329: Chapter 329 The Truth of 1200 Kilometers

"Fine. I'll let you see if our weapons work or not."

The large screen on the wall lit up.

The footage was captured from a high-altitude reconnaissance drone. Below the clouds, the surface of the Red Sea shimmered, with six warships arranged in a standard carrier strike group formation. Houssa pressed the play button; the timestamp indicated this was a few months ago—the very day the Persian representatives were still agonizing over how much 'symbolic aid' to provide to Yemen.

In the video, two anti-ship ballistic missiles rose from the Yemeni coast almost simultaneously. Trailing white wakes, they climbed to the edge of the atmosphere before veering downward, their speed skyrocketing.

The playback frame rate for the terminal phase of the missiles was slowed down tenfold. The high-altitude camera captured every detail: warhead separation, the release of decoys, and multiple reentry vehicles smashing toward the sea at speeds exceeding Mach 10. Interceptor missiles rose—several SM-3 missiles popped from the vertical launch cells of the destroyers, climbing in vain as all interception points missed.

One of the reentry vehicles slammed directly behind the bridge of an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. A fireball from the explosion engulfed half the hull, with black smoke billowing out. Another pierced the engine room of a second destroyer at a near-vertical angle.

Two bursts of blazing fire were followed by floating wreckage.

The video ended, the screen freezing on burning oil slicks and a tilted antenna mast.

The reception room fell silent for three or four seconds. The polite smile on Rezai's face had completely vanished. His fingers unconsciously gripped the armrests of his leather chair, and his pupils contracted slightly. The bodyguards behind him also forgot to maintain their expressionless facades; one of them swallowed hard.

Houssa placed the remote back on the table.

"Sinking distance, approximately 1,200 kilometers." He picked up a fragment of a missile tail fin and weighed it in his hand. "How far do you think this thing can reach?"

Rezai did not answer. But in his mind, he had already performed the calculation—from the Yemeni coast to any naval anchorage within the Persian Gulf, everything was within range.

"We didn't buy it from Tehran." Houssa gently placed the fragment back onto the nautical chart, creating a crisp metallic clink. "We didn't buy it from Moscow, either. And of course, we couldn't build it ourselves. But the source is reliable, the performance is stable, and—it didn't come alone."

He stood up, walked to the tactical table, and tapped the coastal area on the chart marked with multiple missile launch sites with the back of his hand. "You should have already seen our coastal battery positions at the Bab el-Mandeb Strait from your satellites. But I can tell you a detail you might not have noticed yet—not a single one of those positions is empty. Every launcher, every guidance radar, has enough spare ammunition and fuel for sustained operations. This system isn't a one-time deterrent."

Rezai took off his glasses and slowly wiped them with his cuff. His movements appeared composed, but the trembling of his fingers did not escape Houssa's eyes.

"Mr. President," he said, putting his glasses back on, his voice sounding drier than before, "this indeed exceeds our expectations."

"I know." Houssa spread his hands. "So now we shouldn't beat around the bush any longer and instead talk about what's useful."

Rezai took a deep breath and adjusted his posture.

"Tehran is willing to provide the following substantive support: regarding missile technology, we can transfer some production technology for the Shahab-3 medium-range missile and assist your country with local assembly. Regarding drones, we can provide the full production line for the 'Shahed' series, including airframe manufacturing and engine packaging. Regarding intelligence, our intelligence network along the coast of the Gulf of Aden has been operational for over ten years and can share information with your military."

After speaking, he took a densely packed list from his briefcase and pushed it toward Houssa. The top of the page was marked 'Top Secret - Controlled Distribution - For In-Person Viewing Only.'

"As you can see, these are not empty promises." Rezai's voice regained its steadiness. "But in exchange, we need a clear and definite answer."

He stared intently into Houssa's eyes.

"Mr. President. Who is behind you?"

The veil was finally torn away.

The silence in the room lasted longer than it had after the video ended. Masoudi stood by the side door of the parlor, his whole body tensed. He noticed that two guards from the Republican Guard had already placed their fingers on the grips of their guns.

Houssa, however, did not get angry.

He just stood there, eyes slightly lowered, as if considering something. Then he looked up and laughed. It wasn't the calculated smile of a diplomatic setting, but a laugh containing a certain unspoken understanding.

"You saw what happened to those two destroyers." Houssa slowly paced back to the head seat and sat down again. "If I told you the source now, you'd think I was boasting. But you can concoct whatever guess you find most plausible and write it into your report to tell your superiors in Tehran—'Yemen possesses some kind of uninterceptable anti-ship weapon.' As for who exactly provided it, that's not important."

He paused, then changed the subject.

"What's important is that our missiles can hit 1,200 kilometers, and yours can hit 2,000. We can hold the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, and you have your own troubles in the Persian Gulf. We can launch a surprise attack on Riyadh tomorrow; can you increase your troop presence to pin down the 73rd Armored Division the day after?"

Rezai was stunned. He was used to negotiating with various Middle Eastern proxies—local armed groups that needed his guidance, his funding, and his weapon quotas just to barely get things done. But Houssa did not fit that mold. The implication of his words was clear: I'm not asking for your permission. If you give, we both win; if you don't, I can still fight on my own. But when you run into trouble tomorrow, don't expect me to relieve the pressure for you.

Silence lingered for a few seconds.

Then Rezai suddenly relaxed. He pushed the list of densely packed conditions toward Houssa. "Mr. President, you don't need to convince me. This list itself is the manifestation of Tehran's greatest sincerity. To be honest, before I flew here, I was still hesitating over whether we were giving too much. Now, my doubts have vanished."

He took a backup hard drive from his briefcase and pushed it toward Houssa. "Inside are some technical documents for the missile guidance system and drone assembly manuals. Subsequent deliveries will arrive in batches through secret channels across the Persian Gulf. Handover details and maritime routes will be coordinated by specialized personnel later."

Houssa picked up the hard drive, weighed it in his hand, and handed it to his adjutant.

"Thank Tehran for their sincerity on my behalf. We will use these materials to do things that even your high-level leadership wouldn't imagine." He then signaled the adjutant to put away the hard drive. "By the way—regarding Gaza, you don't need to worry about our contact anymore. Our communication lines aren't the kind you understand."

Rezai nodded, understanding the implication. This time, he didn't raise any doubts.

Naypyidaw, early morning.

Zhang Cheng stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, holding his third cup of strong coffee of the night. Outside, the night view of the Irrawaddy River was as dark as ink, with the scattered lights from the direction of Yangon reflecting on the water, stretching into long golden ripples. Old K's voice in his headset was calm and clear.