Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 166 The Forgotten Person

"Our troops have advanced forty kilometers toward the Galilee Plain. Everything is proceeding according to plan and progressing smoothly."

Inside the operations conference room of the new royal palace in Riyadh, Prince Muhammad was receiving a call from the front lines. On the other end of the receiver came Lu Lin's calm and clear report: "The vanguard of the 7th Mechanized Infantry Division has already engaged the Zion armored forces near Aden. Furthermore, we have encountered the new Zion tanks that the Surrian side mentioned in their Phoenician report."

"Can their tanks penetrate the armor of the M60A1?"

“Without a doubt, the enemy is equipped with a 120mm main gun, the same model as the ‘Chieftain’, and their fire control system is slightly superior to ours. We are not at an advantage in armor-piercing shell combat.” Lu Lin’s tone remained calm.

In this timeline, the original Merkava was influenced by the "Chieftain" and exhibited characteristics of a hybrid of the MK1 and MK3—heavier than the MK1, but also inheriting the more ferocious firepower of the MK3.

“That doesn’t sound like good news.” Prince Muhammad’s gaze swept over the military map.

"Yes, but we seized the most crucial window of opportunity. Before Zion's forces could deploy, we infiltrated through the gap in the Galilee Plains. Although we will certainly face a strong counterattack from Zion's forces, it will be enough to open up the passage to Quneitra."

Lu Lin added, "In addition, they don't have many new tanks, and because they are too bulky, I feel that their actual performance is not as good as the Chieftain's."

"Ask my nephew for me," King Shams suddenly interjected, "whether I will have the opportunity to climb to the top of Mount Hermon and see the snow this winter?"

Lu Lin vaguely recognized his uncle's voice through the receiver and replied, "Your Majesty, if the war goes smoothly, we will have a chance to take the Golan Heights within one to two months."

"What is the specific extent of the damage?" Prince Muhammad pressed.

“It’s close to 1 to 1.5,” Lu Lin reported the numbers. “'1' is Zion, and '1.5' is us. Numerically, we are at a disadvantage, but this is the overall statistic—compared to the data from previous wars, we have made significant progress.”

It should be noted that in the Third and Fourth Middle East Wars, the tank loss ratio between Zion and the Arabs was as high as 1:8 or even 1:10. Adding in non-combat losses, this ratio now fully reflects the improvement in tactical adjustments and command levels.

This good news was indeed encouraging, and King Shams immediately prepared to summon his propaganda officer to share the data with other Arab countries, but was dissuaded by General Nayef: "Your Majesty, shouldn't we wait until we've achieved a partial victory before..."

“Real-time information synchronization is also important,” Lu Lin interrupted him. “We need to keep our Arab allies confident so that we can ensure they continue to provide military assistance.”

General Naif's stern face was somewhat unpleasant, because he felt that he and this young man on the front lines didn't quite get along.

At that moment, a young man appeared at the door of the conference room and called out to King Shams, "Father."

The group turned around, and King Shams frowned and snapped, "Can't you see we're having a meeting? Get out!"

The young man paused for a moment, apologized, and then turned and left.

After exchanging information with Lu Lin about the situation at the front, Prince Muhammad turned and asked, "Your son?"

He wasn't exactly familiar with his brother's offspring, but he was at least somewhat acquainted with their faces.

“Oh, it’s Ziad.” King Shams slapped his head, somewhat annoyed. “He’s only been home for a short time. I shouldn’t have spoken to him like that.”

"Is he Prince Turki's son?" General Naif asked.

King Shams nodded, his expression darkening. "Their father entrusted these brothers to me, but I have failed to take good care of them. Ziad lost his brother just a few months ago."

This topic ends here because it is somewhat sensitive and involves a bloody conflict that occurred a few months ago.

The king's son sounded the horn in rebellion against the king, and was subsequently killed by the king's soldiers.

Even though the royal family ultimately decided on the nature of the matter, whether everyone liked it or not, the topic of Prince Harry has now come to an end.

This is something Ziad can only process gradually in the future.

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.

Ziad strolled through the luxurious corridors of the new palace, feeling utterly unfamiliar with everything after being away from home for several years.

Everything has changed, from the surrounding environment to the family, and even the room I used to live in.

Even their only blood relative is gone.

He had planned to ask someone about his brother, but everyone avoided the topic and showed obvious distance and fear in their eyes after learning that he was Harry's brother.

Just as he was about to ask his father for confirmation, the expression on King Shams's face pierced him more sharply than any answer. "His Majesty simply doesn't care; after all, you're not his biological children."

Suhail's words echoed in his ears once again, and now that he thought about it, they were absolutely right.

A week has passed since he returned to the new palace, and no one has visited him or greeted him.

He was like a transparent person who had moved in.

Ziad was certain that King Shams knew about his return to the palace, let alone his return to the country, since even those people had come to him of their own accord.

It's just that his adoptive father, who is the king, is too busy.

He couldn't even take care of his own dozen or so biological sons, let alone his adopted son.

"You may not care, but someone else does."

"But that person is already dead."

He originally felt like a duckweed living in the royal family, with tiny roots clinging to a few precious things. He thought that was good enough. He never fought for what wasn't his, and never snatched what didn't belong to him. He was content with his lot.

But now all his roots have been severed.

He didn't completely believe what was in the document, but he couldn't verify what actually happened on his own.

"Do I know those people are taking advantage of me? Can a place like this really be called home?"

Ziad looked up at the completely unfamiliar palace and thought to himself that his old, clumsy house was much more comfortable.

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.

"It's raining?"

The cold raindrops suddenly pattered on the tent canvas, making a fine, continuous sound that quickly merged into a continuous patter.

Lu Lin put down his binoculars and looked outside the tent.

At this moment, the previously pervasive dust was quickly suppressed, replaced by the damp smell of earth. However, the rain also meant that the ground would soon become muddy, forcing the armored forces to temporarily halt their advance.

"Perfect timing for the lads to catch their breath." The tent flap was lifted, and Taimiye walked in with a rare relaxed smile on his face. "Have you forgotten what day it is today?"

Lu Lin cast an inquiring glance at him.

“Today is the middle of the month of Sera, and especially the upcoming ‘Beratha Night’,” Thamye explained. “This is an important night for seeking forgiveness, purifying the soul, remembering the deceased, and praying for their rest.”

Well, as soon as Lu Lin heard this, he knew it was time for the Muslims' routine prayers again.

Chief of Staff Ibrahim, standing nearby, nodded in agreement: "The soldiers are exhausted from continuous fighting. It's the month of Sharban, and it's raining, which may be Allah's will. We do need to pause the offensive to give the soldiers a chance to pray and rest, and to pay tribute to our fallen comrades."

Lu Lin frowned slightly.

“Hey,” Taimiye raised his hand, his expression leaving no room for doubt, “We agreed long ago that you’re in charge of the fighting, but I’m in charge of our daily lives. It’s the holiday season right now.”

Lu Lin looked at the expressions on the faces of the people in the command post, then at the drizzling rain outside the tent and the soldiers in the distance who were finally able to rest for a while, and finally nodded: "Alright. Order all units to take advantage of the rain and the holiday to rest in place, strengthen vigilance at the front line, and make sure that prayer activities are arranged in safe areas."

Zion's tanks are heavier, and in this weather, they probably wouldn't choose to attack unless their tracks got stuck in the mud.

"May the departed rest in peace," Taimiye said softly, his expression solemn.

"May the departed rest in peace," Ibrahim echoed in a low voice.

Lu Lin took a deep breath of the damp air, looked at the battlefield shrouded in rain in the distance, and whispered sincerely, "May the departed rest in peace."

(End of this chapter)