Eagle Sauce: The 055 destroyer was launched into the sea just after the founding of the country?

Chapter 929

[Time]: Late at night, autumn 1956 [Location]: Main U.S. military base at "Victory Beach," northern Cuba

The waves crashed against the rocks, making a monotonous and dull thud.

This was supposed to be white noise to help you sleep, but to Private Miller, who was huddled behind a sandbag, the sound was like the footsteps of death.

He clutched the rusty M1 Garand rifle tightly to his chest, his fingers pale and stiff from constantly gripping the trigger guard. His eyes were bloodshot, and every few seconds they would nervously scan the dark coconut grove ahead.

"Click."

A faint sound of a dry branch snapping came from not far away.

"Who?! Who's there?!"

Miller practically screamed as he jumped up, the muzzle of his gun flashing wildly in the darkness.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! It's me! Changing shift!"

Several dark figures clutched their heads, lying sprawled on the ground in a disheveled state, their voices trembling with sobs.

Miller gasped for breath, cold sweat trickling down his neck through the straps of his helmet, raising goosebumps all over his body. He slowly sat back down in the mud puddle, pulled a cigarette from his pocket that was already soaked with sweat, and lit it after three tries.

This is the fifth day.

Ever since those two hundred lunatics escaped from that damned valley, the entire First Red Division has been like a spineless machine.

No one mentions "marching into Havana" anymore, nor does anyone boast about "spending Christmas here." The tanks and armored vehicles that were originally intended for the offensive are now all used as fixed steel bunkers, half-buried in the sand, their cannons pointed in any direction from which that black devil might emerge.

The commanders even ordered all the trees within 500 meters of the camp to be cut down and thousands of landmines to be laid.

They are afraid.

That fear was like a contagious mold, growing rampant in every damp tent and in every soldier's nightmare.

Miller took a drag of his cigarette, the firelight illuminating his young yet weathered face. He glanced at the trucks still covered by tarpaulins in the center of the camp—the ones that had escaped that day. They were said to contain…something Major Hansen had brought back.

Whenever the wind blows this way, you can smell a burnt meat smell that you can't wash off no matter what.

"God bless……"

Miller made the sign of the cross on his chest and lowered his head even further.

"Don't let them come over... whatever you do, don't let them come over..."

……

……

Location: Deep in the Sierra Maestra Mountains, the guerrillas' main camp

Compared to the lifeless beach, this place is like another world.

Several huge bonfires illuminated the mountain valley as if it were daytime. The flames crackled and danced, licking the whole wild boar roasted on top, dripping fat onto the embers and releasing a mouthwatering aroma.

There were no sentries shouting, no officers wielding whips.

Guerrilla fighters, dressed in various tattered military uniforms or even just peasant shirts, were gathered around a campfire, hand in hand, dancing the passionate salsa dance.

A one-eyed veteran sat atop an ammunition box, cradling a worn-out guitar with only five strings, his fingers deftly strumming the strings. Though the pitch was slightly off, the stirring melody made everyone's blood boil.

"In that valley, a black giant stands tall."

"The Americans' tanks are now just scrap metal."

"Oh~ that's a miracle from China~ that's our brother~"

The lyrics were improvised, crude and straightforward, yet they carried the most primal vitality.

Several young female guerrillas carried tin cans filled with rum, weaving through the crowd. Their faces were flushed with a long-lost rosy glow, a glow that came from no longer needing to worry about dying tomorrow.

Just outside this noise.

It is a protruding cliff platform about two hundred meters from the camp.

Two figures sat side by side on a warm rock, their legs dangling in the air, with a vast, dark, undulating forest below.

The evening breeze ruffled Che Guevara's iconic beret. He took a deep drag on his thick cigar, the red tip glowing and shimmering in the night like the eyes of some beast.

He turned his head and glanced at the tall, bearded man next to him who was tilting his head back and gulping down a large mouthful of strong liquor.

“Fidel”.

The sound of the cut was somewhat deep, with that signature Argentine accent, and it sounded particularly clear on the quiet edge of the cliff.

“Look at those children,” he said, pointing with his cigar-clamped finger to the distant camp ablaze with fire. “They think the war is over.”

Castro put down the bottle and wiped the wine stains from his beard with the back of his hand. His gaze was deep, not looking towards the camp, but towards the north—in the direction of the beach.

"For them, the first phase has indeed come to an end."

Castro's voice was loud and magnetic, and even when he lowered his voice, it carried a natural leader's authority.

"The Americans were terrified. Those three 'Broken Army' tanks... Ha, Comrade Fang Yu's name for them is really apt. Broken Army means to break through a thousand armies. They not only destroyed a few tanks, but also shattered the Americans' courage to take another step forward here."

He grabbed the bottle of wine and handed it to Che.

“Take a sip. This is a vintage wine that the villagers specially brought up, hidden in the cellar to avoid being searched by the Americans.”

Che took the bottle without hesitation and tilted his head back to take a sip. The spicy liquid burned down his throat and into his stomach, adding a glimmer of light to his eyes, which were always filled with melancholy and contemplation.

“You know what, Fidel?”

Looking at the wine bottle in his hand, he suddenly smiled, a smile that carried a hint of self-mockery and a touch of relief.

"Before going to China, before meeting that chief and Fang Yu, I always thought that all we needed were guns. More bullets, the force to drive those exploiters into the sea."

"I used to have illusions about the Soviet Union... about that Comrade Joseph. I thought that as long as they gave us nuclear weapons and airplanes, we could build an ideal country."

He paused, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

"But I was wrong."

“That Fang Yu… one sentence he said to me in that lab has been going on in my head for the past few days.”

Castro turned to his old comrade, his eyes filled with encouragement: "What did he say?"

He said, "Pshaw, even if I gave you the sharpest knife in the world, you could kill all your enemies. But what if the knife becomes dull? What if it breaks? You'd have to beg the knife maker for help. Then you wouldn't be wielding the knife anymore; you'd be its slave."

Che Guevara stretched out his hand and examined it repeatedly in the moonlight.

Those hands were covered in calluses and scars, marks left from years of handling guns.

"The lease agreement for that 'Xingtian' system... and that 'Spark' project."

“We’ll trade it for sugar, tobacco, and the copper mines beneath our land.”

“At first, I thought this was a form of exploitation. After all, that’s the output of a whole ten years.”

He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head.

"But I understand now."

"They don't want our money. Because they know we don't have any."

"They wanted our supplies, and then used the value of those supplies to give us a tractor factory, a fertilizer plant, a power plant... and even this mecha maintenance technology that we never even dared to dream of."

“This isn’t business.” Che turned his head sharply, staring intently at Castro. “Fidel, this is what the Great Chieftain meant by… ‘teaching a man to fish.’”

"They are teaching us how to stand up, instead of kneeling and begging."

As Castro listened to his comrade's confession, his expression softened. He reached out his large, bear-paw-like hand and patted Che's shoulder heavily.

"That's why we chose the Dragon Country, not that roaring polar bear."

Castro stood up and walked to the very edge of the cliff. The sea breeze made his worn-out military overcoat flutter loudly.

"Joseph just wants us to be his watchdogs, to bite the Americans' trouser legs."

"But the Dragon Kingdom... that great leader, he truly regarded us as comrades."

He pointed to the sleeping earth beneath his feet, his voice gradually rising in intensity.

"Tch, just imagine it."

"Ten years later."

"This jungle will no longer be just for guerrillas. There will be chimneys, schools, and hospitals."

"Our sugar is no longer used to sweeten Americans' Coke, but to exchange for electricity that can light up every slum in Havana."

"Our children..."

Castro turned and looked at Che, his eyes gleaming with an almost divine light.

"They can sit in spacious, bright classrooms and learn how to build tractors, and even... how to build those mechs."

"Instead of being like us, hiding in the mountains, scheming like mice about where our next meal will come from."

"That is... the true red ideal."

Che Guevara looked at the passionate man before him, and the flame of idealism that had always burned in his heart burned even brighter and more steadily.

He raised the bottle to the starry sky, as if it were countless eyes watching them.

"For the Dragon Kingdom."

"For a future where there is no more war."

Castro laughed heartily and held up his empty cigar box as well.

"Cheers to the future!"

"Ding."

The glass bottle gently bumps against the air.

Two great souls, in the dead of night in the Caribbean, during a lull in the war, reached a consensus that was enough to change the fate of the entire continent.

however.

They don't know.

Right above them, in the seemingly peaceful night sky.

A conspiracy that could nip this bright future in the bud is quietly unfolding.

……

……

Location: Over Cuba, 30000 feet

At this level, the air is thin and cold.

A large, four-engine transport plane painted entirely black, resembling a giant bat, turned off all its navigation lights and sliced ​​through the clouds like a ghost.

Inside the cockpit, only the instrument panel emitted a faint green light, illuminating the pilot's indifferent face, which was hidden behind an oxygen mask.

“'The Undertaker' calls 'Langley'.”

The pilot pressed his throat microphone, his voice sounding distorted and cold over the radio.

"We have reached the target airspace. Coordinates confirmed. Wind speed correction complete."

"Deployment permitted."

The voice coming through the earpiece was even colder, carrying an undisguised malice. It was an order issued from a basement in Washington, D.C.

"Received. Begin cargo delivery."

The pilot reached out and pulled down the red control stick.

On the plane's enormous belly.

The hydraulic hatch slid open slowly. A violent gust of air instantly rushed into the frigid cargo hold.

There were no soldiers or ammunition boxes in the cargo hold.

There were only two rows—a total of twelve—of enormous, cylindrical, sealed metal chambers.

The surfaces of these metal compartments were covered with a thick layer of white frost, and were marked with striking yellow biohazard symbols and a black spiral totem from Area 51 with an unknown meaning.

On each hull, a rapidly flashing red light was on. Through the thick observation window on the hull, one could vaguely see that it was filled with green liquid, and within that liquid, some huge, curled-up shadow was twitching slightly.

Goodbye, my little darlings.

The sergeant in charge of the deployment stood at the hatchway, a unique smile on his face that was a mixture of fear and excitement. He didn't even dare to get too close to the cages.

"Let's go down and find something to eat."

"Click—Boom!"

As the hook loosens.

The twelve heavy metal coffins slid out of the cabin along the tracks with a whooshing sound.

They fell into the dark void.

A few seconds later, a black, special parachute opened in the air. This parachute was specially treated so that it would not reflect moonlight or leave a noticeable echo on radar.

They were like twelve dandelion seeds from hell, drifting aimlessly towards the tropical jungle below, still singing and dancing, completely unaware of the impending terror.

……

Location: The Maestra Mountains, in a dense forest three kilometers from the guerrilla camp.

"boom."

A dull thud broke the silence of the jungle, startling several birds that were roosting for the night.

A huge metal cylinder smashed through several thick tree branches and slammed into the soft humus.

The parachutes covered the tree canopy like shrouds for the dead.

"Zi-"

The metal hull emitted a hissing sound as it released pressure. White, low-temperature gas gushed out from the gaps, instantly freezing the surrounding weeds.

The indicator lights on the surface of the cabin changed from red to green.

"Clap."

The liquid inside was drained.

Immediately afterwards, the heavy metal door seemed to be slammed hard from the inside by something.

"Boom!"

"Boom!"

The force was astonishing, causing the entire several-ton hull to shake in the mud.

"Roar……"

A low, guttural roar, as if the throat were filled with mucus, came from the slightly open slit.

That wasn't the sound of a wild animal.

It wasn't a human voice either.

It was a pure, desperate groan of hunger, a yearning for flesh and blood.

one hand.

A large hand, devoid of skin, with exposed dark red muscle fibers and razor-sharp bone claws at its fingertips, suddenly emerged from the gap and gripped the metal edge.

"Squeak-"

That was the sound of steel being torn apart.

With a forceful tear, the alloy hatch, strong enough to withstand small arms fire, was ripped off like a piece of paper and thrown aside.

A hunched figure, reeking of a strong, fishy stench, slowly crawled out from the white, cold air.

It raised its head.

On that face, devoid of lips and with teeth clashing, the nostrils twitched wildly.

It smelled it.

It drifted in with the wind.

There's a smell of barbecue there.

And... even more delicious... the taste of hundreds of fresh human heartbeats.

"Hiss-ha-"

It let out a chilling hiss from its throat, and its long, purple tongue licked its gums, which were covered in mucus.

Then, the second, the third...

In this dark jungle, twelve pairs of eyes, emitting an eerie yellow glow, lit up simultaneously, staring intently at the direction filled with laughter and merriment.

The hunt... has begun.