I Intercept Enemy Radio. They All Fear Seven Figures in the Mountains. скачать в хорошем качестве

I Intercept Enemy Radio. They All Fear Seven Figures in the Mountains.

I Intercept Enemy Radio. Both Armies Retreat When Seven Figures Appear. Story: 00:00 Video at every day at 03:00 Am I was a signals intelligence operator stationed at a listening post carved into the side of a frozen ridge. My job was simple — monitor enemy chatter, log activity, and relay patterns. But one morning, I intercepted something no encryption could explain. Both armies were transmitting the same prayer, ending with the same phrase: “The seven are watching.” Who were the seven? Why did everyone retreat at dawn? And why did the broadcasts start using my voice? “That was the day I stopped hearing the enemy… and started hearing something else listening back.” We were deployed in the Khyber highlands, where the mountains tore through the sky like broken glass. The outpost was barely more than a metal shack with antennas stabbing the wind. My shift began at 0300—cold, silent, endless. I’d been intercepting encrypted enemy transmissions for weeks, mostly coordinates, movement orders, and the usual propaganda. But on March 12th, the frequencies changed. The first thing I noticed was the rhythm. It wasn’t Morse or code—it was too measured, too deliberate. Seven short bursts. Then a pause. Then a low hum like someone breathing into a microphone. I logged the pattern and played it back through the spectrogram. The waveform looked… human. Like a voice was trapped inside it. When I reported it to Command, my supervisor, Lieutenant Daniels, told me to mark it as “weather interference.” His tone was sharp, almost defensive. “Forget it, Ramirez. We’ve had weird echoes in that sector before. Just move on.” But I couldn’t. That night, I tuned back in. The same signal, same sequence—seven bursts, then silence. Only this time, the silence didn’t end. Through the static, I heard faint whispers, like men speaking through cloth. I caught fragments: ridge, watchers, dawn, seven. And then a voice, clearer than the rest, whispered my name. I froze. I hadn’t transmitted my identity on any open channel. The systems were air-gapped, sealed. There was no way anyone outside our comms room could know I was there. I hit record and replayed the transmission. But in the playback—nothing. Just wind. The next morning, Daniels handed me a sealed envelope marked “Protocol 12.” Inside were handwritten directives: 1. Do not intercept transmissions during dawn. 2. If vertical silhouettes are observed, do not photograph or transmit data. 3. Do not acknowledge direct communication. 4. Maintain radio silence for 12 minutes after sighting. 5. If you hear your name, log out immediately. 6. Report all dawn anomalies to Command North. 7. Never track them beyond line-of-sight. 8. Never, under any circumstance, transmit coordinates of “The Ridge.” 9–12. [REDACTED]. No one had ever mentioned “Protocol 12” before. I asked Daniels where it came from. He just said, “Previous operators didn’t last long enough to ask.” At 0437 the next day, I saw it for myself. Our cameras pointed toward a ridge line half a mile east of our post. Visibility was low—thin sheets of fog sliding between the peaks. Then, as the first trace of dawn split the horizon, the fog parted. Seven figures stood there. Perfectly still. Perfectly aligned. I thought they were soldiers at first—scouts maybe—but their outlines didn’t move, didn’t shift even when the wind gusted. The thermal cameras showed nothing. No heat, no heartbeat. Just voids shaped like men. Then my radio came alive. Enemy frequency. Different language, but the message was the same tone—urgent, terrified. Their commander was ordering a retreat. Every unit near the ridge was to pull back immediately. And as our systems recorded the broadcast, I noticed something horrifying: the transmission timecodes were identical to our own. Both sides had broadcast the same message, at the same second. Daniels rushed in, pale. He slammed the monitors off and ordered me to delete all data. When I refused, he leaned close and said, “You think you’re the first one to hear them?” That night, I woke to static pouring from the intercom. I pulled the headphones on. It wasn’t random noise this time. It was me. My own voice, recorded earlier, whispering back Protocol 12 line by line—except it didn’t stop where the redactions were. It kept going. “Rule Nine,” it said. “When they look back, don’t blink.” “Rule Ten: If they enter the base, they already have.” “Rule Eleven: Do not check the personnel count.” And then, softly: “Rule Twelve: You’re already broadcasting.” The screen flickered. The thermal feed showed seven shapes—inside the compound. “By the time we sealed the comms room, we realized the transmission wasn’t coming to us anymore… it was coming from inside.”