A voice with a thick Illiguo accent pierced through the wind and sand.
Song Heping looked in the direction of the voice, only to see a familiar yet sowhat unfamiliar figure rushing over quickly.
It was Samir!
He was leaner than the last ti they t, with hollow cheeks, prominent cheekbones, and skin scorched dark and rough by the desert wind and sun.
He was wearing a tattered camouflage that mixed leftover US Army supplies with local traits, a traditional checkered headscarf wrapped around his head, and a heavily worn AK-74M slung at his waist.
"Samir!"
Song Heping stepped forward, and without any excess words, the two shared a heavy embrace.
"Boss! You finally ca!"
Samir's voice carried a hint of excitent.
He quickly glanced at the "Sand Fox" squad disembarking one after another, and their sophisticated equipnt, a flash of light in his eyes, quickly overshadowed by deeper worry.
"The situation is terrible! Co with quickly!"
The group quickly left the landing site, swiftly getting into the arranged pickups, like ghosts, traversing the rolling sand dunes and dried-up riverbeds.
After dropping them off, the helicopter quickly ascended, vanishing with a roar into the vast night.
The vehicle drove for over an hour before the terrain beca rugged, entering a jagged mountain area.
The air grew colder, and the wind and sand lessened.
The convoy twisted and turned, ultimately slipping into an extrely concealed mountain valley crevice, stopping at the entrance.
The entrance to the crevice was narrow, but inside it suddenly opened up, forming a natural depression enclosed by towering rock walls.
The scene that t Song Heping's eyes was more shocking than the intelligence descriptions.
Dozens of canvas tents, stained with oil and patched up, leaned askew in the corners, shivering in the cold wind.
The so-called "firepower points" were just makeshift shelters made from rubble in natural rock crevices, with few basic sandbags in sight.
In the center of the camp burned a small pile of bonfire, its light weak, barely dispelling the deep night's chill, yet unable to dispel the heavy sll perating the air—low-grade tobacco, sour sweat, cal dung, the stench of festering wounds, and a soul-piercing sense of despair.
This was the current headquarters of the "Eligo Liberation Force" (abbreviated "Liberation Army")—a refuge on the brink of collapse.
The firelight illuminated faces numb, haggard, and covered in dust.
Most of the fighters wore tattered, color-mismatched clothing, so wrapped only in dirty blankets for warmth.
Their weapons were a hodgepodge.
Old AK-47s with polished barrels, rusty Mosin-Nagants, and even ancient Lee-Enfields.
A few PKM machine guns counted as heavy firepower, their bodies covered in dents and scratches.
Most of the ammunition boxes were empty, casually piled to one side.
In the corner, several wounded lay on filthy blankets, without proper bandages, their wounds hastily wrapped with ragged strips, oozing dark red blood and pus, their pain-filled groans suppressively low.
So fighters clutched their guns, curled up beside the fire, their gazes empty as they watched the flickering flas, fatigue and confusion etched on their faces.
Seeing Samir return with a group of strangers equipped with sophisticated gear, they cast glances over, eyes filled with curiosity and wariness...
The entire camp was shrouded in a suffocating, almost despairing atmosphere, morale plumted to the lowest point.
"Boss, Naxin, and brothers, welco to the hell outpost."
Samir's voice was filled with bitterness. He looked around the camp, pain in his eyes.
He gestured for everyone to sit around the bonfire, as a young warrior with chapped lips brought a few cups of murky, impurity-filled hot tea.
Song Heping did not touch the teacup, his sharp gaze scanning the hellish scene, finally resting on Samir's face: "Speak, Samir. Tell , how strong is 1515 now? How severe is the situation?"
Samir took a deep breath, as if to pour out the heaviness and anger pressing in his chest.
He picked up a charred stick and began drawing vigorously in the sand by the bonfire.
"Look here."
He marked the location representing Mosul, drawing a huge, black cross that seed to swallow everything.
"Last June, that's when the nightmare began! Those lunatics with black flags sward over from Siria like locusts from hell. Mosul...the second-largest city of Illiguo, the heart of the north! The garrison had three entire divisions! Equipped with tanks, armored vehicles, and artillery left by the Aricans! And what happened?"
Samir stabbed the stick forcefully at the spot representing the governnt army, almost breaking it with the force.
"They collapsed at the first touch! An unprecedented defeat! A total disgrace! The soldiers had no will to resist, abandoning weapons and positions like frightened sheep, just trying to save their lives! They handed the entire city, heaps of US-made weapons, armored vehicles, and even ammunition-filled warehouses to 1515! Those beasts rode around Mosul in the Humrs abandoned by the governnt army, dragging M198 howitzers, flaunting their might!"
His voice was hoarse with agitation, eyes burning with the fire of humiliation.
"You know what's the most pathetic thing? Mosul wasn't conquered—it was lost to fear! The governnt army is rotten to the core! Corruption! Embezzlent of military pay! The generals are just thinking about making money! The soldiers don't know what they are fighting for! That defending division commander, Maliki's close confidant, fled with his young mistress and suitcases full of US Dollars before a shot was even fired, faster than a rabbit!"
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