Chapter 1994 - 1445: Crushing Blow (Part 2)

His nephew Hamudi ran amidst the flames.

The poor creature had at least three shrapnel wounds piercing through him, his uniform soaked with fuel, his whole body like a human torch.

He took a dozen steps, each leaving a burning footprint on the sandy ground, before falling to the ground, his limbs still twitching while the flames completely engulfed his face.

Hamudi was twenty-seven years old this year.

He had just gotten married three months ago.

His wife was seven months pregnant.

Abdul opened his mouth, wanting to call out his nephew's name, but only a mouthful of bloody froth surged up his throat.

What is happening!?

Who is attacking us?

A shocking thought flashed through his mind at this moment.

By the time the three-minute shelling ended, the Dulaimi Tribe had already lost at least two hundred people.

But the real nightmare was just beginning.

"Cease fire."

Milosh's order was brief and crisp.

"A Company flank left, B Company assault head-on, C Company cut off their retreat. Snipers prioritize taking out commanders and heavy gunners. Leave no survivors."

A thousand soldiers leaped out from the ruins of the abandoned village.

Their movements were highly synchronized.

A Company flanked left in a skirmish line towards the flank rear of the Dulaimi convoy, maintaining a five-meter interval between each soldier to avoid being taken out by a single shell while forming a crossfire with no blind spot.

B Company advanced head-on in three-man combat teams, with one shooting and two covering, moving alternately, exposing only the muzzle and optics when shooting, never revealing the torso.

Under the cover of armored vehicles, C Company inserted at high speed to the rear of the convoy, cutting off the only retreat route to the Dry River Valley before any pickup could turn around and flee.

The Dulaimi Tribe warriors, already shell-shocked into confusion, collapsed instantly.

The core of the tribe's combat training is "courage" and "faith."

They were taught to charge head-on, shout slogans loudly, and charge towards the enemy's muzzle because death is not the end, but a ticket to the eternal paradise.

But such tactics were ineffective.

A young tribal warrior hiding behind a destroyed pickup truck poked his head out to look for a target.

But he couldn't find any.

Three hundred meters away, a Team A sniper was locking onto his brow with a reticle board.

A 5.56mm bullet entered through his left eye and exited through the back of his head, blasting a bowl-sized hole in his skull.

He collapsed limply onto the pickup wreckage, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, his fingers never even touching the trigger.

Another tribal marksman took a kneeling stance to aim at the advancing B Company soldiers.

He pulled the trigger, the bullet whistled out, but only hit the air where the soldier was three seconds ago.

The opponent had already completed a five-meter leap and lay prone behind new cover.

He tried to re-aim, but suppressive fire from the left-wing machine gun position pinned him down, unable to lift his head.

A 12.7mm bullet tore a ten-centimeter diameter hole in the pickup's hood, the engine compartment instantly caught fire, and metal fragments flying off shaved half of his face off.

This was not a battle.

This was a massacre.

A complete military quality steamrolling.

Milosh leaped down from the rooftop.

He walked along the edge of the battlefield like a butcher walking outside a pen of sheep awaiting slaughter.

A Team A sergeant ran over to report: "Left-wing clearance complete, about thirty enemy remnants retreated to the three pickups at the tail of the convoy, attempting to build a circular defense."

"Circular defense?" Milosh repeated the term with unconcealed sarcasm in his tone: "Where did they learn this tactic? Tutorials on YouTube?"

The sergeant didn't laugh.

Milosh rarely joked, never on the battlefield.

"How many TOW missiles left?"

"All six are in position."

"Fire two. Take out the outer two pickups, leave the middle one."

Milosh paused, then smiled: "Let them savor their despair a little longer."

The sergeant turned to relay the order.

Twenty seconds later, two TOW anti-tank missiles were launched from six hundred meters away with trailing smoke, accurately hitting the outer two pickups.

The ammunition each pickup carried was enough to sustain twenty minutes of continuous combat.

But when hit by the missiles, all that ammunition exploded, two orange-red fireballs rose nearly simultaneously, swallowing all remaining resistance within a fifty-meter radius.

The pickup in the middle miraculously remained intact.

The dozen or so surviving Dulaimi warriors huddled inside the vehicle, looking at the burning remains of their companions on either side, not daring to lift their heads to shoot. They finally understood.

The enemy wasn't missing them; they simply didn't want to kill them yet.

Despair, needs to be savored slowly.

Milosh told the translator next to him: "Tell them to lay down their weapons, kneel on the ground, and clasp their hands over their heads. If they don't comply within ten seconds, the next missile hits this one."

Before the translator could speak, the tribal warriors on that pickup had already scrambled out of the compartment, kneeling on the scorching sand, their hands over their heads.

Some began to weep, others repeatedly chanting "Allah Akbar" in Arabic.

But this time, their voices were filled only with fear.

Milosh walked over and stood in front of the first captured kneeling prisoner.

That man lifted his head, his face covered in dust and blood. He was in his early thirties, his left arm wounded, roughly bandaged with torn uniform strips, blood still seeping out.

In his eyes were fear, anger, but most of all, incomprehension.

They couldn't comprehend how, in just thirty minutes, they had become prisoners.

"You are the commander."

Milosh used a declarative sentence, not an interrogative one.

The prisoner did not answer.

But the instant contraction of his pupils already gave the answer.