Chapter 1992 - 1444: Web_3

The hunter never gives up the hunt because the prey has sharp fangs.

They only prepare stronger traps, sharper knives.

"Order Milosh." Song Heping's voice echoed in the cabin: "Let Team A prepare to engage. Combat principle—if we attack, we annihilate. I don't care whether he uses mortars or bayonets, within forty minutes, I want the Dulaimi Tribe to lose all combat capability."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the electronic map on the screen, as if he could see the Dry River Valley about to ignite through the layers of contour lines.

"Set an example for the other tribes. Show them the price of reaching out."

Twenty kilometers south of Highway 7.

The Dulaimi Tribe's armed gathering place is in a dry river valley.

Abdul sits in the passenger seat of a modified Toyota pickup, with the Belgian FN FAL rifle he's used for twenty years beside him.

The gunstock's wood grain had been soaked by sweat countless times, its patina smooth like an antique.

He stroked the gunstock, his murky eyes staring in the direction of Highway 7.

"Chieftain."

His nephew, Hamudi, also the battlefield commander of this armed force, ran over from the front vehicle, unable to suppress his excitement.

"The scouts have confirmed, the third convoy has passed Suleiman Pass, with a maximum of three hundred fifty guards. They're equipped with light weapons and several heavy machine guns, no armored vehicles."

Abdul-Razak said nothing.

He was still waiting.

Waiting for another source of information.

Sixty years of desert survival wisdom told him that if something is too good to be true, it usually is a dream.

But Hamudi couldn't wait any longer.

He was thirty-three, in his prime, watching corrupt politicians in Baghdad embezzle hundreds of millions of dollars from the national budget each year, while the Dulaimi Tribe fought for ten years, losing over seven hundred young men, exchanging only for a few rusty Hummers and a pile of expired Soviet ammunition.

"Uncle!" he couldn't help raising his voice: "The convoy is only twelve kilometers from us! If we don't act now, once they enter Shergar Town, it's the government army's territory!"

Abdul-Razak remained silent.

He was waiting.

Three minutes later, the satellite phone rang.

An encrypted number, ringing just once.

He picked it up, didn't speak.

"Three hundred twenty guards."

The voice on the other end was processed through a voice changer, revealing no age or accent.

"No air support, no armored backup. If you can't handle this soft target, don't bother in Anbar Province anymore."

The call disconnected.

Abdul-Razak set down the phone, looking at the gradually assembling armed pickups in the Dry River Valley.

Eighteen hundred men, over eighty pickups, among which more than thirty were equipped with heavy machine guns.

Additionally, they were outfitted with eight recoilless rifles and seventy-two rocket launchers.

He spent three days mobilizing all available tribal forces.

Is it worth taking this risk?

He recalled that voice processed through a voice changer.

Who was that?

American?

Persian?

Or some Shiite politician trying to stir trouble in Baghdad's political scene?

He didn't know.

But one point from the caller was right, a guard team of three hundred is indeed a soft target.

And moreover, the caller presented an irresistible condition.

After the success, the Dulaimi Tribe can retain all captures, and additionally receive 5 million dollars cash and weapon support from the "middleman."

Five million dollars.

That's US dollars!

In Illiguo, it's hard currency.

No!

Worldwide, it is!

The money is enough to pay compensation to every fallen warrior's family, rebuild the tribe's war-damaged infrastructure, enough to stand tall before the politicians in Baghdad.

"Hamudi." Abdul finally spoke.

"Uncle!"

"Set off immediately to the ambush point, follow the plan upon arrival. The first wave assault team blocks the convoy's beginning and end, the second wave flanks from the side."

The old chieftain paused, a flicker of unease passing through his cloudy eyes unnoticed even by himself.

"Swift battle. Finish the fight within forty minutes."

"No problem!"

Hamudi replied excitedly, turning to run to his pickup.

Amid the roar of engines, thirty-seven armed vehicles streamed out of the Dry River Valley, lifting clouds of yellow dust, like a pack of desert wolves on the hunt.

They didn't notice that seven kilometers away, a corner of a camouflage net on the valley's cliff lightly lifted.

Nor did they notice, high above at four thousand meters, an unmarked small reconnaissance drone was transmitting their movements in real-time to the tactical tablet in the air command post.

Even less could they know that five kilometers from their assembly point in an abandoned village, over a thousand soldiers in desert digital camouflage were checking weapons, preparing for combat.

The eighteen hundred warriors of the Dulaimi Tribe charged not toward millions of dollars in wealth.

They were charging toward an operational unit commanded by Milosh, composed of elite mercenaries from the mercenary camp and over a thousand infantry from the Illiguo Government Army's Tenth Division, and the web of fire woven by this former Serbian Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel using twenty years of battlefield experience.