Chapter 5: Codename—Penglai!

After dawn, the shaken reporters were all escorted back to Beirut by the Lebanese authorities, who were anxious to avoid any further trouble with those holding the reins of public opinion. To be honest, this time Zhong Rong and his companion had hit the jackpot. Most reporters’ equipment had been destroyed by the armed men, and those few who managed to hide hadn’t managed to capture any remarkable footage. Only the two of them had witnessed everything from start to finish.

No sooner had they returned to the safe zone than a crowd of colleagues sought them out, hoping they would share some clips so they could send something back home. The previous night’s conflict had already sparked widespread attention throughout the Middle East, and now every network was waiting for their correspondents’ firsthand reports. Zhong Rong and his companion had become the most sought-after figures around.

They hadn’t forgotten what Zhang Liang had instructed, especially regarding those colleagues who had hidden on the second floor of the hotel. No one knew exactly what these microphone-wielding reporters had exchanged, but once broadcasters across various countries began reporting on the previous night’s events, that single exclamation—“Baka!”—echoed around the world.

Japanese netizens were instantly baffled, especially the staff at Japanese embassies across the Middle East. Facing a tidal wave of inquiries from home, they were truly at a loss for words.

But none of this concerned a certain someone anymore. After handing his sidearm back to the embassy, he was ready to leave and finally enjoy a real vacation.

“What the hell?”

But just as he arrived at the airport, he was dumbfounded again by the order coming through the phone.

“There’s been a situation at BI. You need to catch a flight to Baghdad.”

The liaison officer, Rong Aiyu, repeated the order in her trademark languid tone.

“Seriously? I only have seven days of leave, and three and a half are already gone. Now you want me to fly to Iraq…”

Zhang Liang’s heart ached. Only they knew how difficult it was to get time off!

“Then take it up with the boss. Shall I call him for you?” Rong Aiyu said casually. Both of these men outranked her—she was just the messenger.

“Forget it. I don’t want to hear him nag,” Zhang Liang replied feebly, and resignedly bought a ticket to Baghdad.

The distance wasn’t far. Barely three hours later, he walked out of Baghdad International Airport. Outside, a man about his height—just not as handsome—waited, wearing a battered pair of sunglasses.

“You’d better have a perfect explanation for this!” he said discontentedly, tossing his luggage into the car and taking the passenger seat.

“What’s it got to do with me? My mission was over. This was a last-minute situation,” Zhen Ye shrugged, leading the disgruntled Zhang Liang back to the safe house.

“What kind of mission is this? Even you can’t handle it alone?” Zhang Liang grumbled as he found a place to sit. He just wanted to go home.

“I have no idea. I’d just bought a ticket to Turkey this morning, was about to head out, when they ordered me to stay put,” Zhen Ye retorted, his subtext clear: don’t take it out on me!

“Let’s contact headquarters first.”

The two opened a laptop, deftly connecting to a secure channel. Soon, a short-haired woman in professional attire appeared on the screen.

“I’ll give you a quick rundown,” said Wan Xiaoling, the intelligence and tactical analysis officer, wasting no time.

“At eight o’clock this morning, a group of terrorists hijacked a bus traveling from Baghdad to Tikrit, kidnapping eleven civilians onboard.” As she spoke, she sent over photos and a video from the scene.

Zhang Liang and Zhen Ye listened quietly, glancing at the information on the screen. They knew that if it were only this, headquarters wouldn’t have summoned them both so urgently—there had to be more.

“According to information from the embassy, two of the hostages are Chinese nationals—employees sent to help construct the Hafaya gas processing plant in Iraq.”

Sure enough, her next words confirmed their suspicions.

“According to intelligence from the Asia Overseas Unit, the perpetrators are believed to be Islamic State (IS) extremists. Their objective is currently unclear.”

“Though the embassy immediately contacted the Iraqi authorities, making clear how seriously we view this incident, and the Iraqis have promised to do their utmost to rescue the hostages, but…”

Wan Xiaoling shook her head at this point, and the two men understood what she left unsaid.

As a branch of Al-Qaeda, IS—long active in Iraq and Syria—was responsible for numerous violent attacks in both countries, and a major headache for US forces stationed there. After the death of Osama bin Laden in 2011 and the beginning of the US withdrawal, IS rapidly expanded, broke with Al-Qaeda, and declared independence, even attempting to found a “state” in the Syrian city of Raqqa.

This was an enemy requiring a coalition of fifty-four countries—including the US, UK, and France—plus the European Union and NATO, to combat. Last year, IS seized and occupied Mosul, Iraq’s second-largest city. Just last month, they joined forces with Al-Qaeda’s Arabian branch to attack the headquarters of Charlie Hebdo in Paris, killing twelve—proving just how brazen they were. Falling into their hands as a hostage meant a grim fate.

The government forces were not to be relied on; they were already terrified of IS. Without US intervention, they wouldn’t move at all.

“Can we track their current location?” Zhen Ye asked with a frown. This was getting tricky.

“Our colleagues in the overseas unit are working on it. Based on current information, the group has likely taken the hostages to a temporary hideout near Mosul.”

“What about their numbers and weapons?” Zhang Liang pressed, eyeing the stream of intelligence from Wan Xiaoling. With just the two of them, if the enemy had too many men, the hostages’ safety couldn’t be guaranteed.

“Based on intelligence left at the scene, there were probably no more than eight attackers; the estimated total number is between twelve and fifteen.”

Her figures allowed the two men to relax slightly. Exchanging a glance, they nodded. Not too many—two men could handle that.

“Will there be logistical support?” Zhen Ye asked the final, and most crucial, question.

As members of a Special Incident Response Team independent from the regional overseas unit, they were accustomed to handling emergencies and crises that other teams could not cover.

There were only three such teams in China, and their codename was as awe-inspiring as their reputation:

Penglai.

They were the most elite Chinese operatives abroad, with a sole mission: to eliminate, in advance, any enemy threatening or harming national interests, with full authorization to use lethal force.

But compared to other overseas units, their numbers were even smaller. While their mobility was outstanding, they sometimes had to rely on logistics support.

Their entire team, at full strength, numbered just seven—counting the liaison officer and technical staff, who rarely deployed in the field.

Most operations were carried out by the two of them. Occasionally, the commander and tactical analyst joined, but that was rare.

“Sorry, the team’s resources are tied up in Yemen, and the boss just left for a meeting. You’ll have to handle this yourselves,” Wan Xiaoling said, spreading her hands. In other words, aside from weapons, the most they could expect this time was some intelligence support.

“Fine, not like we ever expect much from you…” Zhang Liang muttered. Since joining, he’d participated in an operation with more than two people only once.

Just once!

“For equipment, there’s a stash in the basement of the safe house. Stand by and wait for further updates, that’s all,” Wan Xiaoling said, pretending not to hear the complaint. Her hands were tied—without the boss and with the mission not considered especially difficult, she had to hold down the fort. If another emergency arose, at least the team wouldn’t be completely depleted.

“I was hoping to go home for a bit…” Zhang Liang said mournfully, lighting a cigarette as he stared at the darkened screen. It seemed his plans were dashed again.

“Not necessarily. I heard higher-ups are considering our situation, so there’s a good chance we’ll get some home leave this year. Of course, don’t expect it for the New Year—at best, it’ll be after,” Zhen Ye replied, snatching the cigarette from Zhang Liang’s lips and offering a tidbit of good news.

“Really?” Zhang Liang’s eyes brightened as he lit another cigarette.

“Very likely. I overheard the boss mentioning it on a call the other day,” Zhen Ye nodded. He, too, hadn’t been home in almost three years.