Chapter 1997 - 1446: Give a Dog a Bone

Evening.

When the news reached the Juburi tribe, Chieftain Nasser Juburi was in the midst of evening prayers.

He knelt on a wool blanket, facing Mecca, his hands raised to his chest, his lips softly reciting the "Opening Chapter."

The tribal intelligence officer almost stumbled into the tent.

This old subordinate of fifteen years hadn't lost composure like this since 2014, when the Islamic State seized Mosul.

"Chieftain! Dulaimi... the Dulaimi tribe is finished!"

Nasser halted his prayers.

He maintained his posture with hands raised, like a suddenly petrified statue.

The flame of the oil lamp flickered gently in the center of the tent, casting alternating shadows and light on his deeply lined face.

"How many?"

"Eighteen hundred people attacked, fewer than six hundred returned. Eight hundred and seventy-three bodies left on the battlefield, with another four hundred and twelve captured. Abdul-Razak is severely injured, his nephew Hamudi is dead. That Lord Dong did it in just forty minutes."

The tent was deathly silent.

Nasser could hear his own heartbeat, pounding like a drum, even feeling his blood pressure surging.

"How many in the escort convoy?" he asked, feigning calm but his voice was as dry as if chewing sand.

"Three hundred... more than three hundred," the intelligence officer said with difficulty. "But it was bait. Lord Dong buried the main force on the outskirts of the battlefield. Mortars, anti-tank missiles, snipers, at least a thousand people, equipped better than the regular Iraq army. They trapped the Dulaimi people at the Dry River Valley exit, slaughtering them like sheep for forty minutes."

Nasser slowly lowered his hands and re-rolled the prayer rug.

His movements were slow, meticulous in every detail.

Folding the edges, smoothing the creases, tying with a thin string.

This was a habit inherited from his father: no matter what happens, prayers must be completed.

"Send a letter to Lord Dong," he said, his voice calmly returned: "Tell him the Juburi tribe has no intention of opposing 'Musician' security. We are willing to provide passage protection for convoys passing through our territory, the price... the price is negotiable."

The intelligence officer paused: "Chieftain, we have a pact with the Dulaimi..."

"A pact is worthless in front of eight hundred and seventy-three corpses," Nasser interrupted: "The Dulaimi people stepped on the mine for us, should we foolishly jump in after them?"

He walked to the tent entrance, gazing at the undulating sand dunes in the distant night.

"Besides," he said in a low voice: "Do you think we are the only ones waiting for news? Zumaili, Obaidi, Ganem... all tribes are waiting. Whomever extends goodwill to Lord Dong first tonight will get the best protection price. This is business, not war."

280 kilometers west of Mosul, in an abandoned quarry, inside the underground bunker of the 1515 Armed.

Mahmoud sat behind a simple operational table, staring at the intelligence just received.

Among them were a few candid photographs of mercenaries and Tenth Division soldiers of "Musician" security transporting bodies, the images were blurry but enough to see the littered corpses and still-burning vehicle wreckage.

Those bodies were unarmed, without combat postures, merely hundreds of piles of flesh riddled with holes.

"Three hundred guards? This is the result of three hundred guards?"

He lifted his eyes to look at his trusted adviser beside him, with anger in his gaze but more with caution.

"Who told me Lord Dong had only three hundred guards, is this the result of three hundred?"

The adviser dared not lift his head: "We... the information we received was indeed such. Perhaps those damn Americans provided false intelligence, deliberately exhausting Lord Dong's forces with tribal militia..."

"Americans." Mahmoud chuckled coldly: "They want tribal militias as cannon fodder, to reap benefits for themselves."

He paused, his voice low like chanting: "I've seen too many mercenaries. In Africa, in Siria, in Yemen. They are just vultures of war, following death, living off the carrion. This Song Heping..."

He stopped speaking.

"Abandon the assault plan."

In the end, Mahmoud made up his mind.

"We cannot afford to wait. Let the tribal militias hit the wall first, wait until Lord Dong is fatigued, ammunition exhausted, mercenaries bored with the war, then we take action."

He knew in his heart that this "waiting" might never yield a chance.

He said so just to save some face, so he wouldn't appear to be retreating out of fear.

The Dulaimi tribe proved one thing with eight hundred and seventy-three bodies.

That Lord Dong never passively defends, he actively creates battlefields. He never waits for enemy attacks, he lures enemies into pre-set positions and slaughters them.

Tonight it was Dulaimi that fell, tomorrow it could be any tribe attempting to attack a convoy.

Nobody knows Song Heping's plans, nobody knows how many ambush forces he has, nobody knows where he places them.

This turned the initially eager hungry wolves wanting a piece out of escort convoys into meek, cautious sheep.

Baghdad, Green Zone.

Robbin stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding his second glass of whiskey for the day.

The amber liquid swayed gently in the glass, the ice long melted, diluting the liquor to tastelessness like water.

But he did not drink.

Craig stood three meters behind him, motionless.

It was a habit formed after retiring from the Marine Corps reconnaissance troop.

Waiting for the superior to speak, waiting for instructions, waiting for permission.

But he waited for a full five minutes.

"Sir." He finally couldn't help but speak: "The Dulaimi tribe suffered losses exceeding twelve hundred."