Chapter 2108 - 859: Gang Beating~

The sand and dust kicked up by the explosion slammed into Morales's face like a violent rain.

He crawled out of the bunker, his ears filled with nothing but a high-pitched ringing. The camp in front of him was gone—the command post had become a giant crater, the ammunition depot was still burning, the medical tent had been blown away, and the medical equipment inside was scattered everywhere, like toys crushed by a giant.

"Colonel!" A soldier with his face covered in blood rushed over. "Squid helicopters! To the east! At least ten of them!"

Morales grabbed his binoculars.

The eastern skyline was just starting to pale. Ten AH-64 Apache attack helicopters were flying low along the dunes, their rotors whipping up sand and dust like ten yellow giant serpents.

Their target was clear—the row of Mexican armored vehicles on the east side of the camp that hadn't had time to be camouflaged.

"Notify Viper Platoon, engage!" Morales roared. "Stinger missiles! Get every Stinger out!"

Thirty seconds later, the first Stinger rose from the eastern side of the position.

Trailing a tail of flame, it lunged toward the lead Apache. The pilot yanked the nose up and simultaneously released flares. The Stinger was fooled by the flares, veered off, and self-destructed fifty meters from the helicopter.

But the second one arrived.

This Stinger drilled straight into the engine exhaust of the second Apache. The explosion tore the helicopter in half; the rotor flew more than a hundred meters away, and the fuselage, a burning lump of scrap metal, slammed into the sand, throwing up a cloud of dust.

The remaining nine Apaches immediately broke formation and began their counterattack.

Rockets fell on the Mexican positions like raindrops. An armored personnel carrier was hit; the men inside screamed for three seconds before they turned into a fireball. A machine-gun position was hit directly by a 127mm rocket; nothing remained of the three soldiers there.

Morales lay flat on the ground, feeling the earth tremble.

The satellite phone rang.

He picked it up.

It was Bennett's voice on the other end.

"Colonel Morales, reinforcements are on the way. Hold for six hours."

Morales said nothing.

Six hours.

He lifted his head, looking at those Squid helicopters closing in, at the burning barracks, at the soldiers screaming in agony.

"Mr. Bennett," he said, "I don't know if we can hold for six hours."

Bennett was silent for a second.

"Then hold until the last second."

The call ended.

Morales got to his feet, picked up an M4 rifle lying on the ground, and charged toward the nearest Apache.

04:17, Golan Heights, 7th Armored Brigade, Squid Defense Army, Brigade Command Post

Brigade Commander Avi Ben Abraham stood beside his Merkava Tank, staring north.

Through the night vision device, the Syrians' tanks stretched out beyond the horizon.

T-72s, T-62s, and even dozens of old T-55s—they were lined up in three echelons, like three black torrents of steel, pouring down from the slopes of the Golan Heights. Each tank had infantry following behind it, at least two divisions in all.

"Brigade commander, orders from the General Staff—" The radio operator ran over. "We're to hold them for at least four hours, until the reserve comes up."

Ben Abraham didn't turn around.

"Four hours."

He muttered the words.

On the slope, the Syrians' lead elements had already closed to within two kilometers. Tank barrels started to spit fire; shells landed a few hundred meters in front of his positions, throwing up columns of black smoke and dust.

"Tell all battalions to prepare to engage."

He climbed onto the tank and dropped into the turret.

The gunner turned his head toward him.

"Brigade commander, how many rounds do we have?"

Ben Abraham didn't answer.

He watched the Syrian tanks drawing closer through the sight.

There were too many.

Too many for him to bother counting.

"Hit the lead one first."

The gunner nodded.

The turret traversed.

The first round fired.

It punched into the frontal armor of the lead T-72, penetrated, and detonated inside. The tank's turret was blown off, rolling down the slope like a giant bowling ball and smashing into a T-62 behind it; both tanks burst into flames.

"Good hit."

Ben Abraham said.

The Syrians' counterfire came immediately.

At least thirty tanks fired at once. Shells rained down on the Squid positions; a Merkava was hit three times in succession, a huge gap ripped open in its side armor, and the men inside died without so much as a scream.

In the infantry trenches, the nineteen-year-old soldiers lay prone in the mud, listening to shells whistling over their heads, gripping their M16s with trembling hands.

"They're coming!" someone shouted.

The Syrian infantry began their assault.

They wore gray-green uniforms, AKs in their hands, surging over the hillsides in waves. They didn't duck bullets, didn't dodge shells; they just charged forward, like a herd of driven sheep, and like a pack of wolves with no fear of death.

"Open fire!"

The machine guns roared.

The front rank of Syrian soldiers went down; the men behind them stepped over their bodies and kept coming. The second rank fell, and the third moved up. Fifty meters in front of the trench, bodies began to pile up, forming a rising black embankment.

But more men were still surging forward.

04:23, Gaza Strip, Jabaliya Refugee Camp

The HMS radio was looping a recording.

It was the voice of the organization's military leader, Sheikh Yassin—old, hoarse, but every word like a red-hot nail.

"The Squid think that killing our commanders means we're finished. They're wrong. Hamas is not a single man; it is every Palestinian. Today, every Palestinian is a warrior."

The recording ended.

Three thousand HMS fighters climbed out of the tunnels.

They wore civilian clothes, mingling with the refugees as they moved toward the Squid Defense Army. No one knew who they were—they could be farmers carrying hoes, fathers holding children, or vendors pushing carts.