The shocking scene of the T-72 being buried alive only slightly delayed the montum of the extre militants' attack.
To them, Entrance No. 3 was like a piece of juicy at hanging at the mouth of a wild wolf.
It seed like they were about to break through, but they were just a tiny bit short.
This made the officer commanding the attack even more irritable.
"Keep attacking! Don't stop! They can't hold on for much longer! The supervisory team, keep an eye on them. Anyone who dares retreat is showing disrespect and disloyalty to Allah, and I permit you to judge them in the na of God!"
"And the artillery, at all costs, unleash a full volley on Entrance No. 3! I want to blast them into mince at!"
Under the prodding of the supervisory officer, the "Victory Front" launched another attack.
Song Heping leaned against the cover, barely catching a breath, when he suddenly heard a strange sound coming from the night sky...
Sssss——
Puff, puff, puff——
This sound was too familiar...
"Shelling! Take cover—!"
The dust from the buried tank hadn't settled when Song Heping's roar rang out again.
His prediction was frighteningly accurate— the "Victory Front's" command was clearly enraged by this loud slap in the face, and retaliatory artillery fire poured down like a sudden storm, no longer the probing harassnt from before, but a targeted coverage strike!
Everyone imdiately sought shelter from the artillery.
Diving under every concrete building, be it a sewer or a wreckage supported by concrete ruins.
Staying in the open, even on the front line, ant death when the shells hit.
Boom!
Crash!
Rumble——!
The hailstorm of shells smashed into the streets around Entrance No. 3, the deafening explosions were unceasing, and the earth trembled in agony.
The scorching waves carrying debris, shrapnel, and the screech of death, furiously swept over every inch of land.
The already precarious ruins and walls collapsed in explosions, raising clouds of dust that nearly obscured the erging dawn light.
Bullets raked the streets like raindrops, producing the sharp "jew-jew", "whoosh-whoosh" sounds, sparking and chipping away the concrete, weaving the air into a deadly web of fire.
"Conserve ammunition! Aim before you shoot! Keep an eye on the street openings!"
Song Heping's voice was already hoarse like a broken gong.
He couldn't help but swallow a mouthful of spit.
But it was futile.
The battlefield smoke greatly affected the respiratory tract.
Now, he felt as if his throat was coated with a thick layer of dust, sticky and grimy.
Half-crouched behind a corner of a bombed-out staircase, Song Heping swiftly changed an empty AK-74 magazine, his eyes scanning the position already shrouded in smoke.
There weren't many left who could still fight.
The elite of the Wagner Guard and a dozen crippled veteran governnt soldiers ford this shaky last line of defense.
Each of these n was a grizzled veteran who had crawled out from mountains of corpses and seas of blood, and facing a desperate situation, they exhibited astonishing combat skills and ruthless efficiency.
Fortunately, the ones left were all elites.
These veterans wasted not a single bullet.
Burst fire, precise short bursts, and the occasional opportunistic cold shots beca the main thods of reaping the extre militants.
Da-da-da...
Da-da-da...
A steady and rhythmic PKM general-purpose machine gun burst fire sound overshadowed the chaotic battlefield noise.
The sound ca from behind a half-obliterated load-bearing wall on the right flank.
That was Ivan, the Wagner machine gunner, like a steady giant bear, he mounted his PKM gun on the gap in the broken wall, with a long ammo belt extending from an opened ammo box beside him, the yellowish bullets glistening coldly in the dim light.
From his exceptionally skilled shooting style, Song Heping could tell this was a veteran who had once served in the military.
Every short burst he fired was like a snake flicking its tongue, always hitting the spots where the Victory Front militants attempted a quick pass or suppressing enemy RPG shooters and machine gun positions trying to erge.
Two enemies with shoulder-mounted RPG-7s barely peeked out from the ruins, only to be cut down by the whistling 7.62mm long burst fire, tumbling to the ground.
"Nicely done, Ivan! Keep hitting those bastards!"
The Chef called out excitedly from behind a nearby wall, suddenly popping out, firing a rapid burst with his compact AK-74U towards the left flank, then imdiately withdrawing after emptying the magazine, bullets peppering the spot he had just occupied with flying earth.
"No big deal, Chef! This little scene..."
Ivan's hearty voice hadn't even finished when it was abruptly interrupted by a piercingly sharp whistling sound!
"Watch out!!!"
Song Heping and the Chef shouted a stern warning almost simultaneously.
Boom——!!!
An 82mm mortar shell dropped almost vertically, smashing down less than ten ters behind Ivan's machine gun position!
The explosion rang like it was tearing the eardrums apart.
Though not a direct hit, the deadly shockwaves and countless high-speed flying fragnts swept across like the Grim Reaper's scythe!
"Ah!"
Ivan let out a painful muffled grunt.
An irregular, searing hot piece of shrapnel had fiercely burrowed into his thick right neck.
Blood spurted out like a fountain, instantly staining half of his body and the PKM machine gun below him with crimson.
His massive body swayed violently, his face turning ashen, as large beads of sweat mixed with blood and dust rolled down his forehead.
"dic!!"
The Chef's eyes widened in rage, and without thinking, he wanted to rush over.
"Don't..." Blood mixed with foam overflowed from Ivan's mouth as he forcefully waved his hand: "The machine gun... can't stop..."
His eyes flickered with a beast-like ferocity, as he violently yanked the almost empty ammo belt away with his trembling, blood-stained left hand, struggling to drag a heavy spare ammo box beside him.
He attempted to slot the new ammo belt into the feeding port with his right hand, but as his strength rapidly faded with his life, his actions beca clumsy and difficult.
Blood gushed out, forming a small alarming pool of red mud beneath him.
At this mont, another wave of "Victory Front" militants, under the cover of artillery fire and smoke, howled as they launched a new charge! They surged toward the breach like a tide!
A final terrifying glint flashed in Ivan's clouded eyes as he abandoned arranging the ammo, relying almost solely on incredible willpower, pressing his heavy body firmly onto the violently trembling gun, fiercely pulling the trigger against the oncoming enemy tide!
The PKM general-purpose machine gun let out its final cry, the most furious roar of its life.
The muzzle spewed a half-ter-long blaze, and the spent shells clinked like a waterfall, instantly piling up a small brass hill at his feet.
The few enemies at the forefront were riddled with bullets, their bodies contorting as they fell to the ground.
However, Ivan quickly beca a focus of the enemy's concentrated fire.
A machine gunner is always a primary "target" on the battlefield.
The opposing side returned fire with a barrage of machine-gun fire, bullets raining down like water!
Thud thud thud thud...
Ivan's powerful body jerked violently as if electrocuted, terrifying bursts of blood blossoming across his chest and abdon.
His roar abruptly ceased, his head slumping forward, his whole body collapsing like a mountain onto the still-hot PKM machine gun, completely silent.
"Ivan!!! Suka!!!!"
The Chef let out a heart-wrenching roar, ripping the last two F1 hand grenades from his tactical vest, hurling them with all his might towards the direction of the enemy charge without even looking!
Boom!
Boom!
The explosions montarily halted the frenzied enemy advance, smoke billowing.
"You! Take over the machine gun! Don't let it fall silent!"
Song Heping suppressed the stabbing pain and anger in his heart, maintaining absolute calm, shouting to a young governnt army soldier beside him whose face was pale but eyes remained stubborn.
The soldier, looking at Ivan's grueso sacrifice, swallowed hard, a flicker of fear passing through his eyes.
"Go! Or we'll all die!"
Song Heping bellowed at him.
The young man shuddered, gritting his teeth as he crawled forward, dodging bullets whizzing by, struggling to drag Ivan's heavy corpse aside, picking up the blood-soaked PKM, and fiercely pulling the trigger at the shadows visible in the dawn.
The battle had entered its most brutal and cold-blooded attrition phase.
The number of defending troops was dwindling at a visibly rapid pace.
A Wagner Guard mber, injured in the leg, watched an enemy ard pickup approach from below the building, glanced at his empty assault rifle, then silently gathered all the hand grenades on him, bundling them into a cluster grenade. He looked towards the Chef, smiled painfully, and shouted: "Boss! Kill a few more for !!"
With that, he jumped from the building, like a cannonball falling freely into the pickup bed.
"Co back!"
The Chef's cry of protest was drowned out by the explosion.
Boom——!!!
A giant fireball burst into the sky, instantly engulfing the pickup and several nearby enemies.
The heroic sacrifice temporarily eliminated the threat from the flank.
"We're almost out of ammunition!"
In the dim building, soone shouted in Russian.
No one responded.
For any response couldn't change anything.
Inside the encirclent, everyone lacked supplies.
Defensive forces from all directions were short...
The stockpile in the command post had long been emptied.
In the high-intensity urban battle, bullets were like pouring water.
Hand grenades were like hail from God.
Saving ammunition was impossible and absurd.
Otherwise, if you lost your life, what use would you have for the ammunition you saved?
Another veteran, having spent all his automatic weapon ammunition, silently fixed his bayonet.
As a fanatical enemy charged over the defensive position's cover, the veteran stably thrust out, the old bayonet piercing accurately and viciously through the opponent's throat.
But almost simultaneously, several bullets shot from the side also struck his aged body...
Song Heping and the Chef were fighting furiously, like firefighters, charging back and forth across the perilous defensive line.
Song Heping's precise shots were like the Grim Reaper's call, always eliminating the most threatening targets at the most critical monts; the Chef, like a raging Siberian bear, compensated for gaps in firepower with precise, fierce bursts and hand grenades.
At that mont, ti seed infinitely elongated, and Song Heping felt as if the entire world was unreal, at a standstill.
His mind was blank, with only one thought—kill! Kill! Kill!
...
User Comments
0 comments from readers