Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1321 Life hangs on a thread

6:15, inside Ahmed's command vehicle.

When the first bad news arrived, Ahmed was working out a plan for a full-scale attack on the Hurmatu Hospital stronghold on a map.

He planned to launch the final attack at sunrise, using the direct fire of T-72 tanks to blast open the hospital walls, and then deploy his most elite reserves—five hundred of the most fanatical stormtroopers.

"Commander...the rearguard...has been ambushed..."

The communications soldier's voice came in fits and starts, against a backdrop of intense gunfire, explosions, and screams of agony.

Ahmed snatched the microphone: "Explain yourself! What scale of ambush was it? Where is the enemy?"

"I don't know... They're everywhere... They have machine guns, missiles, mortars... Our artillery is all destroyed... Requesting backup... Ah—"

Communications were interrupted by an explosion.

Ahmed paused for two seconds, then slammed the microphone onto the side of the carriage in a rage: "Useless! A rearguard force of several thousand men couldn't even hold out for half an hour?!"

Staff Officer Khalid, pale-faced, said, "Commander, something's not right. Song Heping only has two battalions, eight hundred men. How could he possibly ambush the rearguard while simultaneously..."

His words were interrupted by a second communication request.

This time it was the garrison commander of Tuz town, his voice almost wailing: "The Holy City Brigade has launched a general offensive! Nassin is personally leading the force, at least three thousand men! They have T-72 tanks and BM-21 rocket launchers! The outer positions have fallen, we are retreating into the city, but we can only hold out for three hours at most!"

"What?!" Ahmed's eyes widened. "Weren't the Persians worshipping Iji? When did he...?"

A third communication came in almost simultaneously from the Fehart observation post:
"A large number of unidentified troops, numbering in the thousands, have gathered outside the town..."

Three messages, three knives, simultaneously pressed against Ahmed's throat from three directions.

The command vehicle was deathly silent.

Khalid was the first to come to his senses. He rushed to the map and his fingers flew across it: "Commander, Song Heping's target is our rear—Tuz, Fehart, and Titrick!"

“Impossible!” Ahmed roared. “How dare Samir’s militia attack Titrick? And simultaneously attack Tuz and Fahiat? Does he have that many troops?!”

"But what if we add the Al-Quds Force and the Abuyu Brigade?"

Khalid's voice trembled, "If that's the case, we're in big trouble!"

Cold sweat broke out on Ahmed's forehead.

"Liberating forces"...

Abuyu Brigade...

Holy City Journey...

Damn!

There are quite a lot of people in total!
Just as he was rapidly calculating in his mind, the fourth message arrived.

This time, the communications officer did not report anything, but simply handed over the telegram with a deathly pale face.

Ahmed took the telegram, glanced at it, and felt dizzy.

The Gaim-Selsar Lake supply line was hit by a precision drone strike.

All three supply convoys were destroyed, and three hidden warehouses on the west bank were also destroyed.

The losses included 500 tons of ammunition, 300 tons of fuel, 200 tons of food, 40 anti-tank missiles, and 100 heavy machine guns...

it's over...

Without ammunition, fuel, and food, how can this war be fought?
"Is it the Americans?" Staff Officer Shafik asked in a low voice. "Only the Americans have this kind of precision strike capability..."

"Do not."

Ahmed closed his eyes, and the man's face appeared in his mind.

“I’m certain it’s Song Heping. He knew about this supply line a long time ago, and he’s been waiting… waiting for me to leave Titrick with the main force, waiting for me to gather all the supplies at the front line… and then destroy it all at once.”

At this moment, all the clues connected.

Why give up on Tuz and Fehart so easily?
This was to lengthen his supply lines and disperse his forces.

Why have we been holding back?
They were waiting for him and the Hurmatu garrison to weaken each other, waiting for him to reveal all his cards.

That man was like the most skilled chess player, starting his strategy from the very first move, while he himself was always on the path calculated by his opponent.

"devil……"

He muttered to himself, "He is a devil from the East..."

6:45, third floor of Hurmatu Municipal Hospital.

Colonel Ross counted the bullets in the ammunition box.

The M4 carbine has twelve magazines, each with thirty rounds; the M249 machine gun has four belts, each with two hundred rounds; the M67 hand grenade has eight rounds; and the last three rounds are from an AT4 anti-tank rocket launcher.

This is all the ammunition reserves at his hospital outpost.

Beside him were sixty-three soldiers who could fight, seventeen of whom were wounded.

The gunfire on the first and second floors has stopped; it's not that the enemy has been repelled, but that all the defenders have been killed.

"Boss, there's been no sound from the police station..."

A mercenary named Miller leaned closer and whispered, "The last communication from the power plant came ten minutes ago. They said they blew up the generator so it wouldn't fall into 1515's hands."

"Hmm..." Ross nodded without saying anything.

He knew what this meant—of Hurmatu's last three strongholds, only the hospital was still putting up a fight.

And the hospital's resistance is about to end.

The roar of a T-72 tank engine could be heard outside the window.

Ross climbed to the broken window and saw two tanks driving from the end of the street, their turrets slowly rotating, their 125mm main guns aimed at the hospital's main building.

"Anti-tank team!" Ross roared.

Two soldiers rushed over carrying AT4 rocket launchers, but their hands were trembling.

Ross knew why—the AT4's effective range was only 300 meters, while the tank's range was over 1,000 meters.

They had to wait for the tanks to get close, but before that, the tanks' main guns would be enough to blast the three-story building into ruins.

"Boss, we..." Miller hesitated, unable to finish his sentence.

Ross understood what he meant.

surrender?

1515 did not accept surrender, especially not the surrender of American mercenaries.

The fate of being captured might be worse than dying in battle.

“Prepare for a final stand,” Ross said, his voice unusually calm. “Everyone save one last bullet for themselves. We can’t let them capture us alive.”

The soldiers nodded silently.

Some people started tearing off their identification tags, some hid their family photos close to their bodies, and some prayed quietly.

No one cried; the days of bloody battle had exhausted all their emotions, leaving only a numb resolve.

Ross took out a satellite phone and connected to Baghdad's dedicated line.

He planned to give a final report, then smash the phone to prevent the enemy from receiving any intelligence.

But then, something strange happened.

The tank stopped.

Not only did it stop, but the turret began to turn.

It's not aimed at the hospital, but at the rear.

Ross frowned and raised his binoculars.

He saw an even stranger sight—the 1515 infantrymen advancing toward the hospital suddenly began to retreat. The officers shouted, but the soldiers ignored their orders and surged toward the outskirts of the city like a receding tide.

"What's going on?" Miller saw it too. "Are they retreating?"

“Impossible,” Ross said. “They could take over the hospital, they could take over the whole of Hurmatu, why…”

His words were interrupted by an explosion coming from the southeast.

That wasn't an ordinary explosion; it was a series of explosions, the sound of a heavy artillery position being destroyed.

Immediately afterwards, a barrage of gunfire and explosions came from behind Unit 1515.

The once orderly attack formation instantly fell into chaos, with soldiers running around like headless flies, some even abandoning their weapons and fleeing towards the buildings on the side.

"Sir! Listen!" a young soldier shouted.

Ross listened intently.

Yes, from the southeast, from behind 1515, came a familiar yet unfamiliar sound—the bursts of M2HB heavy machine gun fire, the whooshing of Kornet anti-tank missiles, and the roar of Humvee engines.

These voices do not belong to 1515, nor to the government forces.

"It's reinforcements!" Miller's voice trembled with excitement. "My God, it really is reinforcements!"

A few minutes later, the communications officer stumbled into the room, his face beaming with ecstasy: "Colonel! A call from Baiji! Song Heping's troops have annihilated two thousand men of the 1515 rearguard in Area 4! Now his troops are maneuvering toward Hurmatu to attack the main force of 1515 from the flank!"

Ross paused for a few seconds, then let out a long, thorough sigh of relief.

He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and felt the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the broken window onto his face.

He is still alive.

His soldiers are still alive.

The city was saved.

But after the ecstasy comes a more complex emotion.

Looking out the window at the fleeing 1515 soldiers, he knew very well that this victory did not belong to Thunder Defense, nor to the Americans, nor even entirely to Song Heping.

It is part of a carefully designed strategic game.

A game between Song Heping and the White House and the Pentagon.

He and his soldiers were nothing more than pitiful pawns on the chessboard.

　First update.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)