459: Chapter 459 I am that person

Old K added from the other side of the channel, "President—do Night Owl's people need to install trackers on the 'Ocean Harvest' in advance?"

"No need. It's a Panamanian-registered merchant ship; there must be CIA field agents mixed in on board. If you install a tracker, they'll find it. It's unnecessary—'Vega' provides seamless coverage, from the surveillance at Kuala Lumpur port to the cameras at the entrance of the UMNO Youth warehouse. I'll know where every single javelin is, from the crate to the shooter's hands."

He stood up and walked to the situation map, tapping his finger on the countdown—the ticking numbers had just passed 38 seconds.

"Forty-eight hours. Rashid Hassan believes this is the time he has to secure American intervention. What he doesn't know is—this is also the final chance for peace I'm giving him. If he doesn't cherish it—then I'll use his ending to tell everyone."

Zhao Yuxun asked on the channel, "Everyone involved in the coup?"

"Everyone."

Zhang Cheng turned around, his voice suddenly dropping, so soft it sounded like it was leaking through the gaps in his teeth.

"'Don't look up at the planes—because it's not the planes that drop the bombs, it's people.' That's what an old woman in Penang said this afternoon. I've learned it once. Rashid Hassan—now you listen to it a second time."

He paused. The countdown on the situation map was still ticking. 47:48:01.

"I am that person."

Countdown 42:17:03.

The swamps on the east bank of the Johor Strait—the fourteen members of Night Owl's "Shadow Blade" 3rd squad waded ashore. Optical camouflage cut fourteen transparent, humanoid ripples across the water's surface. The "Shadow Dancer-3" individual combat systems were completely distorted under thermal imaging and low-light night vision. A Malaysian Coast Guard patrol boat passed by 300 meters away; its ship-borne infrared detector swept across the marshland, but "Vega-3" had overlaid a layer of false heat source signals on their screen. The operator yawned and logged in the journal: 23:44, Zone C-7, no anomalies.

Night Owl said on the channel: "Johor Strait Bridge, Group A in position. There are twenty-three defenders on the bridge, with three general-purpose machine guns mounted in the bridgehead bunker. Two duty officers—both are playing cards on the second floor. The wind is blowing from the direction of the bridgehead—instant Nescafe, the three-in-one kind. The water for their coffee hasn't boiled yet; I can hear the electric kettle humming."

Old K's voice cut in from the Naypyidaw command center: "What about the Sultan Iskandar Building?"

"Group B is still climbing. The pipe shaft—the building's central air conditioning ventilation system. Two people, one above the other. The one on top is using a silent cutter to cut through the aluminum grille; he's been cutting for seven minutes—he can't go fast, the security guard is smoking in the hallway, and the smell of smoke is drifting in. The one below is supporting him, has been supporting him for seven minutes."

"What floor have you reached?"

"The twelfth floor—the communication relay station. The core node of the Malaysian military's Johor command chain. 'Vega' suppressed their wireless communications earlier, so they are using the wired network—the building's basement level three houses the old server room, fiber optic cables run up from the elevator shaft, and the twelfth floor is where the distribution box is located. My people installed a signal interceptor next to the distribution box. Now, the entire Johor garrison's encrypted communications—are all in my earpiece."

"What are you hearing in your earpiece?"

Night Owl was silent for two seconds. "They are still waiting for the reinforcement order from Kuala Lumpur. The two thousand reservists Jamaluddin promised—only four hundred and twenty have arrived so far. The rest are stuck on the North-South Expressway. It's not a military blockade—it's a traffic jam. After Rashid Hassan announced the mobilization, the highway from Kuala Lumpur to Johor was completely choked by private cars. They are all Chinese—they are driving and taking their elderly and children to flee towards Singapore. The speed is twenty kilometers per hour, and the traffic jam stretches for seventy kilometers. The troop transport trucks are sandwiched in the convoy; blaring sirens is useless."

"A refugee wave," Old K said.

"Not a refugee wave. It's a choice." Zhang Cheng's voice cut into the channel. He was still in front of the situation map, holding a freshly poured cup of hot tea. "They believe Singapore is safer than Malaysia. This isn't about being afraid of death—this is about having lost the last shred of trust in the country of Malaysia."

Countdown 41:55:11.

Betong-Pengkalan Hulu border crossing, Thai-Malaysian border.

Zhao Yuxun stood in the Titan Division's temporary command post—a field tent propped up with camouflage netting, set up in a rubber plantation. It was drizzling outside, as fine as mist. Rainwater that had accumulated on the rubber leaves all night dripped down, hitting the camouflage netting—put, put, put, blending with the low-frequency humming of the diesel generator.

The Titan Division's M1A3 main battle tanks had completed their combat deployment. Ninety-six tanks, divided into four battalions, were spread out along the border line across a ten-kilometer offensive front. Each tank was equipped with reactive armor blocks, and an active protection system was mounted on top of the turret. The crew members were doing their final engine warm-ups amidst the humming of the idling engines. The hot air spewing from the exhaust pipes baked a layer of moisture onto the rubber tree trunks behind them.

Zhao Yuxun climbed out of the command vehicle, stood in the rain, and scanned the front line with night vision goggles. On the Malaysian side of the border fence, green lights were shining—those were the duty lights of the Malaysian Border Regiment's 8th Battalion. A green light every fifty meters, blurring in the rain and mist, looking like a string of faint ghost fires.

He called over the direct fire coordinator.

"Have the first-round strike targets been verified?"

"Verification complete. Three Malaysian forward radar stations—all are old model PS-70s, with a peak power of 40 million watts, capable of identifying the electromagnetic signatures of our armored clusters. Two artillery positions—twelve Soviet-made D-30 howitzers, with a range covering the Betong-Pengkalan Hulu crossing. One ammunition depot—in the upstream valley, concrete-reinforced, with two meters of soil covering the top. The air defense command center is in the suburbs of Alor Setar—that building houses the Malaysian Air Force's full-area air defense radar control console."

"How much can Vega suppress?"

"All of them. From the moment the Titan Division launches the assault, all radar screens will be locked in training mode—the antennas will be turning, signals will be transmitting, but the screens will not display any real targets. What they will see—will be a clear night sky."

Zhao Yuxun returned the night vision goggles to the communications soldier and looked down at the tactical tablet on his wrist. The countdown was still ticking: 41:37:28.

"Notify all battalion and company-level commanders. First, first-wave fire: PHL-191 guided rockets will hit the radar stations first, then J-10B will suppress the air defense systems, and finally, the Titan Division will launch the assault. The time difference must be controlled within forty-five seconds—the moment the radar stations go blind, their artillery won't have time to react, and we will roll over them. Second, if you encounter surrendering Malaysian troops—detain them immediately, do not search them, provide water and food. Third, if you encounter UMNO Youth militants—kill them on sight, no need to ask for instructions. Fourth, before entering any Chinese community, an embedded ethnic Chinese liaison officer must enter first, and troops are only allowed to approach after they have called out to confirm it is safe."