anwhile, about a kiloter away from the number three entrance, on the rooftop of a relatively intact five-story building.
The highest commander of the Victory Front's attack, Abu Omar, was fixated through a high-precision telescope, staring intently at the brutal battlefield ahead.
When he saw the precious T-72 being buried alive, saw wave after wave of attacking troops being shattered like waves crashing against rocks in that tiny ruin, the veins on his forehead bulged and pulsed like worms.
"Trash! A bunch of waste! Useless idiots! Garbage!"
He suddenly put down the telescope, trembling with extre anger, and in a sudden rage, slamd the expensive telescope hard onto the concrete floor!
With a "snap," the precise optical instrunt shattered instantly!
"Two whole hours! Over three hundred brave warriors have been sacrificed! Yet you can't even capture a broken entrance defended by just a few dozen remnants! Are those Russians demons from Hell?! Or are you all a bunch of suckling lambs?!"
He roared like thunder, spittle spraying over the faces of the surrounding officers.
His confidants and subordinate commanders around him were all as silent as cicadas in winter, heads down, not daring to breathe.
A heavy atmosphere of fear spread, even overshadowing the sll of gunpowder wafting from the battlefield.
"Leader..."
An officer in charge of frontline communication braced himself, his voice trembling as he reported, "The resistance of the defenders at number three entrance is exceptionally fierce, those are Wagner rcenaries, their combat skills and will far exceed expectations... moreover, there seems to be a particularly skilled battlefield commander among them, who consistently judges our tactical intentions accurately, always appearing at the most fatal locations..."
"I don't care who he is! Whether he's God or Satan!"
Omar suddenly interrupted him, a paranoid and crazed glow shimring in his bloodshot eyes.
"I only want results! I only want Halaib! Tell those fools at the front! This is the last chance! I'm giving them ten minutes! No! Five minutes!"
He suddenly pointed his hand in the direction of entrance number three, his voice so piercing it nearly broke: "Get everyone who can move! All reserve forces! Push them all forward! Organize the 'Martyr Squadron'! Use those car bombs! Have the human bombs charge at the forefront! What I want is not a breakthrough! I want a flattening! I want that place wiped from the map completely! Five minutes! If I don't see our flag planted on the street behind entrance number three in five minutes, the frontline commander better bring his own head to see !"
His extre anger and the looming "victory"—capturing Halaib ans opening the gate to Damascus, an extraordinary achievent that could make his na known worldwide, and in the future possibly secure a significant position within the new regi.
This is a huge temptation, the greed for power has completely clouded his mind.
Under Omar's frenzied orders, the Victory Front militants initiated the most insane and desperate attack since the opening of hostilities!
Several suicide bombers tightly strapped with explosives, under the cover of dense machine-gun fire and smoke bombs from their own side, rushed towards the defenders' last position, screaming fanatically "Allah is great," faces filled with fervent devotion or numb fear!
This style of assault was not unfamiliar to Song Heping.
As long as one could reach the front of the position, it would be a success.
The explosives strapped to them were enough to turn the surrounding area within tens of ters into scorched earth.
Behind them, separated by a hundred ters, was the second wave of attacking forces.
These people carried no explosives, they were infantry; once the front "human bombs" succeeded, they would flood over like a tidal wave, tearing through the last defenses of the governnt army.
"Watch out for those human bombs! Prioritize the human bombs!"
Song Heping's pupils contracted sharply, using all his strength to shout the warning, his voice piercing and sharp amidst the explosions.
The remaining defenders also realized the crisis, everyone concentrated all remaining firepower, desperately intercepting! Rifles, machine guns, pistols...
All weapons capable of firing were roaring.
Bang!
A human bomb got hit by a flurry of bullets twenty ters away from the position, the explosives strapped to him detonated instantly.
With a thunderous explosion, a brilliant yet cruel orange-red fireball blood rapidly, shrapnel and shockwaves radiated ferociously, nearby Wagner soldiers caught off guard were directly blown off their feet by the blast wave.
The last human bomb used the smoke and chaos generated by the explosion to break through the firepower interception net, roaring as he closed in on the area where Chef was positioned on the left flank! Just about to break into the position!
"Suka! Go to hell!"
At the critical mont, Chef suddenly stood up from the shell crater, without ti to aim, relying entirely on muscle mory honed through countless drills and sheer bravery, adopting an extrely unconventional hip-firing stance, emptied the remaining dozen bullets from the AK-74U chamber, frantically spraying them at maximum speed!
Pum, pum, pum, pum!
Most of the bullets precisely hit the human bomb's head and chest, making his body shake violently, halting his forward montum, collapsing fiercely forward.
However, just as he fell to the ground—
"Boom!!!"
An even more violent explosion erupted.
Chef only had ti to curse half a sentence before being struck by an invisible giant hamr, the violent blast wave threw him backwards, his head hitting hard against a piece of broken concrete, making a teeth-clenching thud, then collapsing limp on the ground, motionless, with blood quickly seeping from his forehead and behind his ears.
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