Meanwhile.

On the banks of the Thames River, MI6 headquarters.

The structure, built with reinforced concrete and bullet-proof glass, stood like a massive cold fortress, hidden beneath the bustling shadows of the Thames River's south bank.

Unlike the scorching, bloody, and dust-filled arena of the Sahara Desert, time here seemed frozen in a carefully controlled feeling of suffocation.

The air filtration system emitted a low hum, with light meticulously calculated, evenly and chillingly spilling over every corner.

The gigantic screen of the strategic command center occupied an entire wall, like a cold, all-seeing eye.

The screen was divided into several frames, transmitting real-time information from different sources:

The main frame was a processed high-altitude satellite overview.

On the wrinkled background of the Sahara Desert, yellow and brown like the skin of an old man, several glaring light spots were clearly marked.

A solitary red dot, stubbornly creeping southward, represented Song Heping and his remaining forces.

A blue arrow right on his tail, representing the SBS pursuit team. On the outer edge, a dense swarm of green dots represented the GNA armed forces forming a circle of encirclement like a swarm of locusts.

At this moment, the blue arrow had halted not far behind the red dot in the area of wind-eroded rocks, while the cluster of green dots appeared somewhat erratic.

Another small window displayed real-time encrypted video communication.

Saif, the nominal leader of the GNA armed forces, appeared on the screen.

His face was full of ravines, marked by the passage of time and worldly experience, with a hint of fatigue that was hard to disguise.

His gaze flickered unpredictably through the fluctuations of electronic signals.

The air was so heavy it could almost condense into water droplets, falling onto the expensive carpet.

Senior analysts and technicians sat frozen at their respective control panels, their fingers hovering above the keyboards, not daring to make a sound.

Their eyes seemed magnetically drawn, locked onto the main screen at that solitary red dot representing Song Heping moving determinedly southward.

Every tiny shift of the dot tugged at the room's tense nerves, stretched to their limits.

"Useless! A bunch of utterly useless fools!"

An angry rebuke, like an ice shard laced with deadly poison, shattered the dead silence of the command center with piercing cold.

M lady stood at the command console before the curved screen, her usual composure unable to restrain the erupting ferocity in her chest.

She glared at the screen, watching as the blue arrow representing the SBS was outpaced by the red dot, watching as the green circle of the GNA armed forces was easily breached like a tattered fishing net, the rage in her eyes threatening to burn through the screen.

"Saif!"

M lady's voice was as sharp as a blade, seemingly poised to cut through thousands of miles and virtual signals to slice the man on the screen to pieces.

"Tell me! You command twenty thousand soldiers, so why can't you stop a ragtag group of soldiers out of ammo and out of luck?! Why is that damn, filthy mercenary leader Song Heping still alive?! Why is he still moving on my map?! Answer me!"

Each word was like ice shards forced out through clenched teeth.

On the screen, Saif's holographic image visibly shook, and the signal showed a trace of instability.

The ravines on his weather-beaten face seemed deeper, a flash of anger from public humiliation flickering in his eyes, but buried deeper was a sense of great bewilderment and indifference.

He adjusted his posture, trying to regain some sense of control, his voice emerging through the high-fidelity speakers with a heavy North African Arabic accent, striving to maintain a facade of composure.

"Madam! Please, you must remain calm!"

Saif spread his hands, making a pacifying gesture, "My soldiers are fighting hard! Bleeding! The Sahara is not London's park! The environment is extremely harsh! You've seen it too, the sandstorm! The damn sandstorm interfered with satellites, disrupted communications, even made camels unable to open their eyes! Haftar is finished! He's like a legless sand fox, so what if that mercenary has some ability, dragging him back to Northern Darfur, then what? What is there but sand, rocks, and a few half-dead palm trees? A desolate place! Not even robbers want to go! Why should we waste precious troops, fuel, and soldiers' lives, endlessly chasing a trivial mercenary across the desert? The priority is to consolidate control over Desert City, stabilize the nationwide situation, that's in our mutual interest..."

"Trivial?! Haftar is finished?!"

M lady let out an extremely sharp, cold laugh, like an icy blade scraping across glass, plunging the command center's temperature below zero.

"Idiot! Open your eyes and look at the map! Haftar, as long as he has a breath left, as long as he has a mad dog like Song Heping to bite for him, he's not finished! He is a banner! A banner that will gather all the scum dissatisfied with us, with you, Saif! Song Heping must die! Immediately! Right now! In the Libyan desert! Turn him into a corpse ravaged by vultures! I will not allow him to live, not even to take another breath, nor one step into Northern Darfur!"

She was almost roaring, every syllable filled with an unyielding intent to kill and undeniable authority.

Sayif's brow was tightly knitted into a knot, his face full of absurdity and impatience, even carrying a trace of imperceptible contempt.

"Lady! If this target is truly so important, so crucial to the big picture, then why not use more direct, more effective means? Why not ask our powerful ally? The Americans! Their air base is just across the Mediterranean!"

"Their 'Predator', 'Grim Reaper' drones are circling in the clouds! Just one precise strike! One 'Hellfire' missile! It would completely wipe out Haftar and that Song Heping, along with their hiding sand dune, from this world! Clean and swift! Without a sound! Why let my boys, with their flesh and blood, fill that damned bottomless pit in the depths of the desert?! The cost is too great!"

"The Americans?!"

M's muscles twitched violently for a moment, that word like a red-hot iron, scorching her most sensitive nerves.

In an instant, the image of those suit-wearing guys at the Langley Headquarters CIA vividly appeared in her mind.

Damn Song Heping!

He used the information from previous cooperation with herself to plant that thorn of suspicion and mutual recrimination between her and CIA Director Vincent, now exuding a deadly stench!

The CIA not only refused to provide any satellite intelligence support, closed all sharing channels, probably now leisurely sitting in front of their screens, watching the British in distress, praying they'd fall harder so they could seize the opportunity to nibble at Britain's faltering share in Africa, especially the North African oil interests chain!

An indescribable mix of enormous anger and deeper, more humiliating impotence suddenly gripped M's heart, making it almost impossible for her to breathe.

It was as if the empty Portsmouth Military Port of the Royal Navy flashed before her eyes, that decommissioned and stored, like a giant steel tomb, "Excellence" aircraft carrier; echoing in her ears the BAE Systems F-35 project manager's repetitive and apologetic briefings on delayed deliveries...

The once global, so-called sun-never-sets Union Jack, now only barely maintains its illusory influence on intelligence maps and some unspeakable secret deals.

Without America's aerial iron fist, without that global satellite network and instant strike capability, the once-Great Britain now appears so outwardly strong yet weak within, as fragile as a faded old illusion.

But she absolutely cannot, absolutely cannot show the slightest sign of weakness in front of Sayif, this desert emperor.

"The Americans?"

M forced herself to suppress the turmoil, her jawline taut as a blade's edge, her voice suddenly raised, carrying an undeniable, almost domineering pressure, like an ice pick directly stabbing at Sayif in the holographic image.

"Don't talk to me about the Americans! This is your war! Sayif! This is the decisive battle on whether you can truly take that position and become the only legitimate ruler of this country! Listen carefully to my words!"

She took a step forward, her shadow nearly covering Sayif's image, her eyes sharp as a scalpel, as if able to penetrate the virtual signal and directly gouge out the opponent's heart.

"Mobilize all your troops! All of them! Deploy your elite guards around the Desert City, bring out your reserve brigade hidden in the western oasis, and all those still-watching tribal armed forces! Cast them into the southern desert like a net! Chase them! Bite them! Trap them! Then, kill them!"

Each command was decisive, unquestionable, "At all costs! I want Song Heping's corpse! Today! Right now! Immediately!"

She paused for a second, the threat contained in that brief silence more suffocating than any roar, the air seemed to solidify into a solid.

"If you can't do it, Sayif..."

M's voice turned cold, like the Siberian wind.

"You think capturing the Desert City, driving out Haftar means you can sleep peacefully? You think those other tribal chieftains, warlord leaders will really bow to you? Without my Great Britain casting supportive votes at the UN, without us negotiating loans for you at the International Monetary Fund, without our intelligence network clearing your political enemies... You're nothing, Sayif! Just a desert bandit leader with an AK and a few oil wells! Remember!"

Her mouth curled into a cruel smile, "I can lift you up, and I can make you fall to pieces! And, I will find willing collaborators, many, many! They would be very, very happy to see the GNA and you, Sayif, relabeled as 'illegal armed forces', 'terrorist organization', then crushed completely! Do you understand?!"

The command center plunged into absolute silence, even the low humming of equipment seemed to disappear.

On the screen, Sayif's deeply-lined face turned completely dark, like the desert sky before a storm.

The last trace of hesitation and reluctance in his eyes was replaced by cold calculation and intense apprehension.

A few seconds, as long as a century.

Finally, he nodded slowly, extremely difficult, his lips moving, his voice dry and heavy, as if consuming all his strength for every word:

"...Understood, lady. I will personally lead the team. All GNA forces will devour them like marching ants in the desert, leaving nothing but bone crumbs."

The holographic image flickered for a moment, then vanished.

M still stared at the now-extinguished screen, her lips coldly squeezing out a sentence——

"Track every movement of the GNA forces."

She spoke again, her voice returning to its usual icy tone, yet carrying a metallic scraping texture, clearly issuing the order.

"Mobilize all available resources, all resources to focus on the southern Libyan desert. I want to know Song Heping's every move, every breath's location."

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by lotustale.com