Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 188 Trapped Beast
Phoenicia, Beirut.

"Guys, I'm Wilson Stewart, a war correspondent for the United States. This is my 187th day in Beirut."

UN war correspondent Wilson sat on the balcony of a small building in the Sabra neighborhood, recording his day's summary: "Ever since the Zionians repelled the Surrian army, the shells have been raining down on us non-stop. Our supplies have been completely cut off, and now we can only survive on UN airdrops."

About a month ago, the Liberation Organization of Yasser Arafat (PLO) was forced to break up and relocate to other places because it could not withstand the heavy bombing in Zion.

Meanwhile, the Zionist forces, who harbored deep hatred for the PLO, and the Phoenician Falange militia, under the banner of "completely eliminating extremists," completely blockaded West Beirut, which had once been occupied by the PLO.

Besides the ruins scattered everywhere, all that remained were the elderly, women, and children among the Arafat refugees who were unable to evacuate.

Just as Wilson was recording, the roar of transport planes echoed through the Sabra neighborhood.

Amidst the expectant gazes of countless people, the transport plane dropped a large box with a parachute and then sped away.

The box was falling very fast, but the crowd was rushing past even faster!

Wilson quickly turned the camera around to capture the scene.

The airdrop crate crashed into a building, and then a flood of refugees surrounded the crate and began to scramble for it.

Some small, thin children used their physical advantages to squeeze through the gaps in the crowd.

Inside were the supplies and medicines they relied on for survival.

Wilson turned the camera to the chaotic crowd and said, "As you can see, civilization and order have vanished here. It's hard to imagine that just six months ago, this was one of the most prosperous cities in the entire Middle East."

He was only halfway through his sentence.

boom--! ! !
A huge explosion came from below, and a cloud of smoke mixed with severed limbs and blood shot into the sky.

The bomb, disguised as an "airdrop crate," exploded when the crowd was at its densest. The massive shockwave spread outwards in a ring, and the people crammed into the innermost part of the crowd seemed to be crushed by an invisible giant hand.

Limbs and torn pieces of cloth rained down in all directions, making the whole block look like it had been showered with blood.

Wilson was stunned by what he saw.

The terrifying explosion not only knocked him to the ground but also temporarily deprived him of his hearing.

Wilson yelled "F**k!" several times, but he couldn't hear what he was saying.

About half a minute later, accompanied by a strong ringing in his ears, the cries and screams of the crowd downstairs finally reached his ears.

After the thick smoke dissipated, a charred, shallow crater appeared on the ground, surrounded by twisted, unrecognizable bodies. Wounded but not dead people crawled and convulsed in pools of blood.

At least dozens of people died directly in the explosion, and countless others were injured.

Wilson felt dizzy and his stomach churned.

But then, several blocks away, the roar of engines and a burst of gunfire suddenly rang out.

Several pickup trucks equipped with machine guns broke through the weak barrier, and the soldiers on board began indiscriminately firing on the refugees who had not yet recovered their senses.

Wilson recognized the uniforms the soldiers were wearing—they were Phoenician government Falange militia.

Fueled by rage against the PLO, these militiamen began indiscriminate killing.

The refugees scattered and fled, but no matter how fast they ran, they couldn't outrun a bullet.

Under the spitting fire of the machine guns, the crowd fell like wheat being harvested.

The loudspeakers on the top of the Phalangist pickup trucks were still repeatedly shouting: "Hand over all Arafat Liberation Organization!"

"We are not the Liberation Organization of Arafat, please help us!"

Wilson saw two civilians waving their hands, trying to call for help from the Zionist army outside the separation wall.

However, all they received in response was cold, merciless bullets.

Two civilians fell to the ground, and Zion soldiers rushed forward and finished off the still-convulsing bodies.

Upon witnessing this scene, Wilson felt a chill run from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.

This was not a cleanup operation at all, but a premeditated, inhumane massacre and genocide!

Just then, the door to the room was suddenly kicked open, and the landlord, Uncle Assef, rushed in, his face ashen. He grabbed him and shouted, "Mr. Wilson! Quick! Hide! Don't come out! The Falange have gone mad! They're arresting people from house to house! Everyone alive will be in trouble!"

This local Muslim had risked taking him in because Wilson promised to “reveal the truth.”

Just then, another burst of gunfire and cries came from outside the window. Without hesitation, Wilson, with Assef's help, quickly hid deep inside a narrow wardrobe in the bedroom.

He turned off the camera, plunging the world into darkness, but his ears were forced to receive all the terrifying sounds from the outside world.

That night, gunshots, cries, pleas for mercy, violent banging on doors, and sporadic explosions almost never stopped.

Wilson huddled in the closet, covering his mouth tightly, afraid to make a sound; every second felt like an eternity.

The gunfire gradually subsided by the next morning.

As Wilson carefully pushed open the cabinet door, he heard a loud helicopter roar approaching from afar.

Through a crack in the window, he saw a helicopter bearing the UN logo circling above the Sabra neighborhood.

A loudspeaker carried by a helicopter was repeatedly broadcasting in multiple languages ​​throughout the block: "This is the UN peacekeeping force! All armed personnel must immediately cease hostilities and withdraw from this area! Repeat, cease fire and withdraw immediately!"

Without hesitation, Wilson grabbed the hidden red flare gun and camera and rushed out of the crumbling building.

"Hey!! I'm here! I'm here!"

At the same time, he fired the red signal flare into the sky.

When he rushed downstairs and actually stepped onto the street, he finally saw the hellish scene of the city.

As far as the eye could see, there were corpses everywhere.

Many male refugees were castrated before their deaths, while women suffered inhumane abuse before their deaths.

In the nearby square, the Phalangists and Zionists piled up the bodies of Arafat's refugees, doused them with gasoline, and set them on fire.

Thick black smoke, carrying the acrid smell of burning flesh, filled the air. Wilson could no longer hold back and, leaning against the wall, began to vomit violently.

He suppressed his fear and nausea, raised the camera, and tremblingly recorded every detail of this hell on earth.

The helicopter hovered overhead, the wind whipped up by its rotors.

A second lieutenant from South Scandinavia jumped out of the helicopter, and paused for a moment after seeing Wilson's appearance: "An Irishman?"

Wilson replied in fluent Saxon: “No, my mother is Irish, and I am a journalist from the United States.”

Seeing the horrific scene around him, the lieutenant looked rather uneasy. He said to Wilson, "My God, you must be insane!"

"I'm not crazy, but the Zionists and Phoenicians must be!"

Wilson stated unequivocally, "They are committing genocide against Arafat! This is not only a disaster for the Arab world, but also a trampling of human civilization!"

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.

Just three days after the Beirut massacre, a shocking news story ignited global public opinion and triggered an unprecedented earthquake in the Arab world.

Zion's army and the Phoenician Falanges carried out a brutal massacre at Arafat's refugee camp.

Approximately 3,500 unarmed elderly, women, children, and a small number of local Muslims were brutally murdered.

Blockade, water cut-off, food cut-off.

Rape, murder, abuse, torture.

When the bloody photos and images of the ruins were made public, the anger of the entire Arab world was completely ignited.

The United Nations ultimately characterized the incident as a genocide.

Damascus, Zion Occupation Command Headquarters.

Lieutenant General Yukustov's hand trembled violently as the telegram in his hand swelled, his blood pressure soaring: "Bastards! How could they do such a thing?!"

Prime Minister Katsav slumped into his chair, his face ashen: "It's over...it's all over..."

The Beirut incident was like a heavy hammer blow, shattering the fragile balance that held Damascus together.

The release of civilians was originally a tacit agreement among the three parties:
The occupying forces in Zion relieved the pressure on administration and supplies;

The Arab allies saved their compatriots;
The United Nations also gained international prestige as a result of this action.

Katsav even planned to use this tacit understanding to persuade Lieutenant General Yukustov, who was still hesitant, within two or three months. In the best-case scenario, he might even be able to return to Tel Aviv with his entire garrison in style.
But all of this turned out to be a mirage.

"Even if we wanted to surrender now, would the Arabs accept it?"

Katzav's voice was filled with despair: "We have to face an angry Arab population all over the city, a United Nations that no longer shows any mercy, and an Arab army that is ready to take revenge. No matter what we choose, it's all a dead end!"

“Hilbert doesn’t deserve to be called Prime Minister! He’s a madman who deserves to go to hell!” Yukustov smashed a vase on the table with his fist, then went from rage to dejection.

“He abandoned us long ago,” Katsav said with a bitter laugh. “Moda, Yeshavishin, Gorodish—wasn’t anyone there to stop him? Is our parliamentary system just a decoration?”

Yukustov rubbed his throbbing temples, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

Even last year, when he had fewer than two hundred tanks to face a massive armored onslaught of fourteen hundred tanks from Surya, he had never felt so desperate.

Are we to surrender to the Arabs?
But he dared not gamble the lives of his 40,000 troops on the Arab's mercy.

As for holding out to the death, that would only lead to the annihilation of the entire army. Just then, Colonel Benjamin of the General Staff Reconnaissance Team pushed open the door and entered.

In the past few hours, he has taken over command of several key strongholds in the city under the pretext of a "wartime emergency" and has sent "political instructors" to the grassroots troops.

"It seems you two are both aware of the current situation."

Benjamin said calmly, "But I think things might still be turning around."

"A turning point? It was your Prime Minister Hilbert who personally pushed us to the brink!" Katsav sneered.

Yukustov raised his head, stared at Benjamin, and remained silent.

"In my opinion, we are far from being in dire straits."

Benjamin maintained his usual elegance and ruthlessness, saying, "Prime Minister Hilbert only executed 3,500 Arafats in Phoenicia, but we still hold the lives of 800,000 Arabs in our hands!"

"You're insane!" Katsav exclaimed in horror.

"I'm just reminding you all that we have more leverage than we think. Since gentle approaches have failed, we might as well take more decisive measures."

Benjamin's gaze swept over the two men: "First, we must reassure officers of all ranks and all soldiers, declaring to them that Zion has wiped out 3,500 remaining PLO terrorists in Phoenicia, a major victory. This will stabilize morale."

He paused, then continued with his plan: "Secondly, we must intensify the purge of the city and publicly execute those unsettling elements."

This would both deter potential rebels and consolidate control, while also forcing the Arab coalition to launch the first attack on us and save the remaining civilians.

During this time, we will utilize our prepared fortifications to wear down their manpower. The moment Amir makes even the slightest tactical mistake, it will be time for our counterattack.

"Do you want to repeat the tragedy of Beirut in Damascus?! Do you want us all to bear the guilt of genocide?" Katsav demanded sharply.

Benjamin responded with a mocking sneer: "Do you think we haven't shed enough blood in Damascus? Or are you so naive as to believe that the Arabs will forgive us? Wake up, Prime Minister! If you want to live, you'd better support this plan!"

Lieutenant General Yukustov fell silent.

Hilbert's madness cut off all avenues of retreat, and now even his conscience is about to be erased.

Benjamin's plan, though extreme, had a slight chance of success.

"At least I'm still a general. I can't save myself, but I can save the soldiers under my command."

Since the whole world regards them as butchers, since explanations have become a luxury, and since the path to peace has been blocked, the only way to carve out a bloody path for their soldiers is to become even more ruthless.

When Yukustov looked up again, his voice was hoarse as he said, "Do as you say."

“You’ve all gone mad!” Katsav trembled all over.

Benjamin gave him a mocking glance: "Don't worry, if the plan ultimately fails, you can pin all the blame on the General Staff reconnaissance team. You politicians are always clean."

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.

Soldiers from the General Staff reconnaissance team knocked on Abu Muhammad's door.

"Is it our turn yet?" the man asked hopefully as he opened the door.

The soldier at the door, wearing a red beret, nodded expressionlessly and waved: "Let's go."

Abu's family's faces immediately lit up with smiles; they obediently didn't bring anything with them.

People preparing to leave the city are not allowed to carry any valuables or food.

They followed the soldier out of their house. The man even gratefully said to the soldier, "Thank you."

Now the whole city knows that the people of Zion are releasing civilians from Damascus in batches.

To ordinary citizens, this was an obvious signal: the Allied forces were about to win and Damascus was about to be liberated.

They were led onto the back of a military truck, which was already crammed with more than twenty people.

Everyone's face was filled with the joy of surviving a disaster, and they talked in hushed tones, looking forward to the moment when they would reunite with their loved ones outside the city.

However, after the car was started, someone quickly noticed that something was wrong.

"Isn't this going the wrong way? Isn't this heading out of the city?" a young man asked doubtfully, peeking through the gap in the tarpaulin covering the carriage.

"Perhaps they're taking a detour to avoid the front lines?"

A sense of unease began to spread inside the car.

The truck didn't end up heading towards the border of freedom; instead, it stopped at an abandoned school playground.

"Get down, all of you!" the soldier escorting the vehicle commanded coldly.

People looked at each other, hesitant and unwilling to move.

Abu mustered his last bit of courage and pleaded with the soldier who had been traveling with him, "Sir...didn't you promise to let us go? Please..."

The cold expression on the General Staff reconnaissance soldier's face seemed to crack slightly, but it quickly returned to normal.

He avoided the man's desperate gaze and said in an almost inaudible voice:
"I'm very sorry."

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.

Quneitra, the headquarters of the Arab coalition.

"Lieutenant General, we have been unable to make any contact with Maascua for sixteen hours. They have also not released any civilians for more than twenty-four hours!" Fahd reported with a frown.

"Continue to try to make contact, with the safety of civilians as the top priority," Lu Lin ordered solemnly.

The atmosphere inside the command center was extremely tense.

The highest-ranking commanders of the various countries' forces, as well as UN Special Envoy Jan Elandsen, were all gathered here.

Elandson began, "The United Nations can do its best to secure a pardon for Lieutenant General Yukustov. If he publicly renounces his Zion citizenship, becomes a witness against the Tel Aviv government, and voluntarily releases all detained civilians, he can atone for his crimes..."

Lu Lin interrupted him with a wry smile: "Mr. Special Envoy, the key issue is that we can't even contact Damascus now; communications have been completely cut off."

Just then, Brigade Commander Tamim of the reconnaissance brigade rushed into the command post, his voice heavy: "Your Excellency! We have just received definite intelligence from within the city that the Zionians are systematically massacring civilians!"

"What? Is the intelligence accurate?!"

The command center erupted in uproar; everyone was shocked by the news.

Lu Lin's face also quickly darkened; things had indeed developed in the worst possible direction he had anticipated.

Before he could finish speaking, the encrypted phone on the table rang shrilly.

Lu Lin grabbed the receiver, and Commander Hafiz's heavy voice came from the other end: "Your Excellency Amir! We have just received urgent intelligence from within the city! The Zion beasts have begun a large-scale massacre of our compatriots!"

Lu Lin replied, "We just confirmed this news as well."

The Surya leader, known for his iron fist, took a deep breath and humbled himself, saying, "We can't wait any longer, Your Excellency Amir. We must immediately liberate Damascus! Liberate the millions of Arab brothers still trapped in Zion's hands!"
Please.

Surya needs you, Damascus needs you!

"Lieutenant General!"

"Your Majesty Lieutenant General!"

In the command post, all the staff officers from the Arab forces of various countries stood up, their eyes all focused on Lu Lin.

There were pleas, and there was also the fury of revenge.

Lu Lin turned to look at UN Special Envoy Elanderson: "As you know, I have no intention of using force if the problem can be solved peacefully."

Elanderson nodded emphatically: "I understand, please wait a moment."

Elandson then made a phone call to the UN Security Council.

“Ibrahim,” Lu Lin said.

Ibrahim replied, "Our advance troops have already begun their advance, and Damascus will soon be within the range of the artillery."

Just then, the telegraph machines in the communications room began to buzz incessantly.

Elandson looked at Lu Lin; countless telegrams filled the General Headquarters like snowflakes—

UN Security Council Emergency Resolution 678: Authorizes all necessary means to protect civilians in Damascus

Statement of the United States Government: Authorizing and supporting the Allied forces to take all necessary military action for the immediate liberation of Damascus.

The Ant government issued a statement supporting the emergency force measures taken to protect civilians in Damascus.

Seres

Finally, a very brief yet significant telegram was delivered to Lu Lin—

[Special Authorization Order of the United Nations Security Council: Lieutenant General Amir bin Mohammed Abdulaziz Al Saud is hereby authorized, with immediate effect, to take all necessary military action to protect civilians.]

All UN member states should cooperate—Office of the UN Secretary-General, urgent telegram.

This may be the fastest authorization process in the history of the United Nations.

Lu Lin gently placed the telegram on the table, his gaze sweeping over each of his comrades in the command post, and nodded slightly:

"Then leave it to me."

(End of this chapter)