Four days later, northern Illiguo, Kold Autonomous Region oil field area.
The sky is dim and the visibility is extrely poor.
A rare spring sandstorm is sweeping across the northern sopotamian Plain.
Gusts of wind whip up clouds of sand, turning heaven and earth into a turbid shade of orange-brown, with visibility plumting to less than fifty ters.
The Kurdish sentries in the oil field huddle inside guardhouses and checkpoints, cursing this damn weather.
The beams from the searchlights beco blurred and feeble in the sand. In this weather, neither foes nor friends bother to move.
The patrol team returned shortly after setting out, reporting that they couldn't see anything outside.
Little do they know that the Grim Reaper is quietly approaching under the cover of sand.
Deep in the sandstorm, a fleet of dozens of Toyota pickups fitted with heavy machine guns and DShK anti-aircraft guns, along with several suicide trucks loaded with explosives compose the 1515 convoy, slithering silently like a desert Poison Snake towards the weakest segnt of the oil field's periter defense line.
They seem to be very familiar with the terrain here, perfectly avoiding several main fixed observation posts.
The attack cos suddenly and fiercely.
The first to break the silence are several mortar rounds.
These sudden projectiles shriek sadly, landing precisely on a Kurd's forward checkpoint!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The fiery explosion flashes and fades swiftly amidst the dim sand.
Several soldiers in the bunker posts haven't figured out what happened before being lifted into the air by the blast wave.
Instantly, shredded sandbags, twisted tal, and human limbs are scattered everywhere.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
The surviving Kurdish soldiers finally realize what transpired.
They scream in terror over the radio, but intense electromagnetic interference and wind noise make communication intermittent.
Almost simultaneously with the shelling, the 1515's pickup convoy rushes out of the sandstorm like Ghosts, the heavy machine guns spitting deadly tongues of fire that instantly drown the already chaotic checkpoint in a barrage of bullets.
The suicide trucks let out a deadly roar, recklessly charging towards deeper defensive structures and oil field facilities, then detonating fiercely!
Rumble—!!!
The massive explosions thundered uninterrupted, shaking the earth.
Huge fireballs burst into the sky, unable to be fully veiled even by the sandstorm.
The pipelines were blasted open, black crude oil gushing forth, quickly ignited by the explosion, forming a terrifying sea of fire.
The Kurdish soldiers are stunned.
The adverse weather prevents effective enemy observation, while the fervent assault montum and brutal tactics of the 1515 militants fill them with dread.
These extremists were clearly ticulously prepared and mobilized, with clear tactics—using the sandstorm for a center blossoming raid, focused on sabotaging oil field facilities, causing maximal panic and chaos.
"Hold on, brothers! Block them!"
A Kurd Commander screams hoarsely over the radio, organizing scattered counterattacks.
But defeat is inevitable.
The Kurdish soldiers, lacking effective command and coordination, start retreating under the dual assault of superior enemy forces and adverse conditions.
Seeing the situation is hopeless, so soldiers even abandon their weapons, jumping onto vehicles attempting to escape this burning Hell.
In the chaos, a fortified command post housing a US Army advisory group is also heavily attacked.
The advisors were originally here to "supervise" and assist the Kurds in defense, yet never expected to find themselves directly encircled.
"Request air support! Repeat, request urgent air support! We are under large-scale attack! Coordinates..."
A US Army technical expert operates communication equipnt while frantically calling into the microphone.
But the sandstorm severely disrupts radio signals, the channel filled with static, interfering greatly.
Almost as if Baghdad and east-south Illiguo's US Army received the distress call, it would likely be of no avail.
Under such devilish weather conditions, ground personnel cannot provide visual guidance to warplanes.
Suddenly, an RPG rocket with a trailing fla breaches the command post's sandbag wall!
Boom!
The violent explosion instantly devours everything inside.
The young technical expert and several Kurdish officers perish instantly.
His pleas for help, forever lost in the static noise.
After several hours of fierce fighting, the 1515 militants successfully penetrate the core zone of the oil field, begin shooting prisoners, and swiftly establish defensive positions.
The Kurd Ard suffer heavy losses, not only losing large areas of carefully controlled oil field but also suffering enormous casualties, including the death of a precious US Army technical expert.
Two hours later, the news reaches ho in the United States.
Langley, CIA Headquarters.
Director Vincent, with a face ashen, tosses a "Top Secret" docunt onto the office desk; seated opposite is Deputy Director Simon.
"Take a look! Northwest Illiguo! One of our most important allies, routed by a bunch of terrorists taking advantage of the sandstorm! Lost at least three vital oil fields! Plus, an excellent Air Force technician! The White House called right up, questioning our CIA's intelligence work? Why was there no pre-warning?! Why are we on the ground like blind n?!"
Vincent's voice echoes throughout the office, filled with suppressed fury.
Simon quickly browses the docunt, his expression grim.
He's an old spy, Vincent called him over surely because of his stint as an intelligence station chief in Illiguo, well-versed in the complicated dynamics there.
"Sandstorm weather is indeed difficult to predict and severely weakens Kurdish defense and our monitoring capabilities." Simon attempts to analyze objectively, "1515 clearly seized this perfect timing."
"I don't want excuses! Simon!"
Vincent interrupts, "What I want now is a solution! The President demands us CIA to quickly rebuild the intelligence network in northwest Illiguo! We need accurate ground intelligence! We need reliable human sources! We need soone who can designate targets, guide our missiles and drones, sending those damn 1515 leaders straight to Hell! For sustained, precise decapitation actions!"
He stares at Simon, tone unwavering: "You worked in Illiguo before, familiar with the people and matters there. Tell , what should we do now? How can we obtain the intelligence capability and ground guidance capability we need in the shortest ti?"
Simon remains silent for a mont, his mind racing.
He certainly knows the limitation of conventional thods—cultivating new informants requires ti, while the Kurds, after this blow, will be hard to use in short term, and they also have trust and coordination issues with the United States.
A bolder, more unconventional idea slowly takes shape in his heart.
He thinks of that na, that existence which makes CIA and JSOC both hate and fear, yet cannot ignore.
That person, or rather the force he represents, exactly possesses the currently desperately needed—unparalleled ground operation capability and intelligence network in the Illiguo/Siria border area, especially detailed knowledge on 1515.
But this is tantamount to making a deal with the Devil.
The risk is extrely high, once exposed, the consequences are unthinkable.
Simon raises his head, ets Vincent's anxious gaze, and slowly says: "Director, conventional thods require ti, and what we lack most is ti. I need... a bit of ti to consider an unconventional option, evaluating its feasibility and risks. It may be... tricky."
Vincent furrows his brow, seemingly reading sothing unusual from Simon's eyes, but engulfed by enormous pressure, only seeks a quick plan.
"Alright, I'll give you 24 hours." Vincent finally says, "24 hours later, I want to hear your preliminary plan."
"Understood."
Simon nods, gets up and leaves the Director's office.
The door closes behind him.
Vincent sits back in his chair, rubbing his temples; he knows not, the "unconventional option" calculating in his Deputy Director's mind is far more astonishing than he imagines.
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