Capítulo 1445: Chapter 687: Vanguard!
Dr. Hopkins’ “the water is too cold” farce swiftly froze the last strands of Texas’ illusory will to resist.
It was not just a joke but a cruel mirror, reflecting the decay, cowardice, and hypocrisy within the Anglo-Saxon elite class entrenched on this land.
The soldiers at the front lines, hearing the sarcasm on the broadcast, looked at the scant ammunition in their hands and the already collapsed supply line behind them, and the last thoughts of martyrdom for the “Lone Star Republic” vanished like smoke.
Why bother?
The elite class is that rotten.
anwhile, the war machine led by Victor, having gained massive intelligence and logistical advantages from the “surrender” of Texas local strongn, started a rapid advance in the true sense.
The advance mode of the xican Army changed significantly.
What was once cautious probing and strong attacks had now beco precise assaults guided by a wide-open map.
Leading figures among Texas strongn, like Cole Brelock and others, in order to prove their value to the new masters, were almost accommodating to every request.
You can never imagine how proactive a sycophant can be.
They not only provided detailed military deploynt maps, logistics node lists, communication codebooks, but even dispatched privately maintained family ard forces as guides and vanguards.
These private ard forces, wearing mixed uniforms, equipped with weapons even better than those of the Texas National Guard, at this mont transford into “auxiliary forces” of the xican Army.
Commonly known as: traitor forces!
They knew every inch of the land, were familiar with every local notable figure, and knew where to bypass, where to assault, which manor to persuade to surrender, and which mayor must be eliminated.
The main armored division of the xican Army no longer needed to fumble around the vast Texas plains like headless flies.
Their tank columns moved grandly along the optimal routes guided by the strongn.
The last of President Paul’s legitimate units, upon learning that the logistical base had been precisely destroyed and their retreat was cut off by “their own people,” saw their morale plumt to zero.
Structured surrenders began to occur.
The Louisiana Federation Army, seeing this, finally was no longer content to watch from the sidelines.
Although President Floyd Ross was enraged by Victor’s humiliation and the tragic end of his envoys, he would not miss the chance to exploit the situation.
Seeing the xicans advancing effortlessly, he imdiately ordered the Louisiana National Guard to swiftly “cross the border,” under the guise of “restoring order and protecting civilians,” to seize towns and transport hubs on the East Bank of the Red River.
The real battle took place outside Austin City.
Paul Constantine Stuart deployed the last loyal troops he could muster, about a brigade, on the highlands and key passages leading to the city, attempting a last desperate struggle.
They dug anti-tank ditches, laid minefields, and set up fire support points with the few remaining howitzers and mortars.
However, the details of their deploynt had already been passed to the xican front-line command through a secret channel by a surrendering general eager to claim credit.
The assault began before dawn.
Suddenly, a blinding flash tore through the skyline, followed by countless similar fiery trails ripping through the night sky.
It was rocket artillery!
The dense whistling sounds instantly drowned out all other noises!
The first wave of explosions did not hit precisely, mostly landing on empty ground in front of the defensive positions.
The deafening roars were not intermittent but a continuous, overwhelming wave of sound, violently crashing into everyone’s eardrums and hearts, as if the earth itself was roaring.
The towering dust clouds swallowed the faint light of dawn, plunging the positions back into complete darkness, with only the continuous explosions flashing like strobe lights of hell.
A young soldier crouching in a trench had just raised his head when he saw a massive fireball rise less than fifty ters ahead of him.
The scorching shockwave, mixed with gravel and shrapnel, fanned out, slamming into the parapet and his helt, clinking noisily.
He felt his innards jolting out of place by the violent shockwave, the sharp ringing in his ears so intense it almost made him vomit.
He opened his mouth wide, screaming madly, yet he couldn’t hear his own voice.
“Hold steady! Hold steady!” a stubbly-faced veteran shouted, but his command was barely audible amidst the earth-shattering noise.
The second and third waves of salvoes followed rapidly, with impact points starting to extend backward, genuinely hitting the defensive positions.
A rocket hit a machine gun nest squarely.
In an instant, sandbags, weapon parts, and human limbs were thrown upwards in the blinding firelight, the soldiers at the explosion’s core vaporized instantly, while those slightly further away were torn to pieces.
A dismbered leg wrapped in tattered military pants fell with a splat into the trench, scalding blood splattering on the pale faces of the surrounding soldiers.
A soldier was unfortunate enough to be directly hit by the shockwave of a near-miss.
He was tossed out of the trench like a leaf, his body twisting unnaturally in the air before crashing heavily on the scorched earth, motionless and bleeding from all orifices.
The explosions paused temporarily, but the silence of the position was replaced by the harrowing screams of the wounded.
The thunder of artillery hadn’t ceased when myriad loudspeakers simultaneously blared, broadcasting in English and Spanish:
“Texas soldiers! Your President Paul Constantine Stuart has abandoned you, he is preparing to flee on a private plane!”
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