Chapter 1995 - 1445: Head-On Strike (Part 3)

"My name is Milosh."

The Serbian crouched down, looking the prisoner in the eye, his voice as calm as if they were chatting about everyday things.

"Remember this name. Remember today. When your tribe meets in the future to discuss attacking the 'Musician's' convoy, someone will mention Milosh. They'll say, 'Don't go, that man is waiting there.'

He stood up and said to the translator, "Interrogate him. Who provided intelligence to their tribe? Who orchestrated the attack? Who is the contact? What's the phone number? Every detail, not a single word missing."

Before the translator could speak, the tribe's leader, already trembling, said, "I don't know the name, only our chieftain contacts him... only via phone. The number was purchased anonymously, every call shows up as 'unknown number.' The voice is processed, can't tell if it's male or female. They said the convoy only has three hundred men, no heavy weapons, no air support..."

Milosh nodded.

This answer was within his expectations.

Robbin wouldn't be foolish enough to leave direct evidence.

But it doesn't matter, he doesn't need evidence; he only needs to confirm who the enemy is.

"Take him away." He turned and walked towards the command vehicle, simultaneously pressing the encrypted communication button: "Boss, the Dulaimi Tribe's main force has been annihilated. Preliminary count: over four hundred killed, over two hundred captured, the rest scattered. Abdul's whereabouts unknown, suspected to have been dragged out of the combat zone. Team A has seven wounded, none killed. The battle is still ongoing, expected to end in twenty minutes."

Song Heping's voice came through the headset, "Are the evac arrangements for the wounded made?"

"The medical helicopter is on standby two kilometers south of the battlefield, minor injuries are treated on-site, severely injured will reach the field hospital within five minutes."

"Release the prisoners after interrogation, let one deliver a message to the Dulaimi Tribe."

"What message?"

"Tell them to surrender before sunset, or after this escort operation is complete, I'll personally pay them a visit."

Milosh grinned.

This was the boss he knew.

No resource wasted, no opportunity missed.

Eight hundred bodies aren't the endpoint, just a deterrent.

"As you wish, boss," he said.

At three thousand meters altitude.

Inside the Mi-17 helicopter cabin, Song Heping placed the tactical tablet on the folding table, casting his gaze out the porthole.

It was already four in the afternoon, the setting sun painting the entire Illiguo in blood and fire.

On his tactical tablet, the markers of six convoys were slowly moving southeast.

The first convoy had passed Samara, the second entered the outskirts of Baghdad, the third had just left Shergar, the fourth, fifth, and sixth convoys were steadily moving along their planned routes.

The markers of twelve reconnaissance teams were scattered across the map, some lurking on town high points, others hidden in roadside ditches.

They carried not only optical detection equipment but also laser target designators.

If a new "wolf pack" emerged, those devices would guide air power to arrive within thirty seconds.

The markers of five operational teams were deployed in a fan shape around the transport corridor.

Team A had just completed combat, Team B was on standby west of Fallujah, Team C was patrolling in the mountains north of Mosul, Teams D and E acted as mobile reserves, ready to deploy in any direction.

All of this was orchestrated from the tablet computer on this helicopter.

Safar sat opposite, his youthful face appearing pale under the dim cabin light.

His gaze fell on the statistics on the tablet representing eight hundred and seventy-three bodies, his lips moving as if reciting a prayer.

"Song," he finally spoke, his voice somewhat strained, "there's no need to be so harsh, they're not your match at all, they're just impoverished tribes, there's no need to kill over eight hundred people."

"What I want is deterrence," Song Heping calmly corrected, "it's very necessary, otherwise we can't keep these restless little scoundrels in check."

Safar was at a loss for words.

From a military command perspective, Song Heping was beyond reproach.

Song Heping put down his thermal mug, looking at the young Illiguo officer in front of him.

The last glimmer of sunset cast a cold, hard light on his face from the porthole, his eyes appearing bottomless.

"Safar," he said, "do you know who first introduced the 'distributed lethality' concept?"

Safar hesitated for a moment.

He didn't expect to discuss military theory in such a situation.

"Not the American," Song Heping continued on his own, "it was our Lord Dong. Two thousand five hundred years ago, Sun Tzu said, 'Make a show of force and remain hidden ourselves, thereby centralizing our forces while the enemy is forced to spread out.' What does that mean? Let the enemy expose their troop deployments, while we remain concealed, thus concentrating our forces while the enemy is compelled to disperse."

He pointed at the map on the tablet:

"Tonight, the Dulaimi Tribe thought they were attacking a convoy of three hundred. They didn't know these three hundred were just bait. The real main force was dispersed around the outer edge of the battlefield, in places they couldn't see. When they charged into the preset fire zone, these dispersed units completed a convergent strike in a very short time, firing from all directions simultaneously."

His finger traced the map over the markers representing the operational teams:

"This isn't three hundred against eighteen hundred. It's the result of commanding all Team A's operational units to focus fire on the same target within a six hundred square kilometer battle area at the same moment. The Dulaimi Tribe didn't lose due to numbers, they lost due to situational awareness; they had no idea how vast a net they'd walked into."

Safar remained silent for a long time.

"When did you start weaving this net?" he asked, "why haven't I heard you mention it before?"