Chapter 1398
Abandoned Son
Chapter 1398 Abandoned Son
Hillary's video signal was cut off, and the briefing room fell into dead silence.
The twelve officers sat around a long table, and everyone had heard the conversation.
The encrypted speaker was loud enough that every word Hillary Clinton spoke, every change in tone, was as clear as if she were actually in the room.
Delta Force Commander Hilt was the first to stand up.
“Sir,” Hilt said, “we will hold the line. Delta Force never backs down.”
The other officers nodded in agreement, some whispering in agreement, while others simply straightened their backs.
But Lymont saw something else in their eyes—despair.
They stated that their refusal to back down was solely to uphold the honor of Delta Force.
They knew perfectly well that they had been abandoned.
Not by the enemy, but by the country to which they swore allegiance, and by those who sit in secure offices issuing orders.
"Get into defensive positions," Lemont said in a deep voice. "Hilter, have your men check all weapon systems and assign positions to anti-tank missiles and heavy machine guns. If the enemy attacks, I want every bullet to hit a valuable target."
"Understood, sir."
“Ryan.” Lymont turned to his partner: “Continue to try to contact Iligo, through any means necessary, including local government, tribal elders, anyone who can relay a message. Also, have all data erasure procedures initiated and prepare for the final stages.”
“If the shelling begins…” He looked at Hilt: “Prioritize protecting communications equipment and encrypted data. Those things absolutely cannot fall into enemy hands. If necessary… you know what to do.”
Hilt paused for two seconds: "What about the soldiers? Those civilian agents, they haven't received combat training, many of them don't even know how to use a gun."
Lemont remained silent for a full five seconds.
The red numbers on the digital clock ticked: 23:47.
Ten minutes left.
“Do your best,” he finally said, the four words as soft as a sigh. “Now, take your positions.”
The officers quickly left the briefing room, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Lemont stood alone in front of the projection screen, looking at the map of the encirclement.
The red dots, the blue dots, the green areas—these abstract symbols represent the 170 lives in the base, his 20-year career, and the death hanging over Mosul at this moment.
Just as Lamont was preparing for the final moment, thousands of kilometers away in the Power Corridor, another drama was unfolding.
This play has no gunfire or smoke, but it is just as crucial to life and death—life and death in a political sense.
Bakhta, the capital of Iligo, Green Zone, the office of the Minister of Defense.
Minister Fadil Abdul-Majid set down the note personally delivered by the U.S. Ambassador. It was a text printed on State Department official letterhead, worded "strong," "urgent," and "unacceptable," and ended with Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's electronic signature.
He sighed, his voice sounding particularly heavy in the empty office.
“Samir, that madman.” Fadil rubbed his temples, his fingers pressing on the throbbing veins. “Who does he think he is? Saladin? Trying to recreate the glory of the Battle of Hardin?”
His adjutant, Amir, stood at the table, holding a tablet computer that displayed the latest troop movement data for the 10th Division.
Amir is 35 years old and is the youngest chief of staff in the Ministry of Defense. He is also one of the few people who understand both military and political affairs.
"Minister, the Americans' demands are very clear: they require us to immediately order the 10th Division to withdraw, or they will suspend all military aid and economic support. There is still $1.2 billion in aid that has not been disbursed this year, and another $2 billion in loan guarantees are under review."
Fadil shook his head with a wry smile: "Amir, do you think Samir cares about these things? He fought in Mosul for eight years, witnessed the massacre of the city in 1515, watched the American bombing, and saw the Kurds come and go. Over the years, even in the poorest times, he persevered through gritted teeth, and we didn't give them a single penny. What's more... do you think he would withdraw his troops just because Washington stopped sending aid?"
He got up and walked to the window.
Outside the window is the dilapidated skyline of Bakhta, and in the distance, the remains of a communications tower destroyed in the 2003 war can be seen, which has not been repaired even after seventeen years.
Further away, the Tigris River shimmered with a murky light under the moonlight.
"Americans think we're still the same puppet government that knelt down to receive orders in 2003."
Fadil said, his voice tinged with a weary irony.
“They make a phone call, have a civilian clerk from the embassy come over and hand over a document, and think we should wag our tails like dogs and then bite our own people.”
He turned around and leaned against the window.
"But they forgot that the war over the past decade or so has changed too much. Samir has more than 10,000 veterans under his command who fought alongside him out of the hell of Mosul, and those men only listen to him. They don't recognize Bakhda, they don't recognize the Green Zone, they only recognize the general who led them out of the ruins."
Amir cautiously stated, "But if we don't take a stand, the Americans might take more aggressive measures. They've already distributed documents at the UN suggesting that the 10th Division might 'get out of control' and could 'threaten regional stability'..."
“Then let them talk.” Fadil snorted, walked back to the table and sat down again. He sighed, then picked up his pen: “Politics, Amir, always remember: politics is not about what you do, but about what you look like you are doing.”
He scribbled rapidly on a blank command.
"Issue a strongly worded order, numbered... Ministry of Defense Order No. 174. Title: 'Notification of Immediate Cessation of Unauthorized Military Operations'. Content: General Samir is required to immediately cease all military operations not approved by the Ministry of Defense, withdraw all troops beyond the defense zone, and submit a written explanation within 24 hours."
He looked up at Amir: “How stern should you be? Use phrases like ‘otherwise you will face disciplinary action,’ but don’t specify what the punishment will be. Be vague, always be vague.”
"CC the US Embassy?"
"Of course. Send it through an encrypted channel, and then let the press office 'accidentally' leak it to Al Jazeera's correspondent in Bakhtar."
Fadil thought for a moment and then said, "In addition, have the finance department formally notify the 10th Division that due to the 'budget audit and procedural compliance check,' the disbursement of military funds this month will be postponed, and the specific disbursement time will be 'notified separately.'"
Amir wrote on the tablet: "If Samir disobeys..."
“Of course he won’t obey,” Fadil said with a wry smile. “Do you think I can force him to obey by doing this? But at least the Americans saw that we made an ‘effort.’ We issued orders, we stopped funding, we did everything a ‘sovereign nation’ should do. As for whether the orders were carried out… that’s another matter.”
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“That’s politics, Amir. Acting is more important than doing anything. Posture is more important than results. As long as we’re acting and making a gesture, no one can say we haven’t tried our best.”
At the same time, in Erbil, the capital of the Khord Autonomous Okrug, at the residence of Masoud.
This stone building, dating back to the Ottoman period, is located in the heart of the old town.
At this moment, only one desk lamp was lit in Masoud's private study.
The dim light illuminated one corner of the oak desk, while the rest remained in shadow.
The bookshelves were filled with books in Arabic, Querdin, English, and even a few Chinese military theory works.
Masoud sat in a high-backed leather chair, slowly picked up his porcelain cup, and sipped the warm black tea inside.
The tea was slightly scalding hot, with the distinctive aroma of Darjeeling muscat grapes.
His son, Massoud Jr., chairman of the Military Commission, stood at the table, having just finished reporting three urgent phone calls from Washington.
“The Americans are very anxious,” Masood said. “The first call was to the Assistant Secretary of State for Middle East Affairs, the second to the Deputy Director of the National Security Council, and the third… was Walter himself.”
He glanced at the notes in his hand.
"Walter's original words were: 'The long-standing friendship between the Kolding Autonomous Community and the United States is based on mutual trust and support. Current events are testing that friendship. We hope that Chairman Massoud can demonstrate leadership and prevent further escalation—this is in our common interest, including the future status of the autonomous community.'"
Masoud put down his teacup, the porcelain making a slight, crisp sound as it touched the wooden table.
“They’re threatening us.” His breathing became heavy. “They’re threatening us with support for an independence referendum.”
“Yes, Father,” Masood Jr. nodded in agreement. “And they know what we want most.”
Old Masoud remained silent.
After a long silence, he sighed, "Song Heping saved my life. More than once. If it weren't for him during the Barzani coup, I would be lying in my family's grave now."
Little Masood nodded: "Father, how do you intend to handle this matter?"
Old Massoud stared at the light for a moment, then slowly said, "Those Americans... they say they support our right to self-determination, they say they support our 'legitimate demands.' But what do they actually do? They only use us as pawns to contain Baghdad and Tehran. They give us weapons when they need them, and sell us out when they don't. Do you remember the armed attack on Kirkuk on 1515 two years ago?"
Rashid's face darkened: "I remember. They promised to support me when I was stalled at Kirkuk, but when the 1515 armed forces advanced, they did nothing but issue statements of verbal condemnation."
“So.” Masoud stood up and walked to the large map on the wall.
On the map, the Khord Autonomous Region is marked in green, and the Mosul Region is marked with a red circle.
“Now they need us to pressure Abuyu again, and if we don’t cooperate, they will threaten us with an independence referendum.”
He turned around, and the dim light of the desk lamp cast a deep shadow on his face, making the scar on his face distort in the light and shadow, as if it had come alive.
“But we didn’t say we wouldn’t cooperate.” Old Masood’s lips curled into a cunning smile. “Son, did you call Abuyu?”
"I called him three times, but he didn't answer."
“Then keep calling. Call every ten minutes, using an encrypted satellite phone, and record the call time, duration, and ‘failed to connect’ result. Have the communications department prepare a detailed call log, in a formal format, with timestamps, that looks like a serious work log.”
Masood Jr. seemed to understand: "Then we send this record to the Americans to show that we are 'making an effort to contact them'?"
“Yes.” Massoud walked back to his desk and sat down again. “But Abuyu is on the front lines, and communication is not smooth. That’s normal, right? The priority for field commanders is combat, not answering the phone. That’s common sense in military matters, and the Americans themselves understand it.”
"But what if they suspect we're putting on an act..."
“Then let them have their doubts,” Massoud said coldly. “Without us tying down the remnants of 1515 and the Persian-backed militia on the northern front, the Americans would have paid a much higher price in Iriego. They need us far more than we need them. At least that seems to be the case at this stage.”
He sat down again, placing his hands folded on the table.
"As for Song Heping... have the intelligence department use the most covert channels to tell him that the US Air Force has taken off from Kuwait."
Little Masu hesitated for a moment: "Father, this might anger Washington."
“Then let them be angry.” Massoud’s voice remained unwavering. “Politics is a game of interests, not emotions. If Song Heping wins this round, he will remember who helped him. And the Americans… no matter how this crisis ends, they need our presence in northern Iligo. Who else can they turn to? Bakhda? Tehran?”
He stood up, walked back to the map, and pointed to the location of Mosul.
"I bet Song Heping will win this round."
He spoke softly, more like talking to himself.
"Because he has no way out. When a person has no way out, he will unleash the most terrifying power. But Americans... people with too many ways out always think too much and do too little, and ultimately lose everything."
Outside the window, a crescent moon rises above the minaret of the mosque in the night sky of Erbil.
The call to prayer echoed from afar, long and mournful, reverberating through the ancient streets.
Meanwhile, in Mosul to the south, the countdown has entered its final ten minutes.
At the same time, in Mosul, at the forward command post of the 10th Division.
Song Heping watched the second hand on his watch tick by tick.
There are three minutes left until the ultimatum is issued.
Inside the command vehicle, Samir and Abuyu sat at their respective communication stations on either side.
Samir was on the phone with the Ministry of Defense, his tone resolute.
“…Yes, Minister, I understand. But my intelligence indicates that there are 1515 senior commanders inside the base. This is an emergency counter-terrorism operation…No, I cannot withdraw troops. The opportunity is fleeting…Yes, I will take full responsibility.”
He hung up the phone and looked at Song Heping: "This is the seventh call. Minister Fadil personally asked me to 'consider the bigger picture'."
"what do you say?"
“I said the big picture is eliminating terrorists.” Samir grinned. “Anyway, it’s all nonsense. If I say it exists, it exists. If they don’t believe me, they can send people over to investigate now, assuming they have the guts.”
After saying that, he laughed even more heartily.
Abuyu had just finished his call: "This is the fourth call from Masood. I said the signal was bad and I couldn't hear you, and then I hung up."
Song Heping nodded: "Thank you for your support."
"You're welcome," Abyu said earnestly. "I owe everything I have today to you, boss. The people of Kold remember those who have helped them."
Samir added from the side, "Boss, I've followed you for so many years, I won't say anything sentimental, I'll follow whatever you do."
Song Heping nodded without saying anything.
The silence speaks.
He looked down at his watch again.
last minute.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps came from outside the command vehicle, and Jiang Feng rushed in.
"Sergeant, this is a message just from the Kold's intelligence station. Four F-16s took off from the Kuwait Air Force Base twenty-five minutes ago, carrying ground attack munitions. Henry, the head of the company's intelligence department, also sent a message that four F-15s at the Incherlik Air Base in Turkey are on standby."
Samir's expression changed: "Are the Americans serious?"
“Normal procedure.” Song Heping remained calm: “If political pressure fails, then military threats. If threats fail, then actual strikes. Standard procedure.”
“Then our air defense system…” Samir said worriedly, “I’m afraid it won’t be able to stop them.”
"It can hold out for a while, but it's impossible to completely stop it."
Song Heping stood up and walked to the combat map at the back of the command vehicle.
"The attack formation will arrive in at least sixty minutes. That's enough time for us to do what we need to do."
He turned to Samir: "Is the artillery ready?"
"Six 2A65 howitzers, each equipped with sixty rounds of ammunition, all loaded with high-explosive shells. Firing data have been calibrated, and the first-shot hit probability is over 90%."
"Three test shots, targets: southeast corner, northwest corner, and central hangar of the base," Song Heping ordered. "Fire as ordered."
“If the Americans resist…” Samir asked.
“Then let them resist.” Song Heping’s voice was completely calm: “Then let them enjoy another round of shelling.”
He looked at everyone in the car.
"The key to this situation is not military victory. We cannot defeat the United States head-on. The key is to create a political cost they cannot afford. Once the shelling started, things escalated. The whole world would see headlines like 'US military base shelled by Iligo government forces.' Washington must explain: Why would an ally's forces attack them? Why did things get to this point?"
Samir took a deep breath: "I understand. Use a limited attack to gain more leverage at the negotiating table."
“That’s right.” Song Heping nodded. “I’ve already contacted the relevant media outlets, and they’re already generating buzz. But remember: we’ll only target military objectives and absolutely avoid areas where there might be civilians. I don’t want to be put on the defensive in terms of public opinion.”
The order was quickly passed on.
Thirty seconds later, the artillery battalion commander's voice came through the radio in the command vehicle: "Three test shots, ready. Requesting authorization to fire."
Song Heping looked at his watch.
The last ten seconds.
five.
Four.
three.
two.
One.
"Fire."
He raised his head, looked in the direction of the US Joint Operations Group base, and coldly issued the order to fire.
Asking for a monthly ticket!
(End of this chapter)