Chapter 18: The Katyusha Descends from the Heavens

Just as the cook was about to rush up at top speed to shield the VIP, Angel, a shadow darted past the crowd. It was Song Heping, leading the charge far ahead of everyone else, tackling Angel with lightning-fast speed that left everyone in awe.

While everyone admired Song Heping’s bravery, his mind was singularly focused on one thought—he couldn’t let the “God of Wealth” be harmed!

Ten thousand dollars! No, ten thousand dollars a day! Angel was like a walking treasure trove. If she died, his payment would certainly vanish too. What would he do then? How would he repay his debts?

Angel simply could not die!

The person he was holding wasn’t just a beautiful American woman; she was a bundle of freshly printed cash—the living expenses for his younger siblings.

“Quick, bring the Hummer over!” he shouted, pinning Angel beneath him while signaling loudly for the ICDC troops’ elite soldiers to drive the armored Hummer to extract the VIP.

The vehicles were parked on the asphalt road by the tarmac, less than a hundred meters away. But he soon realized he had overestimated the courage of those rabble—the ICDC soldiers had already scattered like birds, disappearing without a trace!

“Cowardly pigs!” the cook beside him fumed and cursed loudly.

“Grey Wolf, come with me to move the vehicle!” he ordered. Then he instructed White Bear and Queen, “You two go help protect!”

As the cook and Grey Wolf rushed to move the car, a spectacle unfolded in the sky.

Above the blue expanse, streaks of white lines extended rapidly toward the airport, growing longer and closer.

“Katyusha!” White Wolf looked up and exclaimed in alarm.

He was intimately familiar with this weapon. It was a relic of their former homeland—the once mighty Soviet Union.

During the Iran-Iraq War, countless Katyusha rocket launchers were sold along with T-72 tanks to this region. Though many years had passed, their lethality remained intact.

The rockets didn’t fly fast and their trajectories were easy to track.

The dense array of defensive systems installed around the airport bought time for counterattack. To ensure airport security, the U.S. military had set up close-in weapon systems near the airport perimeter and key facilities.

The system instantly activated. Guided by fire-control radar, the dense array’s base swiftly rotated, aimed, locked on, and fired in one seamless motion.

Zzzzz— With a firing rate of 6,000 rounds per minute, accompanied by a chainsaw-like roar, orange tracer lines tore through the air as the dense array furiously intercepted the Katyusha rockets flying overhead.

Simultaneously, all the anti-aircraft machine gun emplacements stationed at the airport opened fire, weaving a vast net of intense firepower.

The scene reminded Song Heping of massive military exercises; only then could one witness such a spectacular display.

Under the combined interception of the dense array and the on-duty weapons, one Katyusha rocket after another exploded midair.

Some detonated into fiery balls, while others lost power and guidance, veering off to crash onto the ground.

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Unfortunately, even the most meticulous defense had its flaws.

The Katyusha rocket’s hallmark was launching multiple rockets in quick succession—not relying on absolute precision, but on overwhelming, fierce volley fire.

When quality couldn’t be guaranteed, quantity made up for it.

Boom—

At last, one rocket pierced through the dense fire net and landed on the lawn about fifty meters from the group, erupting in a blaze more than two meters high.

The interception net simply couldn’t catch every Katyusha rocket.

The drawback of the dense array was its limited duration. Anything ferocious rarely lasted long, and something both fierce and sustained was rare—a true masterpiece.

The dense array’s sustained firing time often didn’t even reach a full minute.

Where there was one, there was always a second.

Soon, a second Katyusha rocket also landed and exploded about twenty meters from a C-130 transport plane.

Song Heping could even hear the fragments from the explosion pinging against the plane’s fuselage, sounding like large raindrops tapping on eaves on a quiet rainy night.

White Bear and Queen rushed over, squatting on either side to keep watch, protecting Angel’s flanks.

On this front, these hairy mercenaries were undeniably professional.

Song Heping felt the pressure ease.

He caught a strong fragrance wafting into his nostrils.

Angel, trembling beneath him, was emitting the scent of her perfume.

When Song Heping tried to get up, the terrified Angel threw her arms around him tightly.

Instantly, the fragrance intensified, flushing Song Heping’s face red.

Having never held a woman’s hand beyond his mother and sister, let alone been enveloped in such gentle warmth, Song Heping was utterly flustered.

“Miss Angel… please get up quickly. We need to get you in the car!” There was no time to savor foreign allure. Nothing was more important than survival.

More Katyusha rockets struck the ground, their impact points random and accuracy unreliable. Sometimes, it was precisely this unpredictability that was most frightening.

Professional artillery fire was methodical; shells and rockets landed in concentrated patterns, even when executing fire extension, moving from far to near like a plow crossing a field from one direction.

But shells without pattern or precision were like wild knives—no one knew where the next would strike.

Fortunately, the cook and Grey Wolf had brought the vehicle over, parking beside the group.

The cook flung open the door of the patrol SUV, waving frantically, shouting, “Get in! Get in!”

Song Heping had no time for formality or manners. He grabbed Angel’s waist, half-lifting, half-dragging the “God of Wealth” toward the patrol vehicle.

Reaching the car, he said, “Miss Angel, get in!”

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Angel shook her head, tears streaming, still trembling, refusing to let go.

Song Heping struggled, surprised by the foreign woman’s unexpected strength—beef-eating sure made a difference.

He was so anxious he nearly knocked her out to throw her in the car.

Every second they lingered was another second of danger.

This woman was comfortable holding on—but she was trying to die with him!

If a lucky Katyusha landed within ten meters, he was surely a goner.

The cook was even more desperate, roaring at Song Heping, “Get her in! Get her in!”

Then he barked at Yulia waiting by the car, “You, take Grey Wolf’s vehicle!”

When the boss spoke, Song Heping had no choice. He hoisted Angel in a princess carry and stuffed her into the car like luggage.

The door slammed shut heavily; the cook hit the accelerator and sped away.

After a while, Angel seemed to calm down slightly, trying to sit up and look around.

Unfortunately, a Katyusha rocket exploded about thirty meters from the patrol vehicle.

Without hesitation, Song Heping shoved Angel back down.

The patrol car’s body emitted faint crackles.

Fragments had clearly struck the vehicle.

Cold sweat broke out on Song Heping’s brow.

He thought of Aguan.

Unfortunate Aguan had been killed by a bullet piercing the armor plating.

Fragments could be just as deadly.

The cook in the driver’s seat unleashed a string of curses in Russian, though no one knew who he was cursing.

The cook’s swearing, the Katyusha explosions outside, the base’s American counterfire, machine guns, and persistent alarms—the entire world was in chaos.

Beside him, Angel again tried to sit up.

Without hesitation, Song Heping pressed her back down.

As a newly minted mercenary, Song Heping’s performance was already professional.

Though his combat experience was lacking, his military expertise was undeniable.

Protecting a VIP meant providing the best possible protection.

What was the best protection?

It was holding Angel down, using his own body to shield her.

That was what professionalism meant.

That was professionalism.