"They have too many people..."
Naxin crawled to Song Heping's side, leaned against a rock, and panted heavily, "Our numbers are dwindling..."
Song Heping glanced around.
The northern front no longer resembled its former state.
The sturdy rock barriers were repeatedly bombarded, flattened, and shattered.
The simple fortifications made of stones and sand were full of holes.
Beside him, out of the originally three hundred energetic members of the Suicide Squad, only...
About fifty remained.
These fifty men, all injured, were exhausted to the extreme.
Many were wrapped in bloody, filthy bandages, leaning against the bodies of their comrades, mechanically loading the last few bullets into empty magazines.
Ammunition, especially heavy machine gun rounds and RPGs, was running low.
Song Heping leaned against the only remaining half of a rocky formation, his shoulder numb and stiff from holding the gun for so long.
He licked his dry, cracked, and bleeding lips, reaching for the last SVD magazine at his waist.
Samir dragged his shrapnel-torn leg, limping to Song Heping's side, his voice hoarse and nearly inaudible, "Boss... bullets... only half a box left for the PKM... the DShK... completely silent... its barrel... blew up..."
His bloodshot eyes were filled with despair.
Naxin's face was equally ashen as he added, "Water... we've been out for a long time... supplies... all used up... Song, should we... should we retreat? They can afford to wait us out, we... we can't hold on any longer!"
"No retreat."
Song Heping answered without hesitation.
Naxin suddenly reached out, gripping Song Heping's arm tightly, his fingers trembling slightly, his voice breaking into a sob, "Song! Let's go! While we still have some strength, we... we can break through! Run to the mountains on the northern border! Whoever can escape, should! Staying here... leads only to death!"
His gaze was filled with the instinct to survive and the fear of impending doom.
The other members of the Suicide Squad, hearing the conversation, turned to look at Song Heping, a faint glimmer in their eyes, a desperate longing for survival.
Song Heping slowly scanned the tired faces around him.
His gaze was unusually calm, not immediately answering Naxin. Instead, he raised his binoculars again to carefully observe the opposite shore.
Behind the southern front, figures loomed, revealing signs of fatigue but still numerous.
He set down the binoculars, suddenly drawing his pistol and pressing it against Naxin's forehead.
"From now on, don't ever mention the word 'retreat' again!"
His voice was not loud, yet it clearly reached everyone's ears:
"Run? Where to run?"
He pointed to the steep, bare rock walls behind them.
"With just dozens of wounded soldiers, no water, no food, no ammunition, Ihassan still has at least eight hundred to a thousand men with their pick-ups and machine guns... Can we outrun vehicles? Outrun bullets?"
His words were cold and realistic, like a hammer shattering the slight hope that had ignited in Naxin and the others.
"Look at the riverbed!"
Song Heping pointed to the death zone below, piled high with bodies.
"We've held out for four hours! How many bodies have they left here? Two thousand? Maybe more!"
He paused, his gaze as sharp as a blade.
"We were three hundred men, now fifty remain. What about them? They traded over two thousand lives for our two hundred and fifty! The blood we've shed, they've paid back in twentyfold! And now to retreat? Ihassan isn't a fool! If he sees us abandon the position and flee, he'll immediately understand—we're not luring the enemy; we're at the end of our rope! We've lost even the strength for a last bite!"
His gaze turned to the direction of the 1515 Armed, his eyes burning with a near-maniacal light: "As long as we're still stuck here! As long as our guns still fire! Even if it's just sporadic gunfire! Ihassan will always doubt! He'll wonder, how could three hundred men hold on for hours, killing two thousand of his? Why haven't we collapsed? We must have cards hidden up our sleeve! Reserves he doesn't know about! Or maybe we're just a bunch of madmen who don't fear death! He won't dare to gamble! He can't afford to drag on! His men, watching their comrades fall like harvested wheat, watching the 'Martyr Camp' get wiped out, their fear is no less than ours! They're on the brink of collapse too!"
Song Heping's voice suddenly rose, carrying a captivating power: "Four hours! Enough for fear to take root in their hearts! They're more afraid than us! Afraid our 'reinforcements' could charge in from behind the mountains at any moment! Afraid we 'madmen' could drag a few hundred more of them to hell with us before we die! Their commander is even more afraid! Afraid of losing this pursuit, afraid of failing to answer to those above! Afraid of me!"
He pointed at his own chest, "He knows my name, knows my tactics! Right now, he's behind his binoculars, anxiously guessing my next move! He is scared! Fear leads to hesitation, and hesitation leads to mistakes!"
He surveyed the warriors, whom his words had ignited with a final flicker of fire: "Now, it's a gamble! To bet whether Ihassan Ken has the guts to use his last thousand men to gnaw at us fifty, all wounded, out of bullets and food, but ready to bite off a piece of him! To bet whether he dares to stake his career and life, to bet whether we have any reserves behind us! I bet he—doesn't dare!"
No one spoke.