At noon, the sun hangs high.
The towering cracking tower of the refinery casts a huge shadow under the blistering afternoon sunshine.
Inside the command post, the fan futilely stirs the stagnant air, while the crackling sound of radio static and vague communication from different bands pierces the eardrums of everyone present.
Song Heping sits before a table strewn with maps and intelligence briefs, staring intently at the contents thereon, yet his gaze seems to penetrate the walls, landing upon the boiling land—that is Titrick—hundreds of kilometers away.
Samir's voice bursts from the radio, distorted somewhat due to excitement:
