At the moment the countdown hit zero, beneath the car repair shop, five hundred kilos of military explosives and two tons of homemade charges detonated simultaneously.
The explosion started underground.
It wasn't a single blast, but a series of layered detonations.
The first wave sheared off the main load‑bearing pillars, the second wave destroyed the foundation, the third wave…
The third wave lifted the entire building off the ground.
Old Man saw the horrifying scene right in front of him—
First the ground bulged, as if something enormous was trying to force its way up from beneath the earth.
Then chunks of concrete were hurled into the air, some as big as cars, some as small as fists, tracing tens of thousands of arcs in the first light of dawn.
Then came the shockwave.
It was like a transparent wall, spreading out from the blast center in all directions. Everything in its path was flattened.
The fifteen‑ton M‑ATV armored vehicles were flipped, tumbling like toys.
The sandbag fortifications were blown apart, the grains inside turned into lethal bullets.
Only after that came the sound—a sound that went beyond anything you could call a "bang."
It didn't feel like it entered through the ears; it vibrated the skull directly, shattered the organs inside. Everyone within two hundred meters of the blast, with or without cover, had their eardrums rupture in an instant, blood pouring from their ears.
Alpha Company's Team A, twelve men inside the building, didn't even leave bodies to find. Team B was on the west side, a little better off, but even they were buried under the collapsed debris.
Team C was on the perimeter and took the full brunt of the shockwave—half died on the spot, the rest were gravely wounded.
Only Old Man and a handful from the command group, standing in the relatively open central yard of the plant, were blown clear by the shockwave and thrown more than ten meters. Their bones were shattered, their organs bleeding, but they were miraculously still alive.
If the word "alive" still had any meaning.
He lay on the ground, his right leg twisted at an unnatural angle, his left arm reduced to half, white bone exposed at the torn end.
His helmet was gone, his face was a mask of blood. One eye was completely blind, the other a blur.
But he was still alive.
He could still hear—or rather, still feel—the gunfire, explosions, and screams coming from farther away.
That was in Bravo Company's direction.
The school complex hadn't blown up.
At least, not immediately.
After discovering the explosives, the Commander had decisively ordered a withdrawal.
Most of the personnel had pulled out of the buildings, but just as they reached the playground, the ambush was sprung.
Not explosives—people.
From every surrounding building, every ruin, every sewer outlet, black‑clad gunmen swarmed out.
Not scattered, not chaotic, but organized, in waves, each with clear tactical objectives.
First wave: snipers and machine gunners took the high ground and suppressed Bravo Company's retreat routes.
Second wave: anti‑tank teams, using RPGs and anti‑tank missiles, hit the armored vehicles.
Third wave: infantry assault teams, flanking around from the sides to cut up and encircle them.
Fourth wave: suicide attackers with explosives strapped to their bodies, charging straight into the densest clusters of men.
This was a carefully orchestrated massacre.
Bravo Company was well trained, but hit by a full‑spectrum ambush, their formation disintegrated in an instant.
The Commander tried to organize a counterattack.
He led a dozen mercenaries who could still move into a small building at one corner of the playground, using machine‑gun fire and accurate shooting to temporarily hold the frontal assault.
But the flank collapsed.
A group of gunmen burst out of the underground Garage, cutting them off from the main force.
Then came fire from above—the rooftop of the classroom building suddenly lit up with machine‑gun fire, raking them from high to low.
"Retreat! Fall back to the northwest!"
The company commander yelled over the radio, but all that answered him was static. Communications were jammed or severed.
He looked around. Fewer than ten men were still on their feet.
The wounded were moaning, and the enemy shouts were getting closer.
"Sir, what do we do?"
A young mercenary asked, blood and dust smeared across his face.
The company commander drew a deep breath.
"What else can we do?"
He said, pulling the pin on his last grenade. "Kill one and we break even, kill two and we're ahead."