152: Chapter 152 My Lord, Times Have Changed

The Arizona sun was like a crazed welder, trying to melt every inch of sand at the Yuma Proving Ground.

The air was distorted, and the targets in the distance shimmered in the heat waves like ghostly apparitions in a mirage.

The viewing stand was filled with people carrying stars on their shoulders.

The air conditioning was turned to the max, but that dry heat still seeped in through the gaps in the bulletproof glass, mixed with the scent of cigars and chilled whiskey.

"This hellish weather."

Robert Rockefeller unbuttoned the top button of his suit, but there wasn't a hint of irritation on his face.

He swirled half a glass of ice water in his hand, his gaze sweeping back and forth between Chen Mo and the Guardian tank phalanx in the distance, as if he were sizing up a little insect about to be crushed into pulp by tank treads.

"Mr. Chen, if you aren't accustomed to the desert climate, I can have someone prepare some Huoxiang Zhengqi water for you."

Robert leaned forward and lowered his voice, "I heard you Chinese people believe in this."

Chen Mo sat in the command seat and ignored him.

He was looking at the preparation area below through the one-way glass.

Six Guardian heavy tanks were arranged in a wedge formation; the oppressive feeling unique to those steel behemoths made the ground tremble even from hundreds of meters away.

As for his Legacy Defense side, there were only two modified Humvee military transport vehicles, with dozens of black engineering plastic boxes piled in the cargo beds.

It looked like a delivery courier had run into a demolition crew.

"The test rules have changed."

The chief referee's voice suddenly came over the loudspeaker.

It was one of General McCarthy's aides, who was holding a freshly printed document, not even looking at Chen Mo's side, just reading mechanically.

"Considering airspace control in actual combat environments, for this confrontation test, drone flight altitude must not exceed 300 meters."

The tablet in Ava's hand nearly fell to the ground.

"300 meters?" She stood up abruptly, her high heels clicking sharply on the floor.

"That is the absolute kill zone for heavy machine guns and close-in weapon systems! You're sending these drones to their deaths!"

At an altitude of 300 meters, for the remote weapon stations on top of the tanks, it was like shoving a target right into the muzzle.

Robert shrugged, looking innocent: "This is the military's decision, Ava. After all, on the battlefield, the enemy won't leave the airspace open for you."

The generals in the stands talked in low voices; no one felt there was anything wrong with this.

Or rather, no one was willing to offend Rockefeller and Ares Industries for the sake of an obscure defense company.

Ava was about to argue further when a hand pressed down on her shoulder.

"Sit down." Chen Mo's voice was flat, revealing no joy or anger.

"But..."

"The customer is always right." Chen Mo pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and tapped it against the back of his hand.

"Since they want to see low-altitude penetration, then we'll perform it for them."

He turned around and looked at the console behind him.

Twelve operators were sitting in front of the display screens.

These people were all veterans selected from the Legacy Defense First Field Regiment; their fingers were rough, and their eyes were bloodshot from staring at the screens for a long time.

The moment Chen Mo's gaze swept over them, that familiar force field, which the system called [Cornerstone of Empire], silently unfolded.

There were no light effects, no sound.

But the spines of those twelve operators visibly stiffened.

Their breathing, which had been somewhat rapid due to the high temperature and pressure, instantly steadied; that aura belonging to veterans, mixed with fanaticism and absolute obedience, caused the atmosphere inside the command vehicle to tighten suddenly.

"Boss, Group A is in position." The operations leader pressed his headset, his voice like metal rubbing against metal, "Ready for takeoff at any time."

Chen Mo held the cigarette in his mouth without lighting it. He looked through the glass at that row of expensive steel monsters in the distance.

"Since Mr. Robert wants to see fireworks." Chen Mo's fingers tapped lightly on the desktop.

"Then don't let him be disappointed. Disengage the firelocks and initiate Plan B."

"Understood."

On the proving ground below, the chief referee waved his flag down.

The roar instantly tore through the silence of the desert.

The six Guardian tanks started simultaneously, their treads churning up clouds of yellow sand as they advanced toward the target area like a moving wall.

The turrets rotated, and the pitch-black muzzles and the automatic weapon stations on top pointed toward the sky, weaving an airtight web of fire.

"This is the power of industry." Robert took a sip of ice water and leaned back comfortably in his chair, "Chen, where are those plastic toys of yours? Did they melt from the heat?"

Chen Mo didn't speak. He just pointed at the screen.

On the screen, the cargo beds of those two Humvees suddenly popped open.

Instead of taking off by taxiing like conventional drones, there was a series of muffled ejection sounds.

Dozens of black cylinders were ejected into mid-air by high-pressure gas, and immediately after, folding rotors deployed, and the motors emitted that teeth-grinding, high-frequency buzzing sound.

Not one, not two.

It was a full one hundred and twenty.

They didn't fly into the high altitude; instead, like a swarm of black hornets whose nest had been poked, they skimmed the surface of the undulating sand dunes, advancing at high speed.

"This noise is annoying." Robert frowned.

The tank phalanx had obviously discovered the targets as well.

The 30mm automatic cannons began to roar, and tracer rounds drew whips of fire across the low altitude.

The sand dunes were blasted into a cloud of dust, and a few drones were instantly blown to pieces.

"See that?" Robert laughed out loud, pointing at the battlefield.

"300 meters? They can't even fly 500 meters! In front of an armored cluster, this thing is a joke!"

The generals in the stands also began to shake their heads.

In their traditional view, low-speed aircraft without air superiority were just sitting ducks.

Chen Mo remained seated, his fingers rhythmically tapping that unlit cigarette.

"Scatter."

He said two words into the microphone.

On the screen, the originally dense swarm suddenly exploded outward.

They no longer maintained formation but instead used every blind spot in the terrain—the leeward side of sand dunes, dried-up riverbed gullies, and even the dust kicked up by the tanks—to maneuver.

One hundred and twenty targets turned into chaotic, disorganized snowflakes on the radar screen.

The Guardian tanks' fire-control radars were sounding alarms frantically, and the turrets began to rotate wildly.

It didn't know which one to lock onto.

The barrels of the automatic weapon stations turned glowing red, but those black "hornets" were too small, too fast, and too agile.

300 meters?

No, their altitude was now only three meters.

"That is..." General McCarthy suddenly stood up from his seat, the binoculars in his hand pressed tightly against his eye sockets.

That swarm of drones didn't crash into the tanks' armor like suicide bombs.

They bypassed the heavy frontal armor and, like some creature with a collective consciousness, swarmed the tanks' "eyes" with clear division of labor.

Commander's panoramic sight, gunner's sight, crosswind sensor, laser warning receiver.

"Szzzz—"

The smile on Robert's face vanished instantly.

On the big screen, the view from the number one tank suddenly turned into a screen of static.

Followed by number two, number three.

Those drones weren't carrying armor-piercing warheads.

Their bellies were loaded with high-viscosity graphite conductive paint and directional micro-detonation cords.

One "hornet" smashed the commander's sight.

Two "hornets" plastered over the driver's periscope.

Three "hornets" dove into the engine intake grille and detonated the high-energy thermite inside.

"Those are my tanks!" Robert lunged at the glass, his voice changing pitch, "Fire! Shoot them down!"

The tanks were still firing, but it was blind fire.

Having lost their observation and aiming systems, the Guardians were like rhinoceroses with their eyes gouged out, charging around blindly in the desert.

The number four tank even crashed into the rear of the number five tank in the panic, their treads tangling together and emitting a harsh sound of twisting metal.

The buzzing sound grew louder and louder, finally converging into a low-frequency vibration that made one's scalp tingle.

The remaining dozens of drones didn't continue to attack but instead hovered above the paralyzed tank group, like some form of silent mockery.

They turned on the laser designators on their bellies, and dozens of red dots landed densely on the top cover armor of the tanks.

That was the weakest part of the tank.

If these drones were carrying top-attack munitions...

The proving ground was deathly silent. Only the roar of idling engines echoed.

Chen Mo stuffed the crushed cigarette back into the pack, stood up, and straightened his suit, which didn't have a single wrinkle.

He walked behind the ashen-faced Robert, just as he would at a banquet, and reached out to brush the dust off the shoulder of this Rockefeller Family elite.

"Mr. Robert."

Chen Mo's voice was exceptionally clear in the deathly silent observation room.

"The cost of a Guardian tank is eight million dollars; plus crew training and logistics, it exceeds fifteen million."

He pointed at those hovering black dots on the screen.

"And that Wraith, including the explosives inside, costs less than five hundred dollars."

Robert turned his head stiffly, his eyes bloodshot as if they were about to bleed.

"You... you cheated! You attacked non-lethal parts! This doesn't conform to the confrontation rules!"

"Rules?"

Chen Mo smiled. He smiled lightly, but there wasn't a hint of warmth in his eyes, only bone-chilling coldness.

"The only rule on the battlefield is to win. Your tanks are blind, Robert. Before they fix their eyes, I could throw a bomb into the commander's crotch, or..."

Chen Mo turned around to face the generals, who all wore different expressions.

"Or use the remaining hundreds to blow every supply convoy within a ten-kilometer radius to hell."

He spread his hands in a gesture of embracing.

"Five million for five hundred. That is the new math problem."

Chen Mo leaned forward slightly, staring into Robert's fear-filled eyes, and said word by word:

"Times have changed, Sir."

General McCarthy slowly sat back in his chair, not even noticing when the cigar in his hand had gone out.

He looked at the young Easterner, as if seeing this guy who started out by collecting corpses for the first time.

"This kind of tactic..." the general muttered to himself, "what is it called?"

"Swarm." Chen Mo answered.

Just then, the side door of the observation room opened.

An old man dressed in gray casual clothes walked in. He wore no rank insignia, not even a name tag.

But the moment he appeared, all the officers, including General McCarthy, subconsciously straightened their backs.

The old man had a full head of silver hair, and the wrinkles on his face were like canyons carved by a knife—the marks of long-term immersion in the core of power and conspiracy.

He walked straight through the crowd, ignoring the still-roaring Robert, and stopped in front of Chen Mo.

The old man's gaze was sharp, as if he were examining a newly unearthed murder weapon.

"This thing."

The old man pointed at the drones hovering on the screen, his voice raspy, carrying the grainy texture of someone who had smoked low-quality tobacco for years.

"If you replaced the explosives with that thing with the poison needle..."

The old man lifted his eyelids, and a cold light flashed in his cloudy gray eyes.

"Could it bypass a blast wall and kill the person behind the bunker?"