Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Moving forward has become increasingly difficult.

The sewage was as viscous as syrup, and every step felt like it took all my strength to pull my feet out of the mud.

The stench that filled the air was almost tangible, like a damp, cold shroud wrapped around everyone's mouth and nose, making it hard to breathe.

The beam of the flashlight futilely cut through this chaos, unable to illuminate the abyss of despair.

About two hundred meters later, Spider, the smallest but most perceptive sniper in the team, suddenly raised his fist as if electrocuted. The entire squad froze instantly, turning into a group of silent and dangerous statues in the darkness.

He pressed his body against the slippery, cold pipe wall like a gecko, listening intently, almost holding his breath.

A few seconds later, he rushed to Makarov's side and quickly reported: "There's movement ahead, unnatural sounds, chaotic, weak... footsteps, and suppressed sobs."

There were quite a few people, about seventy meters away.

As if possessing their own consciousness, all the gun barrels silently and precisely pointed towards the darkness from which the sound originated.

Makarov's eyes sharpened, and he quickly gave several tactical hand signals.

The hammer and sickle slid forward like ghosts, their figures completely swallowed by the thick darkness.

Time flowed slowly in the dead silence, only the gurgling of the flowing sewage and the ubiquitous rustling and crawling sounds reminding us of its passing.

A few minutes later, Hammer returned, his expression revealing a deep sense of horror and solemnity even in the dim light.

"Boss, they're civilians... several hundred Chinese civilians, crammed into a slightly drier, abandoned branch pipe next to them."

He paused, his voice low and slightly hoarse: "God... they're like sardines crammed into a can, men, women, the old... and children."

This place is hell; how did they survive...?

"Have they found you?" Makarov's voice was low and calm.

"No, they are hiding in the deepest part of the passage. The light is very poor, and most of them are huddled together. It is difficult to spot them unless you get close and look carefully."

Makarov paused for a moment, then decisively ordered: "Leave only one flashlight, and keep the beam as low as possible."

Remain absolutely silent and proceed quickly.

"Contact should be avoided unless absolutely necessary."

The squad began to move forward with extreme caution.

However, just as they were about to pass through the connection, a Chinese refugee huddled at the edge of the pipe, almost blending into the shadows, perhaps heard the faint sound of wading or sensed the change in airflow. He looked up in alarm and caught a glimpse of the blurry figures of Makarov's squad.

"Japanese... Japanese!" A shrill scream, distorted and piercing, shattered the oppressive silence like a sharp blade.

In an instant, panic erupted like a plague among the hiding crowd!

A desperate sob and commotion arose in the darkness.

People scrambled back like frightened animals, trying to get as far away from these "demons" as possible.

Several emaciated men knelt down in the knee-deep sewage with a thud, desperately kowtowing and pleading in heavily accented, trembling voices: "Spare us! Spare us! We didn't see anything! Let the children go!"

A mother tightly covered the mouth of the baby in her arms, fearing that the faint cry would bring about her death, while her own body trembled like a leaf in the wind.

Makarov's heart sank; he knew he had to take control of the situation immediately.

He stopped, lowered the muzzle of his rifle, signaled to his men to do the same, then stepped forward and said in Russian as clearly and steadily as possible, but in a low voice: "Civilians! We are Russians! Not Japanese!"

Fearing the other person wouldn't understand, he repeated the most crucial part in broken, accented Chinese: "Not... Japanese! Not... harmful!"

The refugees who were kneeling and begging for mercy were stunned, their kowtowing motion frozen in mid-air.

The panic subsided slightly, but countless eyes remained filled with extreme fear and suspicion, staring intently at the fully armed strangers like startled rabbits.

They no longer knelt and begged for mercy, but everyone shrank back as much as possible, huddling together to form a fragile and desperate barrier, keeping as far away from the squad as possible.

That look in his eyes revealed a deep-seated trauma and a numbness that dared not have any hope.

Makarov knew that any unnecessary action could trigger panic again.

He stopped trying to communicate, simply gestured, and led his team to speed up, silently passing by the suffering people.

In those brief few dozen seconds of passing by, the faint halo of the flashlight inevitably swept across the water's surface.

Everyone saw the floating, swollen and white mutilated limbs, dressed in tattered Chinese civilian clothes, covered with horrific marks from rodents.

An even stronger stench of decay wafted over.

No one speaks.

But every member of the team had a face so gloomy it could drip water.

The air was filled not only with a stench, but also with a chilling atmosphere that mixed sadness, anger, and heavy pressure, almost freezing one's blood.

They moved forward in silence, leaving behind the hellish refuge and the unspeakable suffering within it in the thick, impenetrable darkness.

At 6:35, the team arrived at the first key node marked on the map, below a vertical maintenance passage leading to the storage room on the first basement floor of the arsenal.

The passageway is covered by a grid-like iron cover, through which faint light and fresh air seep in.

"Spider, scout," Makarov ordered.

The spider nodded, and with the agility of an ape, climbed the slippery iron ladder, pressing its eyes close to the gaps in the grille. It observed carefully for almost a minute, not missing a single detail, before silently sliding down.

"The exit is safe. Outside is a storage room filled with miscellaneous items; no one is there."

However, about fifteen meters diagonally opposite the exit, there is a passageway entrance with light shining through it.

Two guards stood at the entrance to the passage, smoking and talking, their vigilance low. "Spider reported in sign language and a very low whisper, and drew a rough map of the location on the damp pipe wall with his fingertips.

“Identification features?” Makarov asked.

“A sergeant major, carrying a Type 14 pistol. A private first class, carrying a Type 38 rifle.”

A cold glint flashed in Makarov's eyes. He gave several hand signals in quick succession: "Clear, silence, hammer left, sickle right, quick and decisive."

The hammer and the sickle understood each other perfectly.

They removed any equipment that might make noise, carrying only MP36 submachine guns and fighting knives.

Iron Hammer took a small piece of piano wire from the waterproof bag and wrapped both ends around his hands.

Sickle gripped the sharp Type 30 bayonet in his other hand, the blade gleaming eerily in the darkness.

Like cheetahs hunting their prey, the two silently climbed the iron ladder.

Makarov and the rest of his team stood guard below with their guns, ready to provide support at any time.

The grille was carefully moved aside with a slight opening. The hammer and sickle, like two shadows, slid into the storage room and quickly concealed themselves in the shadows of the clutter.

The air was thick with the smells of mildew and tobacco. Through the gaps in the clutter, the conversation of the two guards could be clearly heard.