Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1409 War Legacy
Baghdad's Green Zone.

The line of vehicles entering the checkpoint stretched as far as the eye could see.

A procession of fifty vehicles of various types stretched for half a kilometer outside the green zone, attracting curious yet wary glances from civilians along the roadside.

The convoy included modified civilian trucks, captured military vehicles, and even several BTR armored vehicles borrowed from the 10th Division.

"This is quite a show of force." Jiang Feng glanced at the winding convoy in the rearview mirror, his expression slightly tense. "Isn't it too conspicuous?"

“It’s inevitable to be conspicuous.” Song Heping looked out the window at the high wall that was gradually approaching. “What we are taking over is 2.5 billion worth of arms, not 25 boxes of canned goods. You can’t avoid being conspicuous.”

The convoy slowly came to a stop in front of the checkpoint.

There was a noticeable increase in the number of U.S. soldiers on duty today, and two more officers were on-site to direct operations.

The inspection process was much stricter than before; the cargo box of every vehicle had to be opened for inspection, and the documents of every person had to be checked repeatedly.

"Song, this time the lineup is quite impressive." A familiar voice came from behind.

Song Heping turned his head and saw Lamont walking out of a building next to the checkpoint.

“Remont.” Song Heping got out of the car. “I thought you had already returned to Washington.”

“The mission isn’t completely over yet.” Lymont walked closer, his gaze sweeping over the massive convoy. “I heard you’re going to take over that batch of ’scrap metal.’ Need any help?”

"Help?" Song Heping smiled. "The CIA is now providing transportation services?"

“Provide oversight services.” Lamont smiled, but there was no smile in his eyes: “Some people in Washington are not comfortable with transferring so much equipment at once…it’s easy for ‘accidents’ to happen.”

The two stared at each other for a moment.

The U.S. soldiers around the checkpoint seemed busy, but Song Heping noticed that at least three people kept their attention on this side.

“Then let’s keep an eye on it,” Song Heping said generously. “After all, we’re all just following the agreement, aren’t we?”

The convoy was released after a final inspection found no problems.

The sights at the Taji camp were breathtaking, a breathtaking sight with a physical sense of oppression that took your breath away.

This was Song Heping's first time entering a large arms depot at a US military base, and his first time witnessing firsthand what exactly lay in the warehouses of the overseas military of this world superpower.

Before arriving, Song Heping saw the massive amount of military equipment as a series of problems that needed to be solved: transportation, storage, distribution, and disposal.

But when these "problems" are presented in such a concrete form, the abstract numbers instantly collapse into physical reality, making it almost impossible to breathe.

"This way, Mr. Song."

Captain James, the U.S. Army liaison officer, snapped him out of his brief daze.

He turned to the side and made a guiding gesture; behind him was a huge, open warehouse door, leading to another world.

Song Heping took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

The first thing that hits you is the overwhelming smell.

A complex odor that blends gun oil, metal, rust inhibitor, dust, and the distinctive smell of some military packaging material.

Then there's the temperature. The air inside the warehouse is at least five degrees lower than outside, and it feels chilly, brushing against my cheeks with the coolness of the underground space.

Then came the sound.

Their footsteps echoed in the vast, empty space, each step accompanied by a clear echo, as if the warehouse had its own heartbeat.

In the distance came the hum of forklifts, the clanging of metal, and the crisp commands of American soldiers. These sounds twisted and amplified in the labyrinth of steel and concrete, forming a strange industrial symphony.

Then comes the visual aspect.

Song Heping stopped in his tracks.

Before him unfolded an underground warehouse the size of four football fields, with a ceiling height of over fifteen meters. The entire space was divided into alternating light and dark zones by a meticulously planned lighting system.

And within this vast space, there are mountains.

It is a mountain of steel, a mountain of killing tools, a mountain of products of industrialized warfare.

The nearest area was neatly stacked with wooden crates, each about the size of a small shipping container, marked in black paint with "M4 CARBINE - 200 UNIT" and "M249 SAW - 50 UNIT".

The boxes were stacked in six layers, with ten rows in each layer, forming a wall that was over a hundred meters long.

Behind the wooden wall lay even larger and more massive piles of debris.

"Area A contains light weapons and individual soldier equipment."

Captain Miller's voice was exceptionally clear in the empty space, and he began his introduction like a museum guide.

"This place stores approximately 8,000 M4 series rifles, 1,200 squad automatic weapons, and accessories such as scopes, gun lights, and grips. All weapons underwent basic maintenance before being stored, but they still require re-lubrication and functional checks after long-term storage."

Song Heping did not respond.

His gaze swept past the small arms section and into the depths of the warehouse.

What stands there is an even more chilling sight.

Dozens of M-ATV mine-resistant ambush protected vehicles were lined up neatly, each painted in desert camouflage, with full tires and a matte finish under the lights.

They weren't covered in dust and bullet holes like those on the battlefield; instead, they were clean, intact, and ready to be activated at any time. However, all the weapons were empty, and the turrets silently pointed at the ground.

These steel behemoths stood silently in formation, like a mechanical legion ready to awaken at any moment.

Further away, through the gaps between the stacked containers, the outlines of Stryker armored vehicles can be seen, and even several dismantled M1A2 tank chassis, their massive tracks piled up to the side like the skeletons of prehistoric creatures.

"Sector B contains armored vehicles and heavy equipment."

Miller continued, his leather shoes making a rhythmic tapping sound on the concrete floor.

"According to the agreement, the main weapon systems of all heavy weapons have been removed, and the key modules of the fire control computer have also been removed. However, the chassis, armor, and engines are intact. If... someone can obtain the corresponding spare parts and technical support, they can be restored to combat capability in a relatively short period of time."

Song Heping finally found his voice, but when he spoke, he found his throat was a little dry: "The quantity... is more than what is marked on the list."

"The list is based on inventory checks from three months ago and may be somewhat inaccurate."

Miller turned to him, a subtle expression of helplessness and self-mockery on his face.

"During this period, we withdrew even more 'surplus supplies' from Baghdad, Mosul, and Fallujah. Some were damaged and repaired but decided not to be transported back, some were old models left over from the troops' re-equipment, and some..."

He paused, then flipped through the files on his tablet: "It's 'wear and tear' on paperwork."

Song Heping understood.

This is the true scene when the war machine is withdrawn.

A large amount of equipment was left behind due to transportation costs, political considerations, or purely bureaucratic decisions.

On paper, they might be labeled "to be destroyed," "damaged," or "transferred to local partners," but in reality, they are these mountains of steel and gunpowder.

They continued deeper into the warehouse.

After passing through the armored vehicle area, the view suddenly opened up.

This is a specially designated ammunition storage area.

The scene here reminded Song Heping of the granaries he had seen in documentaries when he was a child. Except, what was piled up to almost the roof was not grain, but death.

Rows of green metal ammunition boxes were stacked like building blocks, each with a detailed label.

5.56mm NATO Ball, 7.62mm Linked, 40mm HEDP Grenade... Narrow passageways were left between the boxes, and conspicuous red warning signs were hung on the ceiling every ten meters: "EXPLOSIVE - NO SMOKING - NO OPEN FLAME".

Another smell began to fill the air: the slightly sweet, dangerous scent of smokeless gunpowder.

"Site C contains ammunition and explosives."

Miller lowered his voice unconsciously, as if in this area even sound could cause disaster.

"A total of approximately 2 tons, including small arms ammunition, mortar shells, grenade launcher ammunition, and some..."

He glanced at the tablet in his hand.

"Special purpose munitions. All explosives are stored according to the strictest standards, with temperature and humidity controlled and regular inspections. But I must warn that once they leave this controlled environment, the storage risks will increase exponentially."

Song Heping walked closer to a row of ammunition boxes and reached out to touch the cold metal surface.

The paint on the box indicates the production date: March 2013.

Location: Army Ammunition Plant, Lake City, Missouri.

These bullets were manufactured in factories in the Americas, crossed oceans, were shipped to the Middle East, and eventually piled up in this underground warehouse, awaiting an unknown fate.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the true meaning of the number.

Hundreds of millions of bullets.

If each bullet is three centimeters long, and they are laid end to end, they could circle the Earth's equator nine times.

If one shot is fired every second, it would take one year and four months of continuous firing to complete the mission.

If every bullet finds its target...

"Mr. Song?"

Song Heping opened his eyes and found Miller looking at him with a probing gaze.

"Are you ok?"

"It's alright." Song Heping withdrew his hand. "It's just... it will take some time to get used to this scale."

Miller nodded, this time with an expression of near understanding: "I had a similar feeling when I was first transferred here to oversee inventory management. We built this place, filled it, and then..."

He made a gesture.

"Leaving. Sometimes I wonder, how will archaeologists five hundred years from now interpret this scene when they excavate it? Will they see it as the most brilliant achievement of a civilization, or as the most insane proof?"

This is an unexpected, almost philosophical question.

Song Heping carefully examined the U.S. Army captain and noticed that the cuffs of his uniform were worn and that there were shadows under his eyes from long night shifts.

This is not just a bureaucrat or a soldier; he is someone who has retained some capacity for thought within the war machine.

“Perhaps both,” Song Heping said slowly. “Humanity’s greatest creativity and deepest madness are often two sides of the same coin.”

Miller looked at him thoughtfully, then turned and pointed deeper into the warehouse: “There are also sections D and E, which contain individual soldier equipment such as communication equipment, night vision goggles, and bulletproof vests, as well as repair parts and spare components. According to the agreement, you have seventy-two hours to conduct a preliminary inventory and fifteen days to complete the entire transfer. We will provide read-only access to the inventory database and ten soldiers to assist with the inventory, but they will not participate in the handling and transportation.”

“Fifteen days.” Song Heping repeated the timeframe: “Transfer nine thousand tons of ammunition and equipment across at least three active conflict zones.”

“These are the terms you agreed to.” Miller’s tone returned to businesslike: “By the way, you’re not the only party interested in this transfer. In the past forty-eight hours, we’ve detected seven unauthorized reconnaissance activities around the warehouse. While the Iligor military has pledged perimeter security, however…”

He shrugged. "You know the reality."

Song Heping certainly knew.

Camp Taji is located about 30 kilometers north of Baghdad, on the edge of a Sunni-majority area, and is surrounded by at least four armed factions with different backgrounds.

This pile of weapons was like bloody bait thrown into a group of sharks; everyone could smell it.

“We have our own security plan,” Song Heping said, “but the U.S. military needs to maintain basic vigilance at the base during the handover.”

“This point is already included in Appendix C of the agreement.” Miller nodded. “Until the last shipment of supplies leaves, we will maintain the base’s passive defense and surveillance capabilities, but will not intervene in any external conflicts. This is the red line, Mr. Song. The U.S. military will not shed another drop of blood for this equipment.”

This statement, though made in a plain tone, carries a heavy weight.

Song Heping understood the subtext: This equipment is now yours, along with all the trouble and danger it brings.

They continued walking through the warehouse, past rows of night vision device crates (each marked "AN/PVS-14 - 20 UNITS"), past mountains of Interceptor body armor, and past crates of military radios and satellite phones.

Deep inside the warehouse, they arrived at Zone E.

The scene here is different again: instead of piles of finished products, there are disassembled components. Tank gun barrels are packaged separately, armor plates are stacked in categories, engines are wrapped in waterproof cloth, and fire control system components are stored in special containers with temperature and humidity control.

“The most sensitive parts.” Miller tapped the side of a container: “These are the fire control computer and stabilization system modules for the M1A2 tank. Without them, the tank is just a moving iron coffin. As per explicit instructions from Washington, these components are not on the handover list and will be transported back to the United States by special plane within seventy-two hours.”

Song Heping stared at the containers.

They are small, each only two or three cubic meters, but the technology inside represents the U.S. Army's armored warfare superiority over the past thirty years.

Leave the chassis and armor behind, take the brain and nerves with you.

This is a sophisticated form of control, a transfer of power that retains the final veto.

“A wise decision,” he said calmly.

Miller glanced at him, seemingly trying to discern whether the statement was genuine agreement or subtle sarcasm, but Song Heping's face remained expressionless.

The entire inspection took nearly an hour.

When they finally reached the warehouse entrance, Song Heping felt his legs were sore, not only from physical fatigue but also from mental strain.

This space contains not only steel and gunpowder, but also countless lives, the consequences of decisions, and the legacy of war.

Standing in front of the massive warehouse, looking back at the steel mountain range, Song Heping suddenly realized clearly what he had taken on.

This is not a simple logistics task; it is a redistribution of the tools of violence, a dangerous balancing act on ruins.

Each of these weapons could potentially kill or protect someone in the future; each bullet could potentially end or prolong a life.

“The inventory and database access permissions have been sent to your designated security server.” Miller’s voice interrupted his thoughts: “Seventy-two hours to go. Good luck, Mr. Song. You really will need it.”

Song Heping turned around and shook hands with the U.S. Army captain.

Both of their palms were dry, and their grip was firm but brief.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “We will complete the transfer on time.”

As he stepped out of the warehouse, the afternoon sun made him squint.

The outside world was still the typical yellowish-brown and grayish-brown of Iligo, with dry winds whipping up dust, and on the distant watchtower, the figures of American sentries were slightly distorted by the heat.

Jiang Feng and Milos came forward, both with the same question written on their faces.

"How is it?" Jiang Feng finally asked.

Song Heping took a deep breath of the scorching air outside and turned to his companions.

"Notify all units." He didn't want to waste a single moment: "Start the planned operation immediately. We need to begin moving a mountain within seventy hours."

He looked at the distant horizon where dust was rising, foreshadowing the approaching convoy of supplies and all the challenges, dangers, and choices that would come with those weapons.

The Taji Camp's armory stood silently behind them, like a giant treasure chest filled with secrets and power, and now the key had been handed to them.

　Please vote for me! Please vote for me!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)