Chapter 1868 - 1399: The Abandoned Pawn

Hillary's video signal was cut off, leaving the briefing room in dead silence.

Twelve officers sat around the long table, everyone having heard the conversation just now.

The volume of the encrypted speaker was loud enough that Hillary's every word, every change in tone, was as clear as if she were present in the room.

Delta Force Commander Hilt was the first to stand.

"Commander," Hilt said, "We will hold. Delta Force never backs down."

The other officers nodded in agreement, with some muttering in low voices and others just straightening their backs.

But Lemont saw something else in their eyes—despair.

Declaring not to back down was merely to maintain the honor of Delta Force.

They knew very well that they had been abandoned.

Not by the enemy, but by the nation they swore allegiance to, by those who sat in secure offices issuing orders.

"Get into defensive positions," Lemont said solemnly, "Hilt, have your people inspect all weapons systems, allocate anti-tank missile and heavy machine gun positions. If the opposition attacks, I want every bullet to hit a valuable target."

"Understood, Commander."

"Ryan," Lemont turned to his partner, "Continue attempting to contact Illiguo, through any channel possible, including local government and tribal elders. If someone can relay a message, we try. Also, have people initiate all data destruction procedures and prepare for the final moments."

"If the shelling begins..." He looked at Hilt, "Priority is to protect communication equipment and encrypted data. Those things must never fall into the opposition's hands. If necessary... you know what to do."

Hilt was silent for two seconds, "What about the soldiers? The civilian agents, they haven't had combat training, many can't even use a gun."

Lemont was silent for five full seconds.

The red numbers of the electric clock jumped: 23:47.

Only ten minutes left.

"Do your best," he finally said, the four words light as a sigh, "Now, take your positions."

The officers quickly exited the briefing room, their footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Lemont stood alone in front of the projection screen, looking at the encirclement map.

Red dots, blue dots, green areas, these abstract symbols represent the lives of one hundred seventy within the base, represent his twenty-year career, and represent the death looming over Mosul.

As Lemont prepared for the final moment, thousands of kilometers away in the corridors of power, another play was unfolding.

This play had no gunfire, no smoke, but similarly decided life or death—political life or death.

Illiguo's capital Baghdad, Green Zone, the office of the Defense Minister.

Minister Fadel Abdul Majid put down the note file personally delivered by the American ambassador, a text printed on the State Department's official letterhead, with wording "strong," "urgent," "unacceptable," and Hillary Clinton's electronic signature at the end.

He sighed, the sound heavy in the spacious office.

"That madman Samir," Fadil rubbed his temples, fingers pressing against the pulsating blood vessel, "Who does he think he is? Saladin? Trying to recreate the glory of the Battle of Hading?"

His adjutant Amir stood at the desk, holding a tablet with the latest deployment data of the Tenth Division displayed on the screen.

Amir, thirty-five years old, was the youngest office director at the Ministry of Defense and among the few who understood both military and politics.

"Minister, the Americans' demands are clear, they're asking us to immediately order the Tenth Division to retreat; otherwise, they will suspend all military aid and economic support. There's still 1 billion dollars in aid undisbursed this year, and another 2 billion dollars in loan guarantees pending approval."

Fadil shook his head with a bitter smile, "Amir, do you think Samir cares about these? He's fought in Mosul for a full eight years, witnessed the 1515 massacre, saw US bombings, the Kurds coming in and going out still clenching his teeth even in the poorest times, we haven't given them a penny, let alone now... Do you think he'd retreat because Washington stops sending aid?"

He walked to the window.

Outside was Baghdad's defeated skyline, in the distance the ruins of the communication towers bombed in the 2003 war still visible, seventeen years and still unremedied.

Further away, the Tigris River shimmered murkily under the moonlight.

"The Americans think we're still the puppet government of 2003 who kneel and accept their orders."

Fadil said, with a tone of weary irony.

"They make a call, let an embassy civilian come over and hand a note, thinking we should wag our tails like dogs and then turn to bite our own people."

He turned around, leaning against the window.

"But they forget, this decade of war changed too many things. Samir has over ten thousand veterans who followed him out of Mosul's hell, those people only listen to him. They don't acknowledge Baghdad, don't acknowledge the Green Zone, only acknowledge the general who led them clawing out of the ruins."

Amir said cautiously, "But if we don't make a statement, the Americans might take more aggressive measures. They have already been distributing documents at the United Nations, suggesting the Tenth Division might be 'out of control,' 'threatening regional stability'..."

"Let them talk then," Fadil snorted coldly, returned to the desk to sit down again, sighed, then picked up a pen, "Politics, Amir, always remember: politics is not about what to do, but about appearing to do something."