Just as Songchai's entire worldview lay shattered, a barrage of truck engines suddenly sounded outside his window.
His heart lurched. He hurriedly pulled on his boots and rushed out of the room.
On the base's parade ground, seven large trucks caked in mud and several battered jeeps were filing in.
Under the dim yellow lights, his compatriots from Huaxia climbed down, covered in blood, their faces blank as they supported one another.
Their fierce desire to survive, born of escaping certain death, came together in that moment to create a presence that would have moved anyone.
Songchai went numb.
Reality had slapped him, the supposed "professional," square across the face.
Zhang Long strode up to Songchai.
His tactical vest was spattered with blood-enemy blood, of course-and the killing intent in his eyes had yet to fully fade.
He raised his hand in an impeccably precise military salute, his voice ringing like steel striking stone.
"General Songchai, sorry for the intrusion. Mission successfully completed."
Songchai's throat went dry. Only after a long pause did he manage a stiff smile. "Suc... successfully. Captain Zhang, how... how did you do it?"
Zhang Long did not answer that question. His tone was calm, yet carried an authority that brooked no argument. "General Songchai, please provide us with ten military transport planes. We need to escort these three hundred and forty-two compatriots home before dawn."
Songchai's expression shifted several times.
Providing ten transport planes was no small undertaking even within the Thai military. If those old men in the cabinet found out, even his rank as senior colonel might be in jeopardy.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lao Qing standing beside a truck in sunglasses, casually brushing nonexistent dust from his suit...
Songchai went rigid.
"Of course! No problem!