"Received. Avenger squadron, turn towards target area. Numbers 1 and 2 attack directly, Numbers 3 and 4 provide high-altitude cover, watch out for air defense threats."
Two Apaches break formation, drop altitude to two hundred ters, speed increased to one hundred and twenty knots.
Brenan's helt display shows clear thermal images of the brickyard—multiple bright muzzle flashes and nurous smaller heat sources.
"Lock on to the first target, KPV on the west side of the kiln."
Brenan uses his helt sight to fra the location where fire bursts continuously.
The fire control computer calculates, the M230 chain gun adjusts its angle.
"Fire."
Bam-bam-bam-bam!
Four 30mm shells roar out.
Bip-bip-bip-bip—
But almost simultaneously, Brenan's helicopter warning system suddenly shrieks.
"Missile warning! MANPADS threat! Three o'clock direction!"
Brenan instinctively yanks the control stick while pressing the flare deploynt button.
The Apache performs a sharp roll maneuver, releasing a string of infrared flares from the belly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees at least four white smoke trails rising from different locations on the ground, directly targeting him and his wingman.
The first is an old Soviet 9K32 "Strela-2," its seeker head is obsolete, successfully attracted by the flares, exploding behind the helicopter.
Then cos the second...
Also a "Strela-2," similarly thrown off course.
The third...
Tracked montarily but shaken off with a sharp turn.
But the fourth—Brenan determines from its flight trajectory that it's not an earlier "Strela-2," but likely an SA-16 shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile.
This is the second generation portable air defense missile from Russia, equipped with a cooled infrared seeker head, strong interference resistance.
The SA-16 ignores the first batch of flares, firmly locking onto Brenan's right engine.
"Release more flares! Do a barrel roll!" Brenan shouts.
The missile seems to be slightly diverted by the second batch of flares, its trajectory shifts—though not completely away.
Boom—
Explosion!
The missile detonates about three ters off the starboard side of the Apache's tail boom.
Not a direct hit, but preford fragnts act like a deadly tal storm, sweeping across the tail structure, tail rotor drive shaft, and the intake and part of the lines of the right engine.
Luckily, the Apache's survivability is strong enough not to be blown apart, though it starts to wobble.
In the cockpit, all main warning lights illuminate, chanical voice urgently reporting: "Right engine failure! Tail rotor control weakened! Hydraulic pressure dropping!"
The Apache shakes violently, beginning an uncontrollable right rotation.
"I've been hit! Preparing for ergency landing!" Brenan desperately controls the stick.
The wingman's voice cos through: "Number 1, you're trailing smoke from the tail! Altitude's dropping!"
"I know! Cover !"
Brenan looks downward.
Nearby the brickyard are buildings and ruins.
He strives to steer the helicopter towards a relatively flat sand area, altitude has dropped below a hundred ters.
Rotor speed is decreasing, the warning sound grows increasingly urgent.
"Altitude fifty... forty... thirty... prepare for impact!"
The Apache crashes onto the sand at about forty knots, a fifteen-degree right tilt.
Landing gear is broken, fuselage sideslips, rotor blades shatter upon ground impact.
Dust fills the cabin.
Brenan is nearly suffocated by the seatbelt but remains conscious.
He quickly shuts down all systems to prevent a fire.
"Avenger 1-1 ergency landed, location... NK348212. I'm alive, need rescue."
He speaks into the radio, voice trembling from the crash.
"Received, Number 1. Rescue is on the way. Hang in there."
Brenan releases the seatbelt, grabs the MP5 submachine gun by the hatch.
He looks outside, brickyard gunfire continues, and it seems vehicles are approaching.
"Damn it."
He curses under his breath, checks the ammo—three thirty-round magazines.
What he didn't expect was the SA-16 that wounded him was part of the stock captured by the 1515 Ard when they took over the Syria Takaba Air Force Base.
This ambush, from the setup of heavy machine gun positions on the ground to the timing and position of missile deploynt, shows rare tactical coordination.
This is not the spontaneous act of fanatics.
This was a preditated, carefully planned trap.
Command headquarters, "Outpost."
Colonel Kote stands rigidly before the main screen.
The screen shows multiple split-screen real-ti images—the thermal imaging of the brickyard battle, drone footage of the Apache crash site, and wide-area surveillance data just sent by the AWACS.
His right hand unconsciously clenches, fingernails dig into his palm.
The brickyard ambush, the Apache hit and forced to land, these are already major setbacks.
But what's more unsettling is the information sent by the AWACS.
"'Outpost', this is 'Hawkeye'. Detected large-scale ground movent. Position southeast 135, about 20 kiloters from Titrick. Number of heat sources... over two hundred, still increasing. Speed approximately 60 kiloters per hour, moving towards Titrick."
Kote lunges to the screen, personally calls up synthetic aperture radar imaging in that direction.
After image enhancent, it shows desert area.
Initially, only scattered hotspots appear, but as ti progresses, more and more heat sources erge from the Horizon direction, flooding down several dirt roads like a torrent.
He magnifies the image, identifies vehicle types.
Mainly pickups, but also trucks.
Heat source counter in the corner of the screen jumps wildly: 150... 180... 220... 250... breaking through three hundred, still increasing.
"This is impossible..."
Major Jas, standing behind him, face pale, "Intelligence says Titrick defense force is at most twelve thousand... where are these coming from?"
Kote does not respond.
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