"Damn! It's a sandstorm!"
Having left the ambush point and headed south for about 20 kiloters, the sound of "Wrench" ca through the radio.
Song Heping stuck his head out the car window to look south.
In his sight, the Sahara finally revealed its most ferocious fangs.
A yellow cloud appeared on the distant horizon, and the entire world seed to be stripped of color, leaving only a despairing, turbulent yellowish brown.
The fierce wind whipped up a sand wall dozens of ters high, stretching from heaven to earth, like a mythical moving mountain range, crushing down from the northwest!
"What do we do, boss?"
In the lead vehicle, "Wrench" asked Song Heping a bit nervously.
"Protect yourselves and drive through! We don't have ti, can't stop!"
Song Heping made the decision after only hesitating for two seconds.
He was familiar with the desert.
When crossing Egypt's desert before, he had experienced sandstorms.
Generally speaking, when a sandstorm arrives, it's best to choose to stop and find a sheltered spot to hide, or if you can't find favorable terrain, you should protect yourself on the spot, enduring until the storm passes.
But now they couldn't wait.
There were pursuers behind them.
Stopping ans giving the enemy ti to close the distance.
Compared to the danger of passing through the sandstorm, Song Heping preferred the latter.
"Everyone protect yourselves, close your windows, turn on the fog lights, reduce speed, and continue south!"
After sending the order over the radio, Song Heping stared at the sandstorm ahead, gritted his teeth, pulled up the scarf to cover his mouth and nose, and quickly closed the window.
A groan ca from the back seat.
It was the wounded "Hunter."
"Hunter, hold on!"
Song Heping turned to encourage him.
"As long as we hang in there, there's hope. I've already ordered Ferrari and White Bear to imdiately gather everyone from the company to cross the border northward, promising to et at Kurtan Oasis. Only 30 kiloters left to go."
"Boss, I'm... okay..."
Hunter weakly blinked, not even daring to move his head.
That shot almost took his life.
"Wrench, steady! Keep all vehicles together, don't fall behind! Charge in!"
Song Heping's voice penetrated the radio, carrying an undeniable decisiveness even amidst the howling winds.
Following the command, five battle-worn ard pickups and an off-road vehicle acting as a temporary ambulance plunged headlong into the towering yellowish-brown wall that stretched from heaven to earth.
The barely discernible horizon vanished in an instant.
The world was compressed into a narrow, suffocating, crazily shaking yellowish-brown box.
The light was completely devoured, the midday sun reduced to a blurry, bleak, sickly halo hanging overhead, unable to offer any warmth or illumination.
Visibility plumted from several hundred ters to less than ten ters, then five ters, three ters...
Finally, Song Heping couldn't even tell how far his stubbornly flickering yellow fog lights penetrated into the distance.
The vehicle shook violently, bumping along, as if the next mont it would be flipped over, dismbered by this invisible might.
Tiny grains of sand hamred against the windows and the vehicle body like speeding bullets, creating a teeth-grating "pop" and "rustle," while the tal skin groaned under the continuous impact, making one worry it might be pierced at any mont.
Those sitting in the car couldn't help but feel a chill down their spines, nerves tightly wound.
The air was suffocatingly dense.
Even with the windows tightly shut, the strong dust-laden odor insidiously infiltrated the cabin.
Song Heping raised the scarf higher, covering his mouth and nose completely, leaving only his sharp and vigilant eyes fixed on the front.
Every breath beca extraordinarily difficult, each inhale felt like the lungs were filled with coarse grains of sand.
The cabin was pervaded with the sll of dust, and a thin layer of yellow sand soon covered the dashboard.
"Boss! The wind's too strong! It's hard to keep a grip on the direction!"
"Wrench's" voice ca through the radio, with obvious symptoms of breathlessness and tension, the signal intermittently disrupted.
"Maintain direction! Slow down! Steady! Follow the car ahead closely!"
Song Heping tried to keep his voice steady but was also under enormous pressure inside.
The intensity of the sandstorm seed to be rising.
Whether they could truly hold out until the end without incident, he himself wasn't sure...
Right now, all sense of direction was lost, everyone in the vehicles had to rely on the compass on the dashboard and their remaining sense of direction to fight against the gusts and the total lack of visibility.
The road beneath the wheels had long vanished, the contours of the dunes were distorted in the storm, their depths unclear.
Sotis the vehicle got stuck in soft shifting sand, the engine strained audibly; other tis it was pushed by the wind, nearly losing control as it dashed onto a sand ridge.
The back seat once again echoed with a suppressed moan.
"Hunter" had a face full of agony and cold sweat, each violent jolt felt like a knife digging into his wound.
He bit his lip hard, refusing to let out a louder sound, unable to control the trembling of his body.
"Hunter! Hold on!"
Song Heping turned back and shouted, both to encourage his comrades and to boost his own morale.
Kurtan Oasis—the 30-kiloter distance now seed like a chasm.
The power of the sandstorm far exceeded expectations.
The tiny grains of sand were everywhere, penetrating the gaps in the engine hood, relentlessly launching attacks on the vehicle's heart, the engine.
The air filter, the last barrier protecting the engine's breath, had turned into a trap for the sand.
Initially, the engine only emitted a few muffled wheezes, and the power output beca sowhat sluggish.
The experienced drivers imdiately noticed the problem and reported it in succession.
"Engine power is dropping!"
"Feels like the intake is clogged!"
"Estimate the engine is dood!"
Song Heping's heart sank abruptly.
He knew what this ant.
"Check the filters! Try to maintain low RPM driving!"
He issued the command, with a barely noticeable thread of anxiety in his voice.
This was all they could do.
Yet, in front of the most savage sandstorm in the Sahara, human struggle seed so futile.
"Chief! It's over! Engine... cough cough... has stalled!"
"Spanner's" voice was filled with despair.
His lead vehicle first emitted a few unwilling roars, and ultimately fell completely silent, like a giant beast that had exhausted its final strength, collapsing on the yellow sands.
It seed like a chain reaction.
"Report! Engine stalled!"
"Report! Stalled! Can't start!"
"Supply vehicle stalled! Repeat, supply vehicle stalled!"
…
Life-threatening reports ca in one after another.
In less than five minutes, the entire convoy lost all power.
They helplessly halted in this boundless yellow hell.
The wind slamd into the stationary vehicles more recklessly, creating an even more piercing noise.
Sand quickly piled up on the vehicle bodies, nearly burying the wheels halfway.
"Everyone out of the vehicles! Check your equipnt! Take care of the wounded!"
Song Heping swung the car door open, and was the first to jump out.
The violent wind and sand imdiately poured in, almost knocking him over.
He crouched his body down, using all his strength just to stay upright.
The team mbers crawled out of their compartnts with difficulty and gathered in the raging sand as best they could.
Everyone was wrapped tightly, with only their eyes exposed, their figures wavering unsteadily in the sandstorm.
Haftar staggered to Song Heping's side, his voice filled with panic and disbelief beneath the mask: "Song! Are you crazy?! Walking in this weather? We'll be buried alive! And there are thousands of pursuers behind us! They'll crush us in no ti!"
Song Heping's gaze pierced through the sandstorm, staring firmly at Haftar; his voice was unusually calm and even carried a cruel logic beneath the mask: "Haftar! Listen to ! Staying in the vehicles is just waiting to die! The sandstorm won't stop quickly, and the pursuers will surely co! But have you thought about it, in this sandstorm, who is more likely to survive? Them with thousands of people, or us with just two hundred?"
He pointed at the sandstorm with visibility less than ten ters around them: "We are fewer, smaller targets, shorter command chains; we can move when we choose, stop when we wish! What about them? Thousands of people! More vehicles, bigger targets! Once their vehicles stall like ours, just maintaining command and preventing getting lost can be fatal for them! The bigger the sandstorm, their loss will be ten tis worse than ours! Chaos is our safeguard! Now, follow , walk forward! Target Kurtan Oasis!"
Haftar opened his mouth, looking at the undeniable gleam in Song Heping's eyes, glancing at the apocalyptic scene around them, and finally swallowed his words of opposition.
Song Heping's logic, like cold steel, shattered his last glimr of hope.
"Take all the water, food, ammunition, and dicine you can carry! Abandon unnecessary burdens! Tie everyone together with ropes! Wounded in the middle! 'Spanner,' 'Bayonet'! You are at the front scouting, use the compass! 'Hamr' at the back! Everyone follow closely! Keep your heads down! Cover your mouths and noses! Move out!" Song Heping's command was concise and powerful, instantly surpassing the roar of the sandstorm.
The group of over two hundred people, like a thin line struggling amidst raging waves, plunged into the more violent depths of the sandstorm.
Every step felt like wading through viscous mire. The soft sand swallowed their ankles, while the violent gale pushed their bodies from all sides, trying to topple and disperse them.
Tiny grains of sand were everywhere, invading collars, cuffs, even the seams of goggles, chafing the skin and irritating the eyes.
Breathing beca increasingly difficult, every inhilation felt like filling the nasal cavity and throat with sand grains, every exhalation carried a heavy earthy taste.
Visibility was almost zero. People could only rely on the vaguely swaying shadow in front of them and the ropes tied around their waists to confirm direction and position.
The compass beca the only hope; "Spanner" and "Bayonet" hunched over, leaning forward, shielding the compass with their bodies while painstakingly discerning direction.
The team's marching speed beca distressingly slow, with two to three kiloters per hour being the very limit.
The situation of the wounded was even more dire.
"Hunter" was placed on a makeshift stretcher made of canvas and several gun barrels, carried by four of the strongest team mbers in turns.
Each jolt caused his body to convulse with pain, but he gritted his teeth firmly, only emitting suppressed groans.
Other wounded supported each other, trudging tenaciously. The sand continued to cover them relentlessly, requiring constant slapping to barely avoid being buried.
Ti lost its aning.
Only the roar of the sandstorm, heavy panting, the sound of sand hitting equipnt, and the sensation of sinking and rising with every step ford the entirety of this desperate world.
Physical strength was rapidly draining, and endurance faced an unprecedented test amidst the relentless tornt of the sandstorm.
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