Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 100 We Are United as One (Part 9)
On the Zion position on the north bank of the Taino River, Sergeant Major Menachem, who was inspecting anti-tank missiles, suddenly stopped.

The sound waves from the opposite bank came like a tsunami, sweeping into their ears.

It felt as if even the ground beneath their feet was trembling slightly.

"What are they saying?" Private Yoav asked his comrade for a light, his eyes bloodshot.

The signalman listened intently: "It sounds like Major General Amir has come to inspect the front lines and is giving a pre-battle pep talk."

"Isn't this insane?" Yoav scoffed. "What era are we living in? The commander is still personally going to the front lines. Is he really not afraid of getting shot in the head?"

But he immediately shut his mouth. At least at times like this, others came to the front lines to personally boost morale, while their major general stayed in the background the whole time.

Suddenly, Sergeant Menachem's expression changed, and a shout that soared into the sky suddenly came from afar once again.

This time, even if they don't understand Arabic, they'll know what it means.

Because the shout was drawn out, it was like cavalrymen about to charge, expelling all their fear and leaving only the purest and most soaring fighting spirit.

"The Shuangzhi people are about to launch a general offensive!" the signalman exclaimed in alarm.

All Zion soldiers on the position immediately returned to their battle positions.

Soon, the roar of tank engines came from afar, the sound growing louder as it approached their position like thunderclouds.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

On Hitt Street, the T-17 tank crew has already engaged in combat with Zion's armored forces.

They were followed by infantry, who fought on the streets and several blocks away.

"Armor-piercing rounds being loaded!"

Mahmoud used his knee to push open the ejection port baffle, and the brass cartridge cases clanged against the anti-slip steel plate of the M60A1.

His right eye was pressed against the scope, the crosshairs firmly locked onto the turret ring of the Chieftain a hundred meters away.

"Armor-piercing rounds, good!"

The loader pushed an HRAT armor-piercing round into the compartment and then closed the valve.

When Mahmoud pressed the firing pedal, the entire tank recoiled violently, and the shell hit the chief's gun shield, bounced off, and crashed into the building next to it, smashing an entire wall to pieces.

"They're aiming at us!" Commander Harvey urgently ordered, "15 meters, reverse and brake suddenly!"

The M60A1's engine roared as it took cover behind the block, and then an armor-piercing discarding sabot round grazed their frontal armor, leaving a dent the size of a bowl.

Commander Harvey broke out in a cold sweat; they had almost been shot right through.

At this distance, the Chieftain's main gun can penetrate any part of the M60A1's armor, while the M60A1 can only aim at the Chieftain's relatively vulnerable side armor or the base of the gun barrel.

"Anti-tank team, help us suppress that Chieftain!" Commander Harvey shouted into the radio.

Two blocks away, Chief Riemann was scanning the street with a periscope. He knew that at this distance, the M60A1 was at a significant disadvantage against the Chief.

More than a decade of experience told him that what they needed to be wary of now were the infantry and guerrillas carrying anti-tank rocket launchers.

"Keep aiming at that intersection. If they dare to show their faces, we'll open fire immediately," Commander Riemann ordered.

Meanwhile, Zion's mechanized infantry were providing suppressive fire with machine guns, while the Dual Warriors, wearing steel helmets, lay prone behind piles of rubble, firing with M16A1s.

A fierce gunfight was raging in the stairwells of the buildings on both sides. Private Doron was aiming at the chief, and the moment he exposed his upper body, Zion's engineers downstairs shot him through the chest with an Uzi submachine gun.

Downstairs in the coffee shop, Corporal Zion Etan had just changed his magazine when a guerrilla fighter with a bloodied face bumped into him.

The two wrestled and fell into a shell crater. Ethan's rifle slipped from his hand, and he drew his dagger and stabbed the other man in the abdomen.

But the man held him tightly by the neck, his eyes looking as if he wanted to devour him alive, until the Zion soldier behind him smashed the back of his head with the butt of his rifle before letting go.

On the east side of the main street, amidst the ruins, Sergeant Abbas's infantry squad of the Shuangzhi Infantry Division is advancing.

He saw a guerrilla boy with a red headscarf throw a Molotov cocktail from the rooftop, which exploded into flames on the armored vehicle. Sergeant Hassan in the same platoon was leading his men to advance along the drainage ditch when a Zion soldier engulfed in flames appeared on the opposite M113 armored vehicle, and then the vehicle's machine gun opened fire.

A hail of 7.62mm bullets rained down, and Sergeant Hassan's chest felt as if it had been struck repeatedly by an invisible hammer, causing him to fall backward into a pile of shattered glass.

At this moment, three guerrillas with white cloths tied around their arms crawled out of the sewer. What they were carrying were not rocket launchers, but homemade bombs connected to gas cylinders.

The lead soldier suddenly blew a whistle, and the Zion machine gunner, who was changing magazines, turned around and saw the sparking fuse rolling to his feet.

"boom--!"

The shockwave from the explosion shattered the shop windows along the entire street, and flames shot into the sky, instantly tearing the Zion soldiers on the armored vehicles to shreds.

"Charge! Now's the time!"

Sergeant Abbas shouted, and the Shuangzhi infantry platoon charged over the bodies of their comrades. The Zion soldiers began to retreat, but they maintained their tight formation during the retreat.

The machine gun crew covered the rear, while the riflemen provided alternating cover. The wounded were dragged away, leaving no survivors for the enemy.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Grandma Fatima was hiding in her house, listening to the chaotic fight downstairs.

Her son was paralyzed and needed someone to take care of him. Just then, she heard a violent kicking sound coming from outside the house, along with a string of Hebrew words.

Grandma Fatima quickly hid, clutching her iron box filled with her savings.

The Zion soldiers seemed to be looking for a high vantage point. They barged in, found no one there, and then began searching for houses facing the street.

Then they barged into the room of Fatima's son.

Before Fatima could even react, the child she had cared for for over twenty years was gone.

Sergeant Zion was still cursing when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

He turned his head and saw the sharp corner of a blunt object.

The heavy wooden box struck him on the forehead, knocking him unconscious. Fatima, trembling, picked up the gun from the ground and emptied a magazine of bullets into the killer's head.

She glanced at her son on the bed; that familiar face was no longer breathing.

At that moment, something awakened within her.

She opened the window, searched the Zion soldiers for magazines, loaded them like a guerrilla, and fired at the enemy below.

Grandma Fatima's headscarf fluttered in the air.

Commander Riemann saw the firing point that suddenly appeared on the upper floor through the periscope, but then something blocked his view.

It looks like fallen vegetable leaves.

At the same time, all the windows of the residential buildings on both sides suddenly opened.

The elderly, women, and even children leaned out of the windows and threw anything they could at the Zionians.

As soon as a Zion soldier looked up, a pot of boiling gold water was poured over his face, and he fell to the ground screaming.

Train Commander Riemann felt as if the whole street had been hit by a "torrential rain," except that what fell was not rain, but the long-suppressed anger of a nation.

But so what?

Their soldiers are more well-trained; their tactics and strategies are more advanced; their weapons and equipment are more sophisticated.

But when he saw those fearless figures, those faces filled with rage;
Commander Riemann had an absurd thought: Zion might lose this war.

　My grandfather passed away a month ago. I have to go home to visit him on Saturday. I'll be posting two updates tomorrow. Sorry, everyone.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)