Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 928 The Sound of Cannons Outside Mosul
At three in the morning, twenty kilometers outside Mosul, the dried-up riverbed, like a hideous scar on the earth, meandered in the boundless darkness.

There wasn't a breath of wind in the air; it was as still as a cold iron plate, pressing down on the chests of every lurker.

The occasional hissing of electricity coming from the wireless headset became the only breath in this deathly silent world.

Samir crouched at the bottom of this "scar," his makeshift open-air command post so rudimentary it was heartbreaking.

A folding table stained with oil, several radios flashing a faint green light, and an old military computer propped up by ammunition boxes displaying satellite maps—this was all the equipment he had to command five thousand men, given to him by his cousin Yusuf, whom he despised the most.

The cold light from the screen reflected on his face, sculpting his angular features and his bloodshot eyes that were sunken deep in their sockets.

There burned an almost obsessive flame within it, a desperate gamble after being driven to the brink.

For today's operation, he brought out everything he had—20 107mm rocket launchers, 30 82mm mortars, and every shell that was soaked in sweat and repeatedly wiped clean.

These weapons were the last vestige of dignity for this Iligoman who had suffered repeated defeats over the past year, and the only bargaining chip to demand retribution from the 1515 militia entrenched in Mosul.

He picked up the microphone: "Teams, this is 'Sandstorm'."

Final confirmation of artillery coordinates. Targets: Slaughterhouse (East of the city), Old Mill (South of the city), Oil Depot (West of the city). Three salvos, ten-second interval. Over.

The order traveled along invisible radio waves, piercing the thick night, and reached the carefully disguised artillery position five kilometers north of the city.

There, the silent cannons were slightly raised, pointing at the sleeping city.

Beside one of the rocket launchers, the gunner, Hardy, a scruffy-bearded veteran with wrinkles etched into his face by the wind and sand, was making a final adjustment to the elevation angle of the 107mm rocket launcher with his calloused hands.

Standing next to him was Ali, the young loader.

Ali was only seventeen years old, and he seemed a little nervous, sweating profusely even in the dark of night.

"Hold on, kid!"

Hardy's voice was rough, like sandpaper rubbing.

"Think about your sister, think about what those beasts in 1515 did to her."

His gaze never left the scope, but his words struck Ali's heart like a cold hammer.

Ali took a deep breath, nodded vigorously, and the fear in his eyes was replaced by a deeper, bloodthirsty hatred.

He gritted his teeth and pressed his trembling fingers firmly onto the cold metal shell.

Time crawled laboriously in the frozen air.

"Sandstorm! Sandstorm! Countdown to shelling: ten, nine, eight..."

Samir's voice finally broke the silence of the communication channel.

The position commander raised his pennant...

Hardy also suddenly raised his arm.

"Three, two, one! Fire!"

As the commander's pennant fell, Hadi's arm slashed down fiercely, like a guillotine severing fate.

"emission!"

The command shattered the silence.

The first wave of 107mm rockets, trailing a long, ear-piercing whistle, suddenly soared into the air! The orange-red flames spewing from their tails instantly illuminated the entire artillery position, reflecting on faces filled with tension, hatred, and determination.

The earth trembled violently the moment they left the ground, and the dust that rose up hit the gunners' faces and bodies like a scorching sandstorm.

The rocket barrage quickly ran out of ammunition.

"Load! Quickly!"

Hardy's roar was almost drowned out by the deafening roar of the cannons.

Ali and another loader immediately rushed forward, and together they quickly loaded new rockets into the launch tube.

Soon, the empty launch tubes were refilled.

"put!"

Hardy's arm swung down again.

Second volley!
Then comes the third round!

The sky was already glowing red.

This is a salvo from the artillery.

The key is to achieve full coverage, and the requirements are speed, density, and accuracy!
Dozens of meteors, trailing trails of deathly flame, traced terrifying paths, tearing through the silent night sky of Mosul. The sky above the city was illuminated as if it were daytime.

The shrill sound grew louder as it approached, then slammed into the already marked targets on the edge of the city—the strongholds of the 1515 armed group.

"BOOM—BOOM—!!!"

The massive explosion, like an invisible giant fist, slammed into the land of Mosul. Mosul was instantly transformed into a living hell.

The "Slaughterhouse" stronghold, a fortress converted from an abandoned factory, was the first to be targeted.

Several 107mm rockets accurately pierced its roof and exploded violently inside.

The pile of ammunition was detonated, and the chain reaction triggered a huge fireball that shot into the sky, instantly engulfing dozens of armed men who were still asleep inside, before they could even scream.

Steel fragments, concrete blocks, and human remains were torn apart by the violent shockwave and shot out in all directions like hailstones.

A guard who was lucky enough to be in a room on the edge was slammed against the wall by the huge shockwave. The sound of bones shattering could be clearly heard. The last thing he saw in his wide-open eyes was the flames and twisted steel bars rushing towards him.

The "Old Mill" outpost, a command hub disguised as a residential building, also fell apart under the heavy bombardment of mortar shells.

The dull thud of the 82mm mortar shells followed by their subsequent loud explosions echoed one after another.

Amidst the smoke and fire, severed limbs flew into the air, and a heavy machine gun mounted at a window, along with its gunner, was blown to pieces.

A leader, his face covered in blood, struggled to crawl out of the rubble, trying to shout in a hoarse voice, "Enemy attack!"

The next second, a shell landed right at his feet, and the violent explosion wiped him out of the world.

The "oil depot" outpost is one of the most heavily guarded locations of 1515, where fuel is stored for the mechanized vehicles of the 1515 armed forces stationed in Mosul.

The shells landed, igniting the stored fuel and sending up a towering column of black and red smoke.

The scorching heatwave distorted the air, igniting the figures trying to escape into raging torches. The piercing screams tore through the night sky, only to be quickly swallowed up by an even more violent explosion.

In just over ten minutes, three rounds of ferocious artillery fire, like a plow from hell, completely wiped the three strongholds and at least a hundred 1515 militants from the map.

Thick smoke, flames, the acrid smell of burning and blood enveloped the edge of the city.

In the basement of a relatively intact building in the center of Mosul, Qajar, the chief commander of the 1515 armed group in Mosul, was thrown off his simple cot by the first explosion.

He scrambled to his feet, still dazed from a hangover, but was immediately jolted awake by the firelight streaming through the window and the deafening roar of explosions.

"What's going on?! Where are they firing?!"

He roared at his deputy who rushed in, his voice distorted and twisted with extreme terror.

"Boss! It's artillery fire! East, south, west... our stronghold! Our stronghold is under artillery fire!"

The deputy's face was ashen, his lips trembled, and his eyes were unfocused.

"The casualties...are very heavy!"

Qaza rushed to the dusty communications station, grabbed the microphone, his knuckles white from the force, and his fingertips were icy cold.

"Headquarters! Headquarters! This is Mosul! We are under heavy artillery fire!"

He spoke incoherently, his voice hoarse and shrill, filled with an apocalyptic despair.

"The enemy's artillery fire is too intense! We need reinforcements! Immediately! Right now!"

On the other end of the microphone, a brief silence felt like an invisible weight.

Then, a cold, emotionless voice rang out, carrying a condescending indifference, as if from another world: "Kazar, calm down. Report the attackers' strength and movements."

That was the voice of Bakdadi, the self-proclaimed "Caliph," who lived deep in the desert on the border of Syria.

"Soldiers...troop strength?"

Kazar was speechless at the cold question, his chaotic mind struggling to function in fear.

He turned to look at his deputy.

The second-in-command whispered, "There were sporadic attacks, but they weren't fierce. They were all Iligo militia, and they retreated after we fought back decisively..."

"Artillery bombardment... After the bombardment, outside the city... outside the city, infantry attacked the outposts on the perimeter! Number... approximately... approximately a thousand! Poorly equipped! They're militia! Those damned bastard militia! They launched a sneak attack! Just a sneak attack! We retaliated, and they ran away!"

He grasped at a straw, desperately emphasizing the opponent's vulnerability, trying to cover up his own huge losses and incompetence.

"A thousand militiamen?"

Bakdadi's voice carried a barely perceptible hint of contempt, as if he had heard a bad joke.

"The government forces in Iligo are useless, and those tribal militias are nothing but ants. How dare they provoke the warriors of Allah?"

After a brief pause, the cold, decisive command came through.

"Qazar, I command you! Gather all available forces immediately and pursue them! Crush them! Wash away your shame tonight with their blood! Let all the heretics who dare to resist know that the wrath of Allah is unstoppable! Pursue them! Until the very last one is killed!"

"Yes, Caliph! As you wish!"

Qazar practically roared it out. Bakdadi's command acted like a shot of adrenaline, temporarily suppressing his fear and replacing it with a twisted fanaticism and an urge to prove himself.

He put down the microphone, his panic quickly replaced by a ferocious expression, and roared at his men: "Assemble! Everyone who can handle a gun! Get in the cars! Chase them! Catch those damn mutts! Tear them to pieces!"

(End of this chapter)