At three in the morning, twenty kiloters from Mosul City, the dry riverbed wound through the boundless darkness like a hideous scar on the earth.
There wasn't a breath of wind in the air, stagnant as a cold iron plate pressing heavily on the chests of every lurker.
The occasional hiss of electric current in the radio headset beca the only breath in this world of dead silence.
Samir squatted at the bottom of this "scar," the makeshift open-air command post was so rudintary it was heartbreaking.
An oil-stained folding table, a few radio communication devices emitting faint green light, an old military computer propped up by an ammo box displaying a satellite map—this was everything he had for commanding five thousand n, given to him by the cousin he despised most, Yusuf.
The cold light from the screen cast an angular profile and a pair of bloodshot eyes deeply sunken in his sockets on his face.
In those eyes burned an almost fanatical fla, a desperate gamble driven to the brink.
For this operation today, he had put forth everything—twenty 107 rocket launchers, thirty 82 mortars, and each shell soaked in sweat and repeatedly polished.
These weapons were the last dignity of him, an Illiguo who had suffered defeat over the past year, and the only bargaining chips to avenge the blood debts from the 1515 ard forces entrenched in Mosul City.
He picked up the microphone: "This is 'Sandstorm' to all units.
Final confirmation of shelling coordinates. Targets: City's east 'Slaughterhouse,' city's south 'Old Mill,' city's west 'Oil Depot.' Three rounds of simultaneous firing, ten seconds apart. Over."
The order pierced through the heavy night along the invisible radio waves, heading towards the ticulously camouflaged artillery positions five kiloters north of the city.
There, the silent muzzles slightly raised, pointing at the sleeping city.
Next to one of the rocket launchers, Chief Hadi, an old soldier with a scruffy beard and wind-scarred cheeks, was making the final angular adjustnt to the 107 rocket launcher with his calloused hands.
Standing next to him was the young loader, Ali.
Ali was only seventeen, seemingly nervous, sweating profusely even in the sunless night.
"Steady, lad!"
Hadi's voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping.
"Think of your sister, think of what the 1515 bastards did to her."
He didn't take his eyes off the scope, but his words struck Ali's heart like a cold iron hamr.
Ali took a sharp breath, nodded vigorously, the fear in his eyes replaced by a deeper, blood-tinged hatred.
He clenched his teeth, pressing his trembling fingers firmly on the cold tal of the shell.
Ti crawled painstakingly through the stagnant air.
"Sandstorm! Sandstorm! Shelling countdown, ten, nine, eight..."
Samir's voice finally broke the deathly silence of the communication channel.
The triangular flag of the position commander was raised...
Hadi also sharply raised his arm.
"Three, two, one! Fire!"
As the commander's triangular flag dropped, Hadi's arm slashed down hard like a guillotine cutting fate.
"Launch!"
The command tore through the silence.
The first wave of 107 rockets soared abruptly into the sky with an ear-piercing screech! The orange-red flas spewing from the tail instantly illuminated the entire artillery position, lighting up faces filled with tension, hatred, and defiance.
The ground shook violently as they lifted off, the dust swept up pounding onto the faces and bodies of the artilleryn like a scorching sandstorm.
A round of rockets quickly emptied.
"Reload! Quickly!"
Hadi's shout was almost drowned out by the deafening sound of artillery.
Ali and another loader imdiately dashed forward, working together to reload the launchers with new rockets as fast as possible.
Quickly, the emptied launchers were filled again.
"Fire!"
Hadi's arm slashed down once more.
The second volley!
Then the third volley!
The sky was already painted red.
This was an artillery barrage.
What mattered was area coverage, and the demand was for speed! Density! Precision!
Dozens of shooting stars with trails of death streaked across the sky, ripping through the silent night above Mosul City, appearing as teors, illuminating the sky over the city as if it were daylight.
The whistling sound moved from far to near, then struck fiercely at the city's edge where the pre-marked targets—the strongholds occupied by the 1515 ard forces—were located.
"Boom—Boom—!!!"
The massive explosion sounded like an invisible giant fist, pounding fiercely on the ground in Mosul City.
Mosul City instantly turned into hell.
The "Slaughterhouse" outpost, a fortress converted from an abandoned factory, bore the brunt.
Several 107 rockets precisely smashed through its roof, exploding violently inside.
The piled-up ammunition went off in a sympathetic detonation, the resulting massive fireball soared into the sky, instantly engulfing dozens of militants who were still dreaming, without even a chance to scream.
tal shards, concrete blocks, and human limbs were torn apart by the fierce airwaves, shooting in all directions like hail.
A guard lucky enough to be in an edge room was slamd into the wall by the massive shockwave, the sound of bones shattering was distinct; the last thing he saw with wide-open eyes was the oncoming flas and twisted steel.
The "Old Mill" outpost, a command node disguised as a residential house, also disintegrated under the dense coverage of mortar shells.
The muffled impact of 82mm mortars followed by the loud explosions echoed one after another.
In the smoke and fire, severed arms and legs flew into the air, and a heavy machine gun mounted at a window along with its shooter was blown to bits.
A bloodied leader struggled out of the ruins, trying to shout with a hoarse throat: "Enemy attack!"
The next second, a shell landed right at his feet, and the violent explosion completely erased him from this world.
The "Oil Depot" outpost was one of the most heavily guarded locations at 1515, storing the fuel needed for the chanized vehicles of the 1515 forces stationed in Mosul.
Shells hit the ground, igniting the stored fuel, sending pillars of black and red smoke shooting into the sky.
The scorching heat wave distorted the air, igniting the figures nearby attempting to flee, turning them into running torches; their wailing screams pierced the night sky, only to be swiftly swallowed by louder explosions.
In just re minutes, three rounds of intense bombardnt plowed through the three outposts like a hellish plow, wiping them off the map along with at least hundreds of 1515 militants inside.
Thick smoke, firelight, the pungent sll of burning, and the scent of blood shrouded the city's outskirts.
In the center of Mosul City, in the basent of a relatively intact building, 1515's chief in Mosul, Kazal, was shaken off his makeshift military bed by the first explosion.
He scrambled to his feet, still dazed from a hangover, but was imdiately jolted fully awake by the flas reflected from outside the window and the tide of exploding sounds rushing in.
"What's going on?! Where is the shelling?!"
He roared at his deputy who rushed in, his voice distorted and altered due to extre panic.
"Boss! It's a bombardnt! East, south, west... the outposts! Our outposts are covered in artillery fire!"
The deputy's face was as pale as paper, his lips trembling, his eyes unfocused.
"Casualties... are very heavy!"
Kazal rushed to the dusty communication console, grabbed the microphone, his fingers whitening from gripping too tightly, the tips icy cold.
"Headquarters! Headquarters! This is Mosul! We've been hit by heavy bombardnt!"
His words were incoherent, his voice hoarse and piercing, filled with a despair akin to an apocalypse.
"The enemy's artillery is too fierce! We need reinforcents! Imdiately! Now!"
On the other end of the microphone, the brief silence was like an invisible heavy pressure.
Then, a cold, emotionless voice ca, with a sense of aloof indifference, as if from another world: "Kazal, calm down. Report the size and direction of the attackers."
It was the voice of Buckdadi, the self-proclaid "Caliph" far away in the desert deep within the Siria border.
"Troops... Troops?"
Kazal was stumped by this cold question, his chaotic brain struggling to function in fear.
He turned to look at his deputy.
The deputy whispered, "There are sporadic attacks, but not intense, all Illiguo militia, retreating after our firm counterattack..."
"After the bombardnt... outside the city... outside the city, there are infantry attacking the edge outposts! Number... about... about a thousand! Poorly equipped! They're militia! Those damn mongrel militia! They struck by surprise! Just a sneak attack! We retaliated, and they ran!"
He seed to grasp a lifeline, eagerly emphasizing the opponent's easy defeat, trying to cover up his huge losses and incompetence.
"A thousand militia?"
Buckdadi's voice carried a slight, imperceptible disdain, as if hearing a poor joke.
"The governnt army of Illiguo is useless, and those tribal militia are even more insignificant ants. Do they dare to provoke the warriors of Allah?"
After a brief pause, an ice-cold command ca decisively.
"Kazal, I order you! Imdiately assemble all available forces, pursue them! Crush them! Use their blood to wash away your disgrace tonight! Let all those who dare to resist know that the wrath of Allah is unstoppable! Pursue them! Until the last one is killed!"
"Yes! Caliph! I will obey your will!"
Kazal almost shouted, Buckdadi's orders like a shot of adrenaline, temporarily suppressing the terror in his heart, replaced by a twisted fervor and an impulse to prove himself.
Putting down the microphone, the panic on his face quickly turned into ferocity, screaming at his subordinates: "Assemble! Everyone who can hold a gun! Get in the vehicles! Chase! Catch up with those damn dogs! Tear them apart!"
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