Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 69 Yom Kippur

"Our army has gradually stabilized in the captured areas. Although there are still occasional resistance groups, they are basically not a threat."

6th of 10th month in the Islamic calendar year 1388.

The Prime Minister's Office building in Tel Aviv.

Zion's Defense Minister, Morda, is reporting on the situation in various regions: "The Masr forces east of the Suez Canal are still conducting small-scale harassment under the pretext of military exercises, but the Abrudis oil field in the Sinai Peninsula has basically resumed supply and can provide fuel resources for our troops."

"On the Al-Ilag front, the 38th Armored Division has retreated to the west of the Euphrates River and established a solid defensive line relying on important cities such as Qaim."

Prime Minister Albert interrupted, "How's the supply situation?"

Wright Lica, who is currently in charge of Zion's armaments and weapons independent research and development department, reported: "The latest batch of Mirage Vs from France has arrived. The radar fire control system has been removed, but the range and weapon carrying capacity have been increased. It can be used as a bomber when necessary, but this also exposes our shortcomings."

Chief of the General Staff Ali Lazars gave him a look, signaling Wright not to bring up unpleasant topics on Yom Kippur, but Wright continued speaking as if he hadn't noticed:

"We rely on imports for most of our weapons and equipment, which makes it difficult to repair parts once a weapon malfunctions. Moreover, there have been instances in previous wars where TOW anti-tank missiles were exhausted."

Albert said, "Oh? Doesn't this sound like your task?"

“Yes, that’s right. So now we have established a relatively complete ammunition industry, capable of producing light weapons ammunition, artillery shells, and some missiles,” Wright Lika replied calmly.
"But the problem now is that the variety of models we can produce cannot keep up with the rate at which imported weapons are consumed. For example, if a Chieftain breaks down on the battlefield, it is difficult for us to find repair parts in the shortest possible time."

But if it's a Centurion, or even a captured T-55 from the Arab army, we can quickly put the damaged tanks back into the battlefield.

Therefore, my suggestion is that we purchase some key technologies from the United Kingdom or France, and then conduct the research and development ourselves.

Albert nodded: "Independent research and development is the right thing to do. We have a military industry that far surpasses that of other Arab countries, but compared to the vast Arabian Peninsula, we are constrained by geographical disadvantages, and our military production capacity is always stretched thin."

If you have any good proposals, please send them to me. I will have the relevant departments cooperate with you immediately.

What about the Kurds?

"The fighting is still going on," Chief of the General Staff Ali Lazars replied. "Currently, the Kirkuk oil field is basically in the hands of the Kurds, but the offensive by Al-Iraq has made the oil field's output very unstable, and it is estimated that it will not reach our previous expectations."

"If we can't reach it, then we can't reach it."

Albert said, "As long as the Al-Iraq also loses its oil fields, without the support of oil, their country will fall into civil war due to a sharp drop in public support and the loss of its main source of income."

This is the problem of a single economic structure. It will eventually lead to a "backflow" phenomenon, where the domestic economy is controlled by the West or the Ant Group. If we then exert constraints upstream, even if Al-Iraq doesn't withdraw from the Arab League, they will be unable to support other Arab countries.

The high-ranking officials of Zion around them nodded and chatted with each other about the glorious achievements Zion had made over the past year.

Just then, the bell tolled from the direction of the meeting hall in the old town, deep and long, penetrating the thick glass windows of the Prime Minister's Office.

As Prime Minister Albert's voice faded, the room gradually quieted down, and everyone's gaze turned to the window. A waiter opened the window, and in the distance, prayers could be faintly heard coming from the hall.

"Amen."

"We commit crimes, we betray, we plunder..."

Prime Minister Albert did not move; his gaze remained fixed on the military map, but his thoughts briefly drifted away—not to the war, nor to the calculations of Al-Ilag's oil, but back to his childhood in Minsk, where he was born in Ant and had once dreamed of becoming a writer like Alexander Pushkin.

Now, he is the prime minister of Zion, and his every move will determine the fate of the country.

The bells stopped ringing.

No one spoke in the room, as if time had been stretched by a second, until the air raid siren suddenly blared, merging with the chimes.

Everyone froze for a moment, but Albert's thoughts were immediately pulled back, and he ducked under the table.

"Air raid!!"

Immediately afterwards, the Prime Minister's Office's public address system suddenly activated, and the secretary's urgent voice came through: "Your Excellency Prime Minister, urgent telegram from the Suez Canal and the Golan Heights front!"

Albert, supported by his son-in-law Commander Moda, stood up and slammed his fist on the table in anger at the high-ranking officials who were still standing there in a daze. "What are you all standing here for! Go do what you're supposed to do! I need intelligence from the front lines, and I need it fast!!" The other high-ranking officials exchanged glances, bid farewell to the Prime Minister, and strode away from the Prime Minister's residence.

The counterattack from Arab countries has finally arrived.

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.

Western Al-Iraq, Gaim, temporary command post of the 45th Armored Brigade of the Zion Army.

Major General Elize Cohen knelt in the makeshift prayer room. The mansion had originally belonged to an Al-Irag merchant who had fled with his family before the Zion armored forces attacked.

Everything that was originally in the room was thrown out. Zion soldiers rolled up the Persian carpet in the center of the hall and replaced it with simple folding chairs and military communication equipment. The original dining room was transformed into the command center of the armored brigade.

"How many times this week?" Cohen asked, taking the coffee from his adjutant, his tone clearly impatient.

"The fourth exercise alert has been issued, General."

Colonel Aaron opened the duty log. "The Al-Iraq people have been conducting river-crossing drills almost every two days for the past two weeks."

Yesterday, their T-62 tanks ran back and forth across the river three times, but in the end, all they did was film some promotional videos.

Cohen snorted and slammed his coffee cup heavily against the windowsill.

"What else can these Arabs do besides waste our time? Notify all battalions that after today's routine guard duty, one-third of the soldiers will take a break, and those who need to pray should go and pray."

"But."

"What do those guys in the General Staff know sitting in their offices in Tel Aviv?" Cohen waved his hand impatiently to interrupt. "For the past two weeks, we've been played like fools, and what's the result? We haven't even seen a single Arab soldier!"

Just then, several muffled sounds came from the northern suburbs. Colonel Aaron picked up the radio: "North outpost reporting, a small amount of smoke observed, suspected to be artillery fire."

“Let them be.” Cohen turned and walked toward the makeshift prayer room. “Tell the troops on duty to follow the plan and not to bother me.”

But then several more muffled explosions came from afar, this time closer. Cohen just frowned and continued to pray. In the past two weeks, the Al-Iraq people had used the exercise as a pretext to carry out too many feints, which had made the military district somewhat numb.

But then a loud bang was heard.

boom--! ! !
The entire mansion suddenly trembled! The stained glass shattered, the chandeliers swayed wildly, and Major General Cohen staggered and grabbed the wall for support. Then a large piece of plaster fell from the ceiling, nearly hitting him on the head.

"Enemy attack! All personnel in combat readiness!"

The corridor instantly erupted with shouts and running sounds.

Major General Cohen flung open the prayer room door, bumping into the ashes-covered chief of staff: "General! It's for real this time! The 9th Armored Division of Al-Ilag is shelling the city! They've crossed the river from the direction of Abu Kamal!"

"What!" Major General Cohen's eyes widened. "Where are the surveillance posts on the Euphrates? Where are the air force reconnaissance?!"

"They used smoke grenades and electronic jamming. At first, the outpost thought it was just another military exercise," the chief of staff said, adjusting his hat. "Now, at least two battalions of T-62s should have crossed the river!"

Cohen's mind went blank.

Boom! Another shell landed in the courtyard, the shockwave overturning the parked jeeps. The servants of the mansion screamed and fled in all directions. The soldier's bleeding arm finally brought Major General Cohen back to his senses.

He ripped off his prayer cloth and threw it to the ground: "Get all the chieftain tanks moving! Immediately block the main roads! Contact the brigade artillery—no, call for air support directly!"

"General, today is Yom Kippur, and the number of air force crews on duty is less than half of the usual number."

"Then let those half the people throw all the bombs into the river!"

Major General Cohen grabbed his helmet and put it on his head. "No matter what, the Euphrates Front cannot be lost, otherwise you and I will both be sent to a military court, and the blueprint that His Excellency the President has built will be completely ruined!"

(End of this chapter)