Chapter 1872 - 1400: Shellfire Tears Through the Night Sky (Part 2)

The low-frequency hum vibrated through the building structure, like the Grim Reaper softly whispering outside the walls.

"The repair workshop has been completely destroyed..."

The voice on the communication channel was noticeably trembling.

"Eight personnel... no signs of life. Repeat, all eight are dead."

Lemont released the microphone, realizing his fingers were cramped from gripping too tightly, temporarily unable to straighten.

He turned to the observation window, looking outside through the cracks in the bullet-proof glass.

The base had been turned into Purgatory.

Everywhere were flickering flames, rolling smoke, running figures, and mangled bodies. He saw a corporal dragging his wounded comrade by the abdomen towards cover, leaving a dark trail of blood behind; saw medics kneeling beside the wreckage, digging through concrete debris with bare hands, their gloves long worn through; saw Captain Marcus standing at the open-air command post, frantically shouting into the tactical radio, completely exposed to potential follow-up artillery fire.

Then, his gaze crossed the base walls, turning toward the distant dark plain.

There, suddenly, dozens of lights appeared.

They were the T-72 main battle tanks and BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles of the Tenth Division, their headlights simultaneously turned on, forming a cold wall of light in the night.

More unsettling was that these lights were not stationary.

They were slowly moving forward, like some ceremonial march of death, advancing toward the base.

"They..." Ryan cursed through gritted teeth: "That damn Lord Dong really dares to strike! Seems like they are launching a ground attack."

Lemont turned his head, seeing a deep, bone-deep wound on Ryan's forehead, blood flowing down his cheek, staining his collar, though Ryan seemed completely unaware, his eyes fixed on the array of lights outside the window.

Lemont wanted to say something but an invisible force choked his throat, making him unable to utter a sound.

The shelling was just a prelude, calibration shots. The real effective fire hadn't started yet.

And the enemy's armored column had already started its engines.

The most lethal issue was time. Lemont glanced at the electronic clock on the command console: 00:12.

At least fifty-five minutes before the nearest Air Force support could arrive.

Fifty-five minutes.

Enough for this base to be completely destroyed by a 152mm howitzer shell more than ten times, enough for the tank column to crush all defenses, enough for each of them to die several times over.

He grabbed the encrypted satellite phone, his fingers trembling yet dialing that round-the-clock standby number accurately.

After three waiting tones, the other side picked up.

"He's opened fire." Lemont's voice was unnaturally calm, so calm that even he found it unfamiliar: "We can't hold. Negotiation must happen now, or in an hour there won't be anyone alive here."

The other end of the line was silent for five seconds.

In the backdrop of gunfire and explosions, those five seconds stretched like a century.

Then, the voice of National Security Advisor Walter Bernstein came through: "Lemont, hold your ground, await air support. The F-16 squadron is en route, estimated to arrive in fifty minutes. Repeat: no surrender, no negotiation, hold for reinforcements."

Lemont's fingers tightened on the handset.

He looked outside the window.

The fire at the northwest corner's generator room had spread to the adjacent fuel storage area, new fireballs erupting intermittently in the dense smoke; to the southeast, the wall of lights from the Tenth Division's tanks was still creeping forward, less than three kilometers from the base's perimeter defenses.

"SIR! Can you hear me here?"

Lemont's voice trembled slightly: "That's our soldiers dying. We just lost at least twenty men, the power system's down, and firefighting capabilities are zero. The enemy has at least a battalion of 152mm howitzers and an armored column. With what are we supposed to hold for twenty-five minutes?"

"You're all the best soldiers of the United States of America there, the top men of Delta Force. Use your training, your will, and the faith the United States of America places in each soldier."

Walter's voice revealed no emotion.

"If Song Heping dares to launch a full-scale attack, we will regard it as a direct declaration of war against the US Army. Once the Air Force arrives, you are authorized to use GBU-38 for precision strikes, including his command post."

Lemont closed his eyes.

He could imagine the scene in Washington at that moment: the large screens in the Situation Room displaying satellite images, people in suits discussing 'strategic determination' and 'red-line principles' at a safe distance.

They could see the fire, but not hear the screams; see the smoke, but not smell the burning flesh.

"What about those terms? Those that Song Heping wants—"

"Not considered." Walter interrupted him: "We can't set a precedent for blackmailing America with force. Agree today, and tomorrow countless others will follow. That's the president's words."

"And Lady Hillary's documents—"

"There will be a solution, but it won't be bowing to terrorists."

Walter paused for a second, voice lowered: "Listen, Lemont. I know it's tough. But if we retreat now, the entire Middle East order will collapse. You must hold on. Fifty minutes. Just fifty minutes."

Communication cut off.

Lemont slowly put down the handset, turning to face the dozen or so staff in the command center.

All eyes were on him.

They were all waiting for orders.

"Orders remain the same..." Lemont said: "Hold for reinforcements. The Air Force arrives in fifty minutes. Hold for reinforcements."

A dead silence.

Then Delta Commander Hilt spoke: "Given the current situation, I'm afraid we don't have fifty minutes. The next round of shelling could start at any moment, and a third of our reinforced shelters are already down. If effective fire begins—"