Chapter 1621 - 1298: Infiltration and Counterattack

Titrick Frontline, 9:30 a.m.

The sandstorm remained fierce.

Visibility was less than five meters. The wind was not just carrying fine sand but gravel-like particles that hit the armor with the sound of dense popping.

Northern city "Old Market District," a platoon-level position of the Kurd Armed.

Sergeant Khalid clutched a scarf tightly over his mouth and nose, yet the sand managed to infiltrate his eyes, nose, and ears. Squinting, he looked ahead and saw only swirling murkiness.

The radio had been down for a long time. The last order from the company commander was "hold the position," then communication was cut off.

"Is anyone there?" he shouted beside him, his voice immediately swallowed by the wind.

Suddenly, an explosion sounded from the left front—

It wasn't a shell; it sounded like a grenade!

Then came the terrifyingly close rattle of automatic rifles.

Khalid instinctively dropped down, raising his gun to blindly fire towards the sound.

Muzzle flashes were just fleeting weak points of light in the sandstorm.

"They're coming up!" someone screamed.

Shadows burst from the sand curtain, the closest just three steps from Khalid.

It was a bearded man whose eyes appeared extraordinarily bright on a sand-covered face, shouting something as his AK-74M spewed fire.

Khalid pulled the trigger, hitting the man's chest, but he managed to throw a grenade before collapsing.

The blast wave knocked Khalid over.

His ears buzzed as the world turned into a blurry slow motion. He saw more shadows surging from all directions, saw his soldiers falling one after another in close combat, saw someone turn to flee only to be shot down from behind.

"Retreat! Retreat!"

Khalid roared, yet even he couldn't hear his own voice.

The position collapsed.

The surviving Kurdish soldiers fled like startled sheep, completely disoriented in the sandstorm.

They crashed into abandoned buildings, stepped on improvised explosive devices; they ran into narrow alleys, ambushed by crossfire; they even strayed into friendly fire zones, mowed down by their own machine guns.

This was not a battle; it was a one-sided massacre.

Compared to the Kurdish's front line, Thunder Defense's situation was somewhat better.

"Charlie" Company held a three-story concrete building, its windows blocked by sandbags with only shooting holes left.

Commander Lieutenant Harris wore tactical goggles with integrated thermal imaging, transforming the world into varying shades of green.

"Ten o'clock direction, four heat sources, 50 meters away." His voice traveled through a wired communication system to each floor, "Machine gun team, suppress."

A rooftop M240B machine gun began firing in bursts, 7.62mm bullets pierced the sand curtain, scattering the heat sources attempting to approach the building.

But soon, an RPG rocket attacked from the side. Though most went astray due to the shooter's obstructed view, one hit the corner of the second floor, creating a large hole.

"Damn it, how do they have so many RPGs?" the deputy commander cursed.

Harris didn't answer.

He knew the reason—the sandstorm nullified the Alliance Army's air superiority and artillery observation, allowing the enemy to courageously advance anti-tank teams to extremely close distances.

Those modified pickup trucks called "Sandstorm Ghosts" were even more audacious, maneuvering quickly to firing positions using the low visibility, firing a few mortar rounds or rockets and retreating before any reaction could be made.

"Commander, third platoon reports a large number of heat sources on their flank, suspecting enemy infiltration units!" the radio operator shouted.

Harris's heart sank.

Infiltrating the defense line's rear meant the enemy, under the sandstorm's cover, had identified their defensive weak points.

This battle was heading in the worst direction.

"Outpost" Command Center, 10 a.m.

Colonel Kote received the worst battle report since the war began.

"Kurd Third Battalion's defense line has completely collapsed, the headquarters lost contact, and rout troops are impacting the second defensive line!"

"'Charlie' Company's heavy machine gun position has been wiped out, all members dead!"

"A logistics convoy got lost in the sandstorm, strayed into enemy territory, was ambushed, and only three out of twelve trucks returned!"

Each message hit Kote like a heavy blow to the chest.

He found it hard to breathe, as if the air in the command center was being sucked out.

On the screen, blue markers representing the Alliance Army's defensive line flickered, retreated, and even disappeared extensively.

"Order all units to contract the defense line and abandon the protruding sections."

Kote's voice was hoarse, "Artillery to conduct interdiction fire on main approach routes. Tell the Kurd people if they keep retreating, they'll be feeding the desert sand!"

But he knew how effective this order would be in the sandstorm, only heaven knew. Once panic spread, discipline would collapse.

The only thing he could rely on now was the well-trained mercenaries of Thunder Defense.

"Sir, the 'Sentry' early warning aircraft reports the sandstorm will begin to weaken in two hours," the intelligence officer said.

"Two hours..."

Kote repeated bitterly. Two hours were enough for the enemy to tear countless holes in his line, enough for his troops to suffer unbearable losses.

Truly, even God wasn't on his side.

For the first time, Kote began to doubt his confidence.

The sandstorm gradually weakened around 2 p.m.

Visibility returned to around a hundred meters, the sky was still a muddy yellow, but the wind had greatly diminished.

Alliance Army soldiers poked their heads out from the cover to behold a devastated battleground...

The frontline is strewn with bodies and remnants of equipment, some vehicles still burning, black smoke twisting upwards under the dusky sky.

The process of assessing the losses is slow and painful.

The Kurd Armed suffered over eleven hundred casualties or missing personnel, equivalent to an entire regiment lost.

The most lethal blow is the collapse of morale.

Many soldiers refuse to return to the frontline, while officers blame and evade responsibility among themselves.

Thunder Defense lost twenty-three experienced mercenaries, and forty-one are wounded, half of whom are seriously injured.

The loss of technical equipment is even harder to quantify—precision observation equipment damaged by sand, communication devices malfunctioning, and two helicopters severely damaged requiring extensive repairs.

Kote convened an emergency commanders' meeting.

The meeting is held in an underground bunker, the atmosphere so oppressive that breathing is somewhat labored.

A senior officer from the Kurds is extremely agitated: "My soldiers are not machines! They can't see anything in the sandstorm, while the enemy seems to emerge from the ground! We need to rest and reinforce, otherwise, tomorrow there will be no one left to hold the positions!"

Another Kurd faction leader politely suggests that other fronts also need troops, hinting that Titrick should not be a bottomless pit.

The company commanders of Thunder Defense are relatively restrained, but the dissatisfaction in their eyes is evident.

They came to earn money, not to hold the line.

As Kote listened to these statements, the string in his heart labeled "retreat" was stretched tighter and tighter.

The initial plan—taking Titrick quickly with information superiority—seems completely bankrupt by now.

The battle has turned into the protracted urban warfare he least wanted to see, with the enemy's resilience and replenishment ability far exceeding estimates.

But he cannot admit defeat just like that.

The Pentagon needs an explanation, Thunder Defense's contract needs renewal, and his own career needs a "decent conclusion."

"We need a counterattack."

Kote finally said, his voice resonating in the bunker, "A limited but powerful counterattack, to knock out the enemy's most critical support points, improve our defensive posture, and then… evaluate subsequent actions."

He pointed to two locations on the map: the car repair shop in the north of the city and the school building complex on the west side.

These two strongholds are like tumors nailed to the Alliance Army's frontline, with mortars and snipers continuously causing casualties.

"Before dawn tomorrow, the main forces of Thunder 'Alpha' and 'Bravo' companies, with the strongest fire support, will remove these two nails. The operation is codenamed 'Dawn Hammer.'"

As he said this, he deliberately overlooked a few facts—these two strongholds are difficult precisely because they are traps themselves.

Ahmed might be waiting for him to commit his last reserves and whether the troops, after the sandstorm debacle, still have the capability to execute such a complex coordinated assault.

The meeting concluded in gloom.

The commanders left with their own thoughts, with no one having much confidence in "Dawn Hammer," but also no one openly opposing it.

War is sometimes like this—knowing it's a blunder but having to proceed due to various reasons.

At the same time, in Titrick's underground command post.

Ahmed is also holding a meeting, but the atmosphere is entirely different.

Though the counterattack in the sandstorm also incurred costs, with over fifteen hundred subordinates killed and nearly half of the penetration teams lost, the results were splendid.

The Alliance Army's frontline was forced to retreat; the Kurd Armed's morale is on the brink of collapse, more importantly, Ahmed confirmed one thing—without air superiority, the combat power of the Alliance Army's ground forces is greatly reduced.

"The heretics fear death."

Ahmed told the leaders gathered around, "In the sandstorm, they stumble like blind men, but our warriors can find them and kill them."

On the table lies a hand-drawn battlefield sketch, marking the positions of the Alliance Army units, firepower configuration, and even suspected command nodes.

This information comes from frontline observation, radio interception, and some unmentionable channels.

"Another two thousand are coming from Mosul, all veterans of street battles."

One leader reported, "Along with two trucks of anti-tank missiles, three heavy machine guns."

Ahmed nodded frequently as he listened.

Baghdadi personally ordered that Titrick must be held at all costs, which means a continuous flow of reinforcements and supplies.

Even more subtle, based on some indirect signals, it seems some "regional friends" are not too keen on seeing the Americans and Kurds make too rapid progress here, taking a lax attitude towards the Mosul to Titrick supply line.

War is never just about the frontline soldiers.

"Having suffered a setback, they will definitely want to regain an advantage."

Ahmed's fingers tapped the two fortified positions on the map—the car repair shop and the school.

"Kote is a proud man; he won't accept failure. I guess… by latest tomorrow at dawn, he will use his elite forces to pull out these two nails."

Low laughter arose around.

The reason these two positions are strong is not just because of the fortifications but because they are bait.

A tunnel network leads from the repair shop to nearby buildings, and tons of explosives are buried within the school complex.

Once the main forces of the Alliance Army enter, there's no need to engage them; what awaits them will be an earth-shaking blitz.

"Get all the brothers who can still move ready."

Ahmed's eyes glowed in the dim light, "Tomorrow at dawn, we not only need to hold the position, but we must counterattack, pursue, and drive them completely out of Titrick!"

He paused, his voice turning cold: "Tell the 'Suicide Team,' rest well tonight. Tomorrow, either come back with victory or go to Heaven with the glory of martyrs."

The orders were conveyed.

The underground command was filled with a mixed atmosphere of fanaticism, exhaustion, and a do-or-die determination.

Everyone knew that tomorrow's battle would determine everything.

Either completely defeat the Alliance Army or be completely destroyed by them.

There is no third option.