The air in the temporary communication room seemed frozen.
The only source of light came from the faint indicator light on the military-grade satellite phone on the table, casting light on Major Petrovsky's tense face.
Song Heping pushed open the door, and the communication officer who had been standing solemnly to the side silently saluted before quietly exiting and gently closing the heavy iron door, sealing off all the noise from the outside world.
Petrovsky nodded towards the solitary receiver on the table, speaking in a low voice, "Mr. Song, Zhaoyi Valley Minister is on the line from Moscow."
After speaking, he retreated to the shadow near the door, his hands behind his back, clearly indicating his non-involvement in the conversation. Yet in the small space, no sound could escape.
Song Heping took a deep breath, the air filled with the dust smell of old buildings and a faint hint of ozone from radio waves.
