The Lieutenant pounded his emaciated chest hard, producing a dull sound: "Understood!"
His gaze swept over General Haftar and the "Hunter" on the stretcher, filled with a resolute heaviness.
The line of wounded soldiers, under the blazing sun, supported each other, carried, and staggered toward the direction of Kurtan Oasis.
Each step sank deep into the sand, each movent accompanied by suppressed groans and heavy panting.
What they carried away was the last symbol of hope for the team, yet also a heavy burden.
Song Heping withdrew his gaze, no longer looking at the mournful team slowly disappearing into the silhouette of the dunes.
He turned around.
More than a hundred and thirty soldiers still capable of holding weapons stood silently behind him, like ravenous wolves stripped of their fur, exposing their fangs.
Their eyes reflected a red glow under the scorching sun, burning with the sa desire — an extre thirst for water, a mad obsession for survival, and a ferocity driven by death, ready to devour anyone in their path.
No slogans, no mobilization, just heavy, storm-restrained breathing, and the subtle sounds of weapons clashing, sand shaking off their clothes.
"Move!"
Song Heping's voice was low and hoarse, like a cold wind rising in the desert's heart.
He waved his hand and took the first step, his boots sinking deep into the cold sand, heading back towards the direction they ca from, towards the lurking pursuers and slaughter in the depths of darkness, resolutely pressing forward.
Behind him, over a hundred and thirty pairs of dust-covered military boots stepped silently and firmly onto the scorching gravel, leaving a trail leading to either hell or a path of survival.
Dusk is Sahara's harshest mask.
The dayti heat vanished as quickly as a receding tide, replaced by a piercing cold that felt like it could freeze your marrow.
The wind fully stopped, leaving behind suffocating silence and icy air, each breath felt like inhaling tiny ice needles, stinging the cracked throat and nasal cavity.
The sand, heated by the sun during the day, greedily absorbed the last bit of body warmth, each step felt like the cold was rushing from the feet straight to the head.
Song Heping marched at the forefront, like a moving black reef in the sea of sand.
His senses, forced to their limits by extre thirst and cold, were amplified to an incredible degree.
He filtered any suspicious sound amidst the deadly silence — the tiny rustling of sand sliding down a steep slope, a distant unknown Night Owl's chilling screech, the heavy, suppressed breathing of soldiers behind him, and the slight chattering of teeth from the cold.
Suddenly, his footsteps abruptly halted, his right hand swiftly lifted, clenched into a fist, signaling "stop advancing."
Like being pulled by an invisible string, the group of over a hundred soldiers instantly froze.
All breathing, footsteps, and the rustling of fabric ceased.
Only the thudding of hearts within cold chests echoed, pounding against everyone's eardrums.
Over a hundred pairs of eyes lit up in the dusk like a pack of wolves lurking in the night, cautiously scanning their surroundings.
Song Heping slowly crouched down, grabbed a handful of cold sand, feeling the biting cold.
He turned his head, pressing his ear close to the ground.
The cold sand grains rubbed against his ear.
After a few seconds of dead silence, a faint and unnatural sound, like a tiny electric current, transmitted through the vibration of the sand into his ear.
Voices!
Chaotic, mixed with fear and exhaustion!
And...
The sound of tal clashing!
The distance...
Very close!
Right beyond the rolling sand dunes ahead!
He abruptly lifted his head, his eyes bursting with a wolf-like gleam.
He made several silent gestures: pointing his index finger towards the source of the sound, pressing his palm down (indicating stealth), then spreading his fingers open forcefully to the sides (flanking maneuver)!
Without any words, the pack of hungry wolves behind him instantly understood the command.
The camaraderie honed over the edge of life and death was fully demonstrated at this mont.
The troop silently and swiftly dispersed to the sides like pebbles thrown into water, rging into the shadows of the dunes.
Their movents were like lizards in the desert, using every sand ridge, every weathered rock for cover, advancing stealthily and silently.
Cold sand poured into their boots, scraping against their ankles' skin, yet no one made a sound.
In their parched throats, it felt like being stuffed with scorching sand, each swallow brought tearing pain, but that pain was firmly suppressed by a stronger urge to kill and greed for water.
Song Heping, along with a core group — Disaster Star, Wrench, and a few battle-hardened veterans — climbed like ghosts to the ridgeline of the highest dune. He lay against the cold sand, carefully peeking out.
The scene below made even soone like him, accustod to hellish sights, experience constricted pupils.
The sand valley below was a ss.
It was clearly a small contingent that had utterly lost its bearings and structure in the doomsday-like sandstorm just past.
About three hundred people, wearing the disorganized, patchwork uniforms of the GNA forces.
They resembled headless flies, running chaotically on the cold sand, shouting, pushing and shoving.
A few camouflaged pickup trucks were skewed and stuck in the sand, their hoods open, as soone futilely tinkered with the engines.
Sporadic campfires crackled in a few places, their flickering light illuminating faces full of fear, exhaustion, and sand dust.
Chaos!
It was utter chaos!
The soldiers gathered around the campfires, not for warmth, but seemingly for so psychological solace.
Swearing, arguing, shouting for companions, and the groans of the injured mixed together, forming a cacophonous wave of noise.
Many sat slumped on the sand, clutching their guns, eyes blankly staring at the dancing flas, or desperately gnawing on dried rations.
Water!
Song Heping's gaze, precise as a probe, instantly locked on a target: several bulging canvas water bags heavily guarded and piled at the back of a pickup truck!
And the Military Water Bottles dangling from soldiers' belts!
Inside them was the liquid of life!
Sothing more precious than gold at this mont!
"Look... water..."
Beside him, an old soldier's voice trembled with uncontrollable greed, his cracked lips silently opening and closing.
Song Heping's heart pounded wildly in his chest, every beat bringing a dizzying thirst, the burning sensation in his throat had never been so intense.
The pile of water bags and bottles clung to his entire will like a magnet. He forced himself to calm down, his sharp gaze scanning the chaotic camp.
No heavy weapons...
No obvious command chain...
Exhausted...
Extrely low vigilance...
The sandstorm and getting lost had completely destroyed their command system...
"Disaster Star."
Song Heping's voice was extrely low, like sandpaper scraping, "Left flank, take fifty n, see that stuck pickup? Go around from behind it, block the mouth of the valley! Move fast! Be ruthless!"
"OK."
Disaster Star's eyes flashed fiercely, nodding silently, gliding down the dune like a Poison Snake set to strike.
"Wrench, right flank, thirty n, target that pile of water bags! Nail it down for ! Not even a fly should get close to the water!"
Song Heping's gaze was fixed on those life-signifying containers.
Wrench licked his cracked, bleeding lips, his eyes like a sniper scope aid at prey: "Understood! The water is ours!"
"The rest of you."
Song Heping's gaze swept over the last dozens of sand-dusted, wolf-eyed faces around him, "Follow ! Frontal assault! Charge in!"
His voice emitted a chill sharper than the frigid night.
"Rember! This is for water! For survival! No captives! No hesitation! Kill and take it all!"
"Kill and take it all!"
The suppressed roar squeezed out from dozens of throats was like the low growl of a beast.
Thirst and the desire to kill completely rged at that mont, igniting into a destructive inferno.
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