team had landed swiftly in the storm, disrupting the enemy’s original plan, the rescuers had been forced to hastily relocate the hostages, resorting to every means of harassment and attack to divert attention and stall for time.

Therefore, there must be a receiving team ahead, along the route the slow-moving, defenseless hostages were taking. But what kind of team would that be?

A warship? Impossible. The Red Republic lacked such long-range deployment capability. Their large ships were patrolling the North Pacific; by the time they arrived, he would have wiped them out. Their military brass would never overlook such a fact.

A large transport plane? Also impossible. All reports indicated that, under Federation pressure, every country along the Pacific and Indian routes had closed their airspace to the Red Republic.

Then... Ark Bevin cast his gaze southward, into the night sky—where the world’s last unclaimed territory lay: the Antarctic continent. Several major nations maintained research stations there, including the Red Republic. Given the cruising speed of their research vessels, if they set out early, they just might reach this island in time.

And if a research ship intended to evacuate the hostages, it would need to dock at the island’s sole pier. Which meant—someone had attacked Morton’s detachment!

Damn it!

“William!” The thought of Morton’s detachment being ambushed and annihilated filled Ark Bevin with rage. He jabbed the comms and connected with the sergeant in charge of pier security.

What he heard from William only reinforced his conclusions. The third squad had been attacked: three men killed, the rest fighting desperately. William reported that only a single enemy seemed to be holding off their approach to the dock.

Next, contacting Lieutenant Connor, he learned that one of their platoons had tracked two enemy operatives, who were actively trying to draw them northward across the island. At once, Ark Bevin issued his command: all assault teams, ignore all else—advance on the dock at full speed!

Soon, Ark Bevin received fresh reports: as the assault teams changed direction, enemy harassment spiked to a frenzy, nearly reaching madness.

These reports left Ark Bevin relieved.

“You truly are the finest soldiers. But in the face of overwhelming might, your fate remains defeat.” A twisted, cold smile crept over Ark Bevin’s face.