In the command vehicle, the piercing alarm had stopped, but the tension remained, thick like it was frozen.
The eerie blue screen light illuminated the sweaty, pallid faces of the staff officers.
A burnt machine sll, sweat stench, and an overwhelming feeling called "loss of control" perated the air.
Brigadier Lumar stood stabbed at the huge tactical screen, his face appeared dark under the blue glow.
On the screen, representing the highland at the right-wing gray rocks, the red alert signals of fierce battle were flickering madly, rging into a blinding sea of blood, glaring amidst the pitch black.
The radio was chaotic like a market, with calls and reports from various direction units, the staff officers hurriedly and rapidly reporting casualty numbers and ammunition consumption.
Each cold digit felt like a small hamr, pounding on Lumar's seemingly taut nerves.
His prideful frontline, his ticulously arranged fire points, were being slowly gnawed away and exhausted by those "redneck" soldiers, under the cover of night, using the most primitive and savage human wave tactics.
This reckless night assault completely exceeded his precise calculations, leaving him with an anger of being overwhelmingly ridden by lower life forms, and a sliver of uncontainable panic over loss of control.
"Officer! C3 highland machine gun positions report: ammunition exhausted! Repeat, exhausted! Need resupply! Urgent!!"
"D1 zone anti-tank group is completely wiped out! No heat signals anymore! Governnt army's BMP is charging at the second-line trench!"
"Right-wing air defense post reports: no aircraft seen through night vision infrared, but spotted engine heat sources moving behind the governnt army! Seems like trucks are running!"
Bad news kept crashing in.
Lumar clenched his lips, his knuckles turned white.
He felt his fingertips were dazed, but was forcing himself to stay calm, his mind raced.
The pressure on the frontline's right wing was imnse, but the core defense line was still intact.
As long as he withstands this wave of Mad Dog-like night attack, exhausts what little the governnt army has, victory is still his.
SAS's air defense firepower was already pressured to the right per his orders, low visibility at night, but the primary focus should prevent errors.
As long as the governnt army's MiG-23 dare not co, the right-wing defense line can still be held!
His gaze swept across the green fan-shaped area representing his side's air defense radar, confirming it firmly covering the gray rock direction.
A barely noticeable confidence in his judgnt ca back again.
He picked up the communicator, his voice reverting to its usual icy hardness, particularly clear in the silent command vehicle:
"Order the reserve force, imdiately reinforce the right-wing D zone! Mortars, keep illuminating shells going! Concentrate firepower to bomb the eastern slope of gray rock! Pin their follow-up squads at the foot of the mountain! Maintain highest alert on air defense positions! Night vision infrared fully active! Do not let a single bird's heat shadow slip through!"
He must stabilize, he must be the anchor in this dark night.
Across the ravine, in the governnt army's frontline command post, squatting under the shadows of giant rocks, the atmosphere was heavy enough to squeeze out water.
The air was foul, mixed with sweat stink, low-grade tobacco, and iron rust sll.
Just a few small red lights provided dim illumination.
On the main screen, representing the 11th brigade's attack, the blue arrows were moving at a heartbreakingly slow pace, painfully "nudging" against the red wall representing Lumar's front line.
Each small move forward caused a signal representing a unit to fade or disappear.
Satellite images and UAV heat imaging showed clearly the trail of blue arrows left on the gray rock highland, paved by cold corpses (deep blue) and burning debris (bright white).
Song Heping stood like an iron statue before the screen, bloodshot eyes under the dim red light like two burning coals, fixated on that hell marked by blood and fire.
He saw the 11th brigade soldiers crashing flesh into steel barriers in the night's horror, saw the montum of attack being gradually strangled under Lumar's superior firepower and terrain, the despair.
Every passing second ant more lives vanishing, the attacking force waning.
His fist clenched tight beside his body, nails dug into his palm, the prickle far less than the distress within.
Now he understood the imnse pressure a commander in a large-scale battle must bear.
The re death of those n, each life constantly adding weight akin to Mount Tai on his nerves.
Any slightly weaker-willed person would have already collapsed.
"Alexander calling! 'Razors' have arrived at the combat zone airspace! Requesting attack orders! Repeat, requesting attack!"
The Mig-23 pilot Alexander's anxious shout echoed from the communicator, backgrounded by the low and violent roar of the engines, like a beast suffocated in dark.
Song Heping did not imdiately reply.
His gaze was like the most precise radar, repeatedly scanning the situation projected by "Heavenly Eye" satellite imagery.
Lumar's forces' depth…
Spectrum representing air defense fire density…
High-risk red dots representing SAS Special Forces activities…
Suddenly, his eagle-like pupils sharply contracted! At the screen's edge, those marked deadly red points for SAS guidance groups and Man-PADS, their positions showed dramatic changes!
They moved!
Finally mobilized! Almost all, from previously sowhat even alert status, distinctly flocked toward the right-wing gray rock direction's boiling sea of blood! Like sharks slling blood, absorbed entirely in the right-wing night sky!
"Heavenly Eye" window remaining 1 minute 55 seconds!
Henry's voice, desperate and hoarse rang out, like a funeral bell tolling.
On the screen, those striking red countdown digits, in the dim command post like dripping blood, coldly and relentlessly ticking, was the knife hanging on everyone's heart strings, God's fast closing eye in the night!
It's now! Darkness is a double-edged sword, their eyes are all lured by the right-wing night battle, the air defense net ripped open a fatal gap!
This is the only, fleeting opportunity!
Ti is up!
Song Heping's gaze erupted with terrifying fierceness, all calculations, all endurance, all intelligence purchased with life, at this mont twisted into a fierce force reaching for the sky!
He grabbed the encrypted communication handset, his voice like a thunderous explosion in the narrow and dim command post, each word sparking with energy:
"'Razor'! 'Razor'! Action! Target—'Head Wolf'! Coordinates XXXXX! Hit hard! Hit to kill! One strike, lethal! For victory! Launch—!"
Behind the Lumar positions, in a well-camouflaged observation point, the SAS team leader codenad "Shepherd" was intently watching the bloody seesaw battle on the listone highlands through high-magnification low-light/thermal fusion Night Vision Goggles.
Governnt army soldiers surged like tides, only to leave behind layers of cold corpse thermal signals as they receded under intense fire.
His headphones were filled with the front-line Lumar troops' cries for support and casualty reports, incredibly clear in the dead silence of the night.
"Caesar Two reports, no abnormalities in low-altitude infrared scans on the right flank. The 'Blowpipe' shooter has clear vision, thermal imaging stable."
A team mber's calm voice ca through.
"Received. Maintain surveillance. Nights are MiG mouse's favorite infiltration tis, stay on high alert."
The team leader responded steadily, with a professional calm and a hint of caution against potential threats.
As an experienced special forces commander, he instinctively executed Lumar's orders, locking the main air defense focus on the right flank night sky with the most pressure.
This was battlefield logic.
However, as he shifted the heavy observation scope, sweeping over the relatively calm left flank and front depth with sporadic thermal signals, a slight and fleeting sense of unease, like a cold snake, quietly slipped down his spine.
The right flank was too "hot", drawing all the "attention".
So then...
What about other areas?
Especially that overlooked low-altitude blind spot near the rear of the command vehicle?
Under the cover of night, was that area's "silence" strangely unsettling?
Instinctively, he adjusted the crosshairs of the observation lens toward the command vehicle, where the large wheeled cabin remained a stable heat source profile in the thermal imaging.
Lumar's earlier orders were clear: keep eyes deadlocked on right flank low altitude.
As "assistance", he had no authority to question, much less independently reposition precious air defense resources.
Yet that battlefield intuition honed from countless night infiltrations and hunts sounded an alarm acutely.
He hesitated for less than a second, fingers twitching slightly, almost ordering a slight tilt in one squad's detection focus towards the command vehicle.
At this instant, the view through the scope at the edge of the listone highland, where a barely holding governnt army position suddenly erupted with dense gunfire and grenade flashes!
Thermal signals flickered violently!
"Caesar Three, D7 region urgently calling! Thermal signals indicate small enemy infiltration! Requesting fire suppression coordinates!"
The urgent report voice instantly cut off Shepherd's train of thought.
The SAS team leader's attention was imdiately pulled back to the imperative combat demands in front of him.
That nascent alertness was drowned by more direct, concrete threat information.
He swiftly concluded, reallocating full focus and resources back onto the right flank's anti-air alert and fire direction.
That critical gap, under his professional dedication, the binding of commanding orders, and the distraction of unfolding incidents, was briefly and utterly overlooked.
Those vital fractions of a second, on the scales of war, weigh heavier than a thousand pounds.
The outer airspace of the combat zone.
"'Razor', receiving! Imdiate strike—!"
In the communication channel, Alexander's wild roar was instantly drowned out by the terrifying scream of a MiG-23's afterburner roaring to full force, tearing through the air!
That shout was especially clear and fierce across the dark night sky!
In the southwest direction of the rift, at ultra-low altitude, a MiG-23 with all navigation lights off, like a Ghost, suddenly appeared!
It stuck close to the undulating desert surface, at an altitude of less than a hundred ters, rapidly advancing at nearly maximum speed using terrain folds and radar clutter concealnt!
The fuselage's distinctive variable-sweep wings were fully swept back at high speed, forming an impossibly sharp triangular blade of death, piercing the cold night wind.
Underneath, two massive Kh-23 air-to-ground missiles reflected the cold, rciless glow of death in the weak red glow of cockpit instrunts and occasional explosion flashes below.
Alexander firmly pushed the throttle lever to its limit, the Tumansky R-35-300 engine issued a thunderous, almost explosive roar!
The powerful thrust pinned him into the ejection seat, the aircraft violently vibrating at maximum speed.
Sweat soaked through the flight suit, cold and sticky.
On the rudintary terrain matching radar screen inside the cockpit, the target coordinate point blinked with a death on red light.
But Alexander didn't fully rely on it.
His bloodshot eyes were glued to the radar warning receiver (RWR) and the dim Horizon ahead in the violent turbulence view, where the giant wheeled command cabin's radar signal and profile rapidly enlarged!
This night was his blade of assault, and key to victory!
"Go to Hell and eat shit, bastard!"
He roared into the cold, dark cockpit, with soaring hatred and near-success elation, his right thumb fiercely, resolutely slamming the missile launch button!
Hiss—!
Hiss—!
Two brief, deadly blasts! Two thick white plus like Hell's beast breath, instantly spewed from beneath the MiG-23!
The Kh-23 missile solid rocket motor ignited…
Blazing exhaust flas traced two glaringly straight death trajectories across the pitch-black night sky.
The missiles, like two enraged steel Poison Snakes breaking free from shackles, with destructive kinetic energy and guidance signals, leaving the racks, striking onwards in an almost straight trajectory towards the enormous target clearly like a bullseye in low-altitude vision and radar screen ahead—the Lumar brigade-grade command vehicle.
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