465: Chapter 465 Thermobaric Bomb Locks On, Commander's Feet Are Tied Up

The fire support coordinator handed over the tablet—encrypted communications intercepted by Vega-3 indicated that Gray Wolf Team B was at a palm oil processing plant seven kilometers across the river. On the thermal imaging map, the four oil storage tanks were full, and twelve anti-tank firing positions were hidden between the tanks. The signal characteristics were identical to the terminal intercepted in Alor Setar three days ago.

Zhao Yuxun turned the thermal imager toward the processing plant. The heat signatures of the storage tanks were stable. People were crouching in the shadows between the tanks, and overhead was the steel-framed roof of the pressing workshop, covered with a layer of camouflage netting. Two javelin anti-tank missile launchers were mounted on the roof.

"They chose a good spot," Zhao Yuxun said.

The storage tanks blocked the direct line of fire for the tank guns. Piercing the tanks would detonate the entire facility, and the shockwave would overturn any armored vehicle that approached. This position wasn't set up by Malaysians—it was set up by people who had actually fought in wars.

He handed the tablet back to the fire support coordinator and picked up the microphone for the encrypted channel.

"All tank units—cease advance. Fall back five hundred meters to the north end of the Perak River Bridge and assume a defensive formation. Fire support team, mark the coordinates of the processing plant. I want drones, not artillery shells."

Seventeen seconds after the order was given, all thirty-two M1A3s of the vanguard armored battalion ceased their advance. The tanks spread out at the edge of the rubber plantation, their hulls concealed in the shadows of the rubber trees, with their barrels all pointed toward the processing plant. The low-frequency vibration of the idling engines shook the rainwater off the rubber tree leaves; the droplets hit the tank armor and evaporated instantly.

Zhao Yuxun jumped down from the turret, walked into the command vehicle, and closed the door.

The air conditioning in the command vehicle was turned to the maximum, but there was still a scorched smell in the air—it wasn't drifting in from outside; it was coming from the collar of his own combat uniform.

"Vega, pull up all heat source signals around the processing plant," he said, sitting on a folding chair and resting the tablet on his knees.

Real-time thermal imaging of the processing plant area popped up on the screen. Vega-3's algorithm had automatically marked seventeen suspected targets: twelve fixed heat sources behind the blast walls between the storage tanks, distributed across six javelin anti-tank missile firing positions; two on the roof; and one on the second floor of the pressing workshop. That heat source signal was the most stable, motionless, sitting in front of a piece of equipment that was continuously generating heat.

"That's the communication terminal," the fire support coordinator pointed to the heat source on the second floor. "Gray Wolf is using an encrypted channel."

Zhao Yuxun didn't speak. He entered the coordinates of the heat source on the second floor into the mission computer of the strike-reconnaissance drone and selected "thermobaric bomb" in the ammunition type options. A window popped up in the system—the target was 4.7 meters away from the oil storage tanks; the high-temperature effect of the thermobaric bomb would detonate the diesel storage tanks, with a sympathetic detonation radius of five hundred meters.

He clicked "Confirm."

On the second floor of the processing plant.

Retired U.S. Army Sergeant Major Dwight Mosley sat in front of the control console in the pressing workshop, his fingers typing rapidly on the laptop keyboard. The "Rangers" patch on his shoulder was worn white, and pinned to the tactical vest on his chest was a temporary officer ID card for the Malaysian 12th Reserve Division—the rank printed was "Colonel," and the name was "Abdullah."

Mosley was writing a battlefield situation report. The recipient was the CIA Directorate of Operations in Langley, with a copy to U.S. Central Command. He wrote concisely: "Perak River defensive line established. Myanmar Army armored cluster has paused its advance. javelin teams are in position, storage tanks providing protection. Expected to delay enemy forces for twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

He clicked send, turned his head, and shouted to the javelin gunner crouching behind the blast wall: "Don't poke your head up—they're searching with thermal imaging."

The javelin gunner was a young sergeant with his helmet pulled low and black and green camouflage paint on his face. He knelt on one knee behind the storage tank base, carrying the javelin missile launcher on his shoulder, his eye pressed against the sight, and his finger resting on the launch button.

"I see three of them—" the sergeant had just begun to say.

The observation post on the roof interrupted him: "Drone! Due north, twelve hundred meters!"

The sergeant immediately locked onto the target—a drone was flying in at low altitude from the north, not fast, at an altitude of less than two hundred meters. The javelin's locking system emitted a buzzing sound, indicating that the infrared seeker had captured the heat signature of the target.

"Fire—"

The missile left the launch tube, trailing a white plume as it rushed toward the drone. After flying for eleven seconds, the javelin's infrared seeker locked onto the heat exhausted by the drone's engine, and the warhead detonated one meter behind the drone.

As the drone fell, Mosley saw a second one on his laptop screen. Then a third, and a fourth. Four strike-reconnaissance drones flew toward the processing plant from four directions simultaneously, their altitude dropping from two hundred meters to sixty meters—when flying low enough, the heat source characteristics were submerged by the thermal background of the storage tanks, and the javelin's infrared seeker couldn't distinguish them.

"Damn it," Mosley turned the computer screen around.

On the enhanced image from Vega-3, the four drones appeared as four green triangles, with the type of carried ammunition noted under each triangle—the first three were GBU-44/B "Viper Strike" laser-guided munitions, and the fourth was a thermobaric bomb.

"Blast wall—" he roared into the walkie-talkie, half finished.

The first Viper Strike pierced through the roof.

Mosley heard the sound of the steel frame overhead tearing—and then the whole world turned orange. The speed of the oil dust explosion was faster than the shockwave; before the fireball sprayed out of the windows of the pressing workshop, it swallowed the three javelin firing positions behind the blast wall.

The sergeant was crouching behind the storage tank base; the shockwave slammed his helmet against the concrete wall. He couldn't hear anything anymore. The javelin launcher slid off his shoulder and crashed into the drainage ditch beside his feet. The standing water in the drainage ditch reflected the firelight from above—the roof of the pressing workshop was being torn open from the middle by the second bomb.

Mosley was knocked over from the control console by the shockwave, his back slamming into the conveyor belt steel chain, sending a numbness through his spine. He scrambled up and ran, passing through the side door of the oil pressing workshop and running toward the storage tank area—he knew the storage tanks were the only cover, and he also knew they would be a fundamental trap. But he had no other way.

The laser seeker of the third drone locked onto an ammunition crate at a javelin firing position behind the blast wall. Inside the crate were four javelin missiles waiting to be fired, and the lid was open. The laser-guided bomb dove into the open lid of the ammunition crate, detonating the solid fuel propellant of all four missiles.

At the moment of the explosion, the entire palm oil processing plant was illuminated as if it were daylight. The high temperature of the burning propellant exceeded three thousand degrees, enough to instantly evaporate the cement insulation layer on the outer surface of the storage tanks. The diesel liquid levels in the four storage tanks reached their ignition point in the same second. The top of the first storage tank was blown off by internal pressure, like a coin flicked into the air by a thumb.

When Mosley ran to the storage tank area, he saw the fourth drone.

It hadn't dropped its bomb. It was circling. The thermobaric bomb it carried needed a larger target.

At the last moment, he changed direction and ran out of the back door of the processing plant, but he knew it was already too late. It wasn't because he couldn't outrun the shockwave; it was because he saw two hoses falling from the stairwell—they were the compressed air hoses he had missed when he turned to run, which originally led to the terminal on the control console that he had already cut communications with. It wasn't finished yet. It swung back limply with residual pressure, just happening to snag the anti-slip tread on the heel of his right boot.