466: Chapter 466 Diplomatic Passports Invalidated on the Spot

As he lowered his head to pull the tube, the fourth drone dropped a thermobaric bomb.

The warhead smashed through the steel walkway above the oil storage tank area, and the warhead detonated three meters above the ground.

The first stage of the thermobaric bomb's explosion released a mixture of ethylene oxide and aluminum powder, forming an aerosol cloud.

The second stage detonation was delayed by 0.13 seconds—a pre-designed delay to allow the aerosol cloud sufficient time to disperse.

Then, it ignited the entire cloud.

The fireball did not burn from the outside in. It exploded from the inside out.

The oxygen within the processing plant area was instantly consumed.

Air pressure crushed inward, collapsing the steel roof of the pressing workshop, flattening the sandbags behind the blast walls, and caving in the walls of the four oil tanks.

Then the fireball expanded, and the reverse shockwave pushed all the debris out of the plant area.

Mosley's body was thrown by the blast wave over the rear wall of the processing plant and crashed into the palm forest outside.

When he landed, his left leg fractured, and the broken bone pierced through his skin.

He didn't scream; he dug into the soil and, due to the excruciating pain, temporarily buried himself in a numb silence.

Then he pushed off the ground with his right leg, rolled over onto his back, and watched the fireball of the processing plant rise into mid-air, illuminating the entire Perak River valley.

When the fireball reached its peak, the U.S. Central Command received the final report he had sent three minutes earlier: "Able to delay enemy forces for twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

Zhao Yuxun watched from the command vehicle as the fire at the processing plant turned from orange-red to dark red.

The flames cast a warm hue over the entire tablet screen, yet the expression on his face remained unchanged.

"Processing plant cleared," the fire coordinator reported. "Vega confirmed—all twelve javelin launch positions destroyed, Grey Wolf communication terminal signals lost."

"The remaining Malaysian forces on the south bank of the Perak River are retreating; they no longer have anti-armor capabilities."

Zhao Yuxun nodded and picked up the microphone.

"Titan Division—resume advance. Follow the planned route: detour from the dam on the upper reaches of the Perak River, cross via the dam-top road to reach the south bank, and pincer the remnants of the 12th Reserve Division."

"Artillery battalions deploy in the rubber forest and use M109 howitzers to cover the enemy assembly points on the south bank. Drones will continue to mop up the scattered troops."

He hung up the microphone and flipped the tablet to the southern route situation map.

Kuala Lumpur International Airport.

The thirtieth hour of the war, 1:31 AM.

The lead company of the Myanmar Marine Corps 3rd Battalion had already occupied the airport control tower.

The Malaysian Civil Aviation Authority staff on duty in the control tower's command room were squatting in the corner with their hands behind their heads; their walkie-talkies were piled on the table, all powered off.

The Marine sniper team occupied the radar antenna platform on the top floor of the control tower.

The sniper lay on the edge of the platform, scanning the tarmac with a night-vision scope—seven private planes were parked on the tarmac, two of which had already started their engines, their tailpipes glowing blindingly bright in the night-vision goggles.

"The third one is taxiing," the sniper's spotter reported the target. "Gulfstream GNAA, taxiing out of the VIP hangar, entering Runway E."

The sniper moved the crosshairs onto the cockpit of the Gulfstream G650 and saw the pilot and co-pilot conducting pre-flight checks.

He turned on the tactical camera on his forehead, transmitting the footage in real-time back to the Naypyidaw Command Center.

"Wait," Zhang Cheng's voice came through the earpiece.

The sniper's index finger hovered on the trigger.

"Let them taxi," Zhang Cheng stared at the situation map, his fingers swiping across the holographic screen to zoom in on the Gulfstream G650 on the tarmac. "Where is the end of Runway E?"

"Runway E is 4,124 meters long, and the end is the palm garden outside the airport's eastern fence," Old K replied over the encrypted channel.

"Send an armored vehicle to block the end of Runway E. Let it taxi over—then make it stop."

An amphibious assault vehicle rushed out from the tarmac on the side of the control tower, crossed the grass, and smashed directly through the isolation fence at the end of Runway E.

The assault vehicle spun around on the runway, aiming its 30mm autocannon at the position the Gulfstream G650 was about to reach.

Thirty seconds later, the driver turned on the assault vehicle's external loudspeaker.

"Gulfstream GNAA—stop immediately. Repeat, stop immediately. If you continue to taxi, we will fire warning shots at your engines."

The co-pilot of the plane replied in English over the radio: "We are just technical personnel, there are diplomats on board, we cannot be delayed—"

The sniper fired a shot at the top of the plane's cockpit.

The bullet pierced through the cabin roof skin, punching a bullet hole in the overhead panel between the pilot and co-pilot.

The plane did not lose pressure—it hadn't reached an altitude that required pressurization yet.

When the plane stopped in the middle of the runway, it was still 1,200 meters away from the assault vehicle.

Marine Corps personnel surrounded the plane from both sides. The cabin door was locked from the inside.

A combat engineer used a hydraulic spreader to forcibly pry open the cabin door. When the door was pried open, the pressure relief valve vented a gust of cold air, mixed with the scent of leather and perfume from inside the cabin.

There were four people sitting in the cabin.

Former Deputy Minister of Finance Zainuddin Abdullah sat in a window seat in first class, wearing a neatly pressed gray suit with his tie loosened halfway.

Opposite him sat a woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with a crocodile-skin handbag on her lap. The handbag's zipper was half-open, revealing that it was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.

Zainuddin looked at the Marine's face, his complexion shifting from ashen back to an uneasy composure.

He pulled a diplomatic passport from his inner suit pocket and said in English: "I have immunity. This is a diplomatic passport, protected by the Vienna Convention—"

The Marine didn't take it. He placed the diplomatic passport back on the table and stepped back to let the liaison officer outside the cabin enter.

The liaison officer was in his thirties, wore gold-rimmed glasses, and was holding a tactical scanner in his hand.

"Mr. Zainuddin, you are carrying a diplomatic passport. But according to the customs declaration form, your status is Deputy Minister of Finance of Malaysia—not a diplomat."

"Your diplomatic passport was issued three days ago, issued by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Malaysia, as an emergency special approval."

"The original applicant corresponding to this passport's serial number is a military attaché at the Malaysian Embassy in Morocco—who passed away last week due to a car accident."

The liaison officer placed the scanner on the first-class table. The screen displayed the passport's issuance record and the customs declaration record, side-by-side for comparison.

Zainuddin's temple throbbed, and he gripped the button on his suit cuff tightly.

This was not the method of capture he had anticipated—not guns, but documents.

The liaison officer took a second document from his briefcase. It was an A4-sized photocopy, printed with a technical analysis report of an encrypted hard drive.

The hard drive's serial number, encryption algorithm, and formatting timestamp were all marked with red boxes, and the bottom line read: "Data recovered before formatting; see Attachment A for details."

"This hard drive is yours. It was formatted three times. The third formatting process was remotely interrupted—the interruption command came from Naypyidaw. We have seen what is on the hard drive."

The liaison officer pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, the white light of the cabin ceiling reflecting off the lenses. "Coup funding transfer records. One hundred and twenty-seven offshore accounts. Thirty-nine shell companies."

"Fourteen registered in the Cayman Islands, twelve registered in the British Virgin Islands, three registered in Delaware—that registered address is a pink three-story building commonly used by CIA financial shell companies, zip code 19801."