Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 169 Execution
“Someone stole the supplies from the front lines and is now hiding in the back like a coward. I can’t reach them.”

Lu Lin was on the phone with Prince Muhammad when the other end paused for a moment before replying, "I roughly know who did it, but I can't hand this person over to you."

"A prince?"

"Yes, he's still your uncle."

Lu Lin was not surprised by this answer.

“All of your grandfather’s direct descendants hold a special position in this country, especially the princes—even if they are stupid and wicked, they each represent a faction of interest. You cannot touch them.”

"Ah."

Prince Muhammad noticed that his son seemed a little off today, so he asked, "Has something happened at the front?"

Lu Lin did not hide anything and told them what Major General Qasim had done.

After hearing this, Prince Muhammad understood: "You want to establish your authority?"

"."

"Are you trying to prove to those Allied people that you treat everyone the same?"

".No."

"So you want to address the problem of bureaucracy?"

Prince Muhammad held the phone and heard a voice on the other end say, "Dad, I'm just feeling a little unwell."

There was silence on both ends of the phone call.

After a while, the old prince's voice came again: "Talal, it's no use doing anything to you, you've only made a mess of things, but I can send the others over to you."

Lu Lin: "Is there any evidence to prove they did it?"

"We have as many as you want. The royal family has plenty of people like that."

"Not enough portions won't do."

“Don’t worry,” Muhammad replied, “as long as he’s not a prince, you can do whatever you want with him.”

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.

In the Riyadh quartermaster office, Colonel Salman, who was in charge of logistics, was leisurely drinking coffee when there was a sudden knock on the door.

Before he could respond, a group of guards dressed in royal guard uniforms walked in.

The lieutenant in the lead announced expressionlessly: "In view of Colonel Salman's recent outstanding performance, the Ministry of Defense has ordered that you be promoted to brigadier general and that you be sent to the front lines immediately to attend the award ceremony."

"Promotion to brigadier general? On the front lines? Wait a minute."

Colonel Salman was still in a daze, but before he could contact Lieutenant General Talal, he was dragged out of his office by the soldiers, shoved into a car, and headed straight for the military base.

Throughout the journey, he clutched the promotion order stamped with the Ministry of National Defense's large red seal tightly in his hand, and to his surprise, the promotion order was actually genuine.

Colonel Salman—no, now a brigadier general—was then taken to the airport and subsequently loaded onto a military transport plane.

To his surprise, there were already twenty or thirty officers in the cabin, dressed in brand-new trouser uniforms like him, but with equally bewildered expressions, each holding a similar promotion or transfer order.

"What...what's going on?"

"I don't know... They said they were going to the front lines to receive medals..."

"But I've never earned any military merits..."

"Stop talking, I'm not even an officer..."

Amidst whispers, the plane took off and flew towards the front lines.

When the hatch opened again, a blast of hot air, mixed with diesel, dust, and a faint smell of gunpowder, rushed out.

Brigadier General Salman squinted; the scene before him was completely different from what lay behind him.

Instead of neat streets and magnificent buildings, what came into view were rows of field tents and piles of supplies covered with camouflage nets, and the faint sound of artillery could be heard in the distance.

Many pampered gentlemen had already turned pale.

Before Brigadier General Salman could react, he saw a very young man with a lieutenant general's star on his shoulder insignia walking towards him, surrounded by a group of officers. He couldn't quite place that face.

The officer escorting them immediately stepped forward, saluted, and said in a loud voice, "Reporting to Your Excellency Commander! All the goods you requested have been safely delivered!"

Lu Lin nodded, his cold gaze sweeping over the bewildered group of "generals" and "colonels." He then walked up to Salman and snatched the promotion report from his stiff hand. Lu Lin looked at the name on it, then glanced at Salman, a smirk playing on his lips.

That smile sent a chill down Salman's spine, making him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cave.

“A brigadier general, a bunch of field officers, and a few lieutenants…” Lu Lin muttered to himself, “If you didn’t know better, you’d think the headquarters had given me a reinforced platoon.”

He glanced at the list and realized that these people were all related to him in some way, even in terms of their surnames.

Salman recognized the man before him and mustered his courage to beg for mercy: "Commander, I..."

"I have no interest in asking about right and wrong, merits and demerits anymore." Lu Lin interrupted him and returned the promotion report to Salman: "Be thankful, at least you can still make one last contribution to this country."

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.

Al-Iraq, Baghdad.

At the residence of the General Secretary of the Revival Party, Kozonie is contacting the acting commander-in-chief of the Al-Ilag front forces.

Several days had passed, and he naturally learned of the disastrous defeat at the front.

Upon learning the truth, Kozonie was so angry he almost vomited blood. Those T-62s destroyed in the mud were a real part of Al-Ilag's assets! He now wished he could personally kill that idiot Qasim.

"But remember this: no matter what, you must not let Qasim die at Amir's hands!"

Kozone gave Colonel Maher, who was temporarily in charge of the troops at the front, a death order: "He has already executed one of our deputy secretaries-general. If he were to publicly execute another of our major generals, what would the people of Al-Ilag think of us?! What would become of the dignity of the Ba'ath Party?!"
Even if Qasim is to be executed, it must be done by ourselves! With our own bullets!

However, Colonel Maher's voice carried a wry smile: "You're probably too late. No one, not even me, can stop Commander Amir now."

"What did you say? Does he want to become a tyrant whom other Arab countries call autocratic? Isn't he afraid of being criticized by millions of people?!"

Colonel Maher then reported on what Lu Lin had just done: "Yesterday, Amir personally summoned all the high-ranking officers of the Allied forces and publicly admitted that there were serious corruption problems in Shuangzhi's rear."

Dozens of officers from the Shuangzhi Army, suspected of reselling frontline supplies and passing off inferior goods as superior ones, were all executed by firing squad, including a brigadier general.

All dead.

After hearing this, Cozon felt as if all the strength had been drained from his body, and he slumped down.

He immediately understood the other party's intention.

If they dare to be so ruthless even to their own people, how much more so to a general who disobeyed military orders, caused the loss of a friendly force's main force, and whose crimes are equally undeniable?
He couldn't help but rub his forehead and sigh, "This time, Qasim is completely beyond saving."

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.

The execution site was chosen in a remote and open valley.

Qasim had all his rank insignia removed, his hair was disheveled and stuck to his forehead, making him look miserable, but his expression was unusually calm, even a bit nonchalant.

The other Arab officials stood by and watched the execution with indifference.

Before his execution, Qasim suddenly made a request to Lu Lin: "Commander, could you personally fire this shot?"

Lu Lin countered, "Why would I do that?"

Qasim smiled and said, "I am, after all, a major general. Besides, having you personally execute me will solidify our authority in front of all the Allied forces, and I will have done my last bit of service for the Alliance."

Lu Lin stared at him silently for a few seconds, then stepped forward and drew his gun.

Seeing this, Qasim closed his eyes with pleasure.

At that moment, Lu Lin's merciless voice rang in his ears, directly piercing through his last pretense: "You are nothing but a selfish, reckless, and hopelessly stupid bastard."

Qasim's smile froze on his face.

Lu Lin, holding his gun, continued, "To seek a false glory for yourself, you risked the lives of an entire division of soldiers, almost jeopardizing the Allied victory. Now, you want to use my gun to earn yourself a heroic reputation, making your death sound like a sacrifice and a triumph?"

His voice was full of contempt: "I won't give you that chance. Your death will only be due to your stupidity and incompetence, nothing more."

Qasim's eyes widened, his last pretense shattered, and he cried out in horror and rage, "How could you..."

"boom!"

A sharp gunshot interrupted his words. The bullet had precisely left a small, charred hole in the center of his forehead.

Major General Qasim's face froze in horror and astonishment as he fell straight backward, crashing heavily into the dust.

There was no more movement.

(End of this chapter)