Chapter 1748 - 1358: Bloodstained Dawn_3

Any rebel who looked like an officer, was operating heavy weapons, or tried to organize effective resistance, as long as he stayed exposed in a scope for more than three seconds, would be greeted by a precise 7.62mm or 12.7mm bullet.

A rebel captain had just leaned out from behind a truck, waving a pistol, screaming himself hoarse as he tried to rally the routed infantry and direct them to counterattack up the slope on the right. He had only shouted two words—

"Pff!"

A faint sound, almost drowned out by the gunfire and explosions.

His head suddenly snapped backward, half of his helmet along with the skull and brain tissue beneath it blown away by an SVD sniper round fired from two hundred meters out.

The headless body swayed, then collapsed limply, the pistol dropping into the dust.

In less than three minutes after the battle began, it skipped the probing phase entirely and went straight into the bloodiest, most brutal white‑hot slaughter.

However, the rebels were after all the elite "Mountain Cat" battalion under Barzani's command. Once the initial shock and chaos had passed, the surviving officers and NCOs, driven by the instinct to live and strict training, started to organize vicious counterattacks.

The tanks that could still move all rotated their turrets; the stubby 125mm smoothbore guns spat fire and thick smoke, hurling HE shells savagely at the firing slits on the upper levels of Nasur Fortress that were spewing tongues of flame.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

The high‑explosive shells burst against the hard stone walls and concrete fortifications outside, every hit making the ground shake and the hills tremble, blasting up clouds of rubble and dust.

The fortress's thick outer walls shuddered violently, the outer camouflage layer and loose rock being stripped away.

But the main structure, built in the Othman era and later reinforced, was extraordinarily solid. Unless a shell punched straight into one of the narrow firing slits, it was very difficult to inflict fatal casualties on the defenders inside.

Even so, the blast waves and flying fragments of stone still imposed constant harassment and psychological pressure on the garrison.

The surviving BMP‑2 infantry fighting vehicles used their 30mm autocannons for suppressive bursts, the rapid‑fire shells slamming into the outer walls of the fortifications, kicking up chains of sparks and smoke, trying to disrupt the defenders' aim and fire.

At the same time, under the cover of tank and IFV fire and the concealment of large numbers of smoke rounds, the dismounted infantry were driven forward by officers and NCOs, broken into five or six assault waves, hurling themselves in a do‑or‑die charge up the relatively gentle slopes on both sides of the fortress!

"Get up there! Seize the high ground!"

"There aren't many of them! Get up there and you live!"

"For General Barzani! For Kurdistan!"

Shouts, curses, and bellowed orders could be faintly heard through the roar of guns and explosions.

Rebel soldiers in khaki uniforms moved by squad and platoon, leaping, rolling, and crawling among rocks and shell craters, clawing their way uphill.

Light Machine Guns and rifle rounds poured up the slope like water, trying to suppress any possible firing points.

But this was exactly the situation Song Heping had anticipated.

Company A's infantry squads had long since been driven in like Nails, wedged into the pre‑prepared foxholes, machine‑gun nests, and sniper positions on the slope.

They held the high ground, their fields of view wide open; every tactical movement of the rebel soldiers was clearly visible.

When the first batch of rebels, gasping and scrambling on all fours, clawed their way to mid‑slope and entered the optimal kill zone—

"Fire!"

At the Commander's order from the position, the silent firing points on the slope suddenly came to life!

Light Machine Guns, assault rifles, and rifle‑mounted grenade launchers all opened up!

Countless hand grenades fell like a rainstorm, exploding among the rebel ranks or right beside them!

Shooting from above carried a natural advantage.

The defenders could easily aim at exposed enemies, while the attackers found it hard to hit defenders tucked behind cover.

The interlocking crossfire was like the Grim Reaper's Scythe, mercilessly harvesting lives.

The first battalion‑scale charge was beaten back in just ten minutes.

More than thirty bodies in all manner of poses were left scattered on the slope, with even more wounded moaning and writhing in pools of blood, but no one dared go to their aid, because anyone who tried to approach would draw accurate killing fire.

"Don't stop! Fuck! No retreat!"

A rebel Major, hiding behind the wreck of a burning tank, waved his pistol and yelled himself raw.

"Second wave! Third wave! Go together! Their ammo isn't infinite! Get up there! Our follow‑on units are almost here—if we pile on enough bodies, we'll bury them!"

More rebel infantry were driven forward.

This time they'd gotten smarter; they no longer charged in tight masses, but exploited the terrain to the full.

Every boulder, every shell crater, every burning vehicle wreck became a temporary piece of cover.

Using practiced tactical movements, they advanced in small groups, leapfrogging and providing mutual cover, nibbling their way uphill bit by bit, trading fire with the defenders above using rifles and Light Machine Guns, trying to slowly wear down the defenders with numerical and firepower superiority.

The fight quickly entered the most brutal stage—a close‑range slaughter that tested both sides' willpower and tactical skill to the limit.

Gunfire hammered back and forth at ranges under a hundred meters, hand grenades criss‑crossed through the air, explosions overlapping one another, punctuated by the screams of men hit and the groans of the dying.

In the command post, Little Masoud's face was pale as he clutched the cold concrete edge of the observation slit in a death grip.

Through the high‑magnification periscope, the Hell‑like scene unfolded before his eyes with no filter at all—

A young soldier from the "Storm" battalion had just leaned out from behind a rock to throw a grenade when a burst of machine‑gun fire from below hit him in the chest.

The bulletproof vest absorbed part of the impact, but the sheer kinetic energy still drove a scream from him as he was flung backward, tumbling down the steep slope and vanishing into smoke and dust.