Chapter 1967 - 1434: Ideals and Reality

The base of the "Desert Falcon" Special Operations Battalion is located in a sand-eroded hilly area northeast of Mosul. From a distance, it looks more like an abandoned outpost than the residence of an elite special forces unit.

When Song Heping's convoy stopped at the entrance of the base, he carefully observed everything through the car window.

The walls were temporarily constructed with prefabricated concrete panels, and the seams between the panels were filled with rough, blackened cement. Several areas had already cracked, exposing the rusted rebar inside.

There were three spotlights on the watchtower, one of which had a broken lampshade, another was completely dark, and only the one on the far right was barely working, casting a circle of dim yellow light in the darkness before dawn.

The training ground was a compacted sandy surface with no plastic running track, nor standard obstacle training facilities.

A few soldiers were shuttling between obstacles made from old tires, cement pipes, and abandoned vehicle frames, their faded camouflage uniforms soaked with sweat.

Song Heping noticed that the combat boots worn by these soldiers were of at least three different types, with some already worn out at the toes.

Even more striking was the rudimentary cemetery on the east side of the base.

Rows of rough cement tombstones extended outward, each tombstone only inscribed with a name and date, no military rank or unit number, as if their lives were — arriving unnoticed, dying unnoticed.

"More than half of the soldiers who have died here did so due to inadequate equipment."

Samir's voice sounded in Song Heping's ear. He had arrived in advance and was now standing outside the car door: "Lack of night vision equipment led to passive night operations, bulletproof vests were not rated high enough and were penetrated by enemy snipers, vehicles without added armor suffered full casualties in IED encounters..."

Song Heping opened the door and got out, the desert's cold morning wind pouring into his collar, carrying the taste of sand and rust.

"Does Safar know we're coming?"

"Yes." Samir nodded, "I arrived two hours early and talked to him. His current situation... is worse than we anticipated, but I think it can work."

The two headed deep into the base.

Along the way, they passed barracks that were simple prefabricated houses, with most of the windows' glass broken and covered barely by plastic or cardboard.

A tap continued to drip, forming a small puddle below. Several soldiers who had just finished their morning run gathered beside the tap, using military water bottles to collect water.

Not for drinking, but for washing themselves.

The base's water system broke down three days ago, and the repair request submitted to the Ministry of Defense's logistics bureau received a reply saying "budget insufficient, solve it yourself."

"The official roster of the Desert Falcon Battalion is three hundred and twenty people." Samir introduced softly, "But in reality, only two hundred and seventy are enrolled, and the other fifty slots are used by the Ministry of Defense to place associates — those people never report to the base but still receive salaries. Safar has protested many times, but it's useless. Even his uncle Minister Rashed can't intervene because those positions are backed by several factions in parliament, and moving them would trigger a political earthquake."

Song Heping listened silently.

These situations were all in Henry's intelligence, but seeing them firsthand was another matter.

They arrived in front of a relatively intact single-story building, one of the few brick and mortar structures on the base.

On the pillars of the porch, an emblem of a diving falcon was engraved, the unit's insignia, though the eagle's wings had already flaked off.

The corridor was long and dimly lit. The walls on both sides were filled with photographs.

Song Heping slowed his pace.

At first, he thought these were photos of past commanders or honored soldiers, but he soon realized he was wrong.

Each photo was of a young person, dressed in military uniform, either smiling or standing solemnly before the camera.

Below the photos, inscribed in Arabic and English, were: name, rank, date of death, place of death.

He went from one photo to the next.

Song Heping roughly counted; from the entrance of the corridor to the door of Safar's office at the end, there were a total of one hundred and forty-seven photos.

For a battalion-sized unit with a roster of over three hundred, what such a casualty rate signifies is clear to anyone with military knowledge.

It means this unit has been almost wiped out at least twice, then replenished with new personnel, only to continue suffering losses.

"Last October, the remnants of 1515 launched a large-scale attack in Anbar Province," Samir's voice echoed in the empty corridor: "The Desert Falcon Battalion was ordered to assist. Of the six Hummer vehicles they rode, only two had additional armor, encountering three IEDs and two ambushes on the way. By the time they reached the destination, only thirty-seven out of ninety full-circle strike platoon members were still capable of fighting."

Song Heping stopped in front of one photo. The soldier in the photo was very young, perhaps not even twenty, smiling somewhat shyly.

The date of death was November 3, 2016, and the location was Ramadi.

"His name was Tariq, Safar's driver and messenger," Samir said: "That IED was originally aimed at Safar's vehicle, but at the last moment, Tariq sharply turned the steering wheel, directed his side toward the explosion."

Song Heping sighed.

He had seen too much death, but each time, the heaviness never lessens.

"Safar began to change from that point," Samir continued: "Before, he still believed in the system, believed that as long as he fought hard and achieved valor, his superiors would see his worth and give the unit the equipment it deserved. But after Tariq's death, he realized, in Illiguo, valor is worthless, lives are worthless. What holds value are connections and money."