At three in the morning, twenty kilometers from Mosul City, the dry riverbed wound through the boundless darkness like a hideous scar on the earth.
There wasn't a breath of wind in the air, stagnant as a cold iron plate pressing heavily on the chests of every lurker.
The occasional hiss of electric current in the radio headset became the only breath in this world of dead silence.
Samir squatted at the bottom of this "scar," the makeshift open-air command post was so rudimentary it was heartbreaking.
An oil-stained folding table, a few radio communication devices emitting faint green light, an old military computer propped up by an ammo box displaying a satellite map—this was everything he had for commanding five thousand men, given to him by the cousin he despised most, Yusuf.
The cold light from the screen cast an angular profile and a pair of bloodshot eyes deeply sunken in his sockets on his face.
In those eyes burned an almost fanatical flame, a desperate gamble driven to the brink.
For this operation today, he had put forth everything—twenty 107 rocket launchers, thirty 82 mortars, and each shell soaked in sweat and repeatedly polished.
These weapons were the last dignity of him, an Illiguo who had suffered defeat over the past year, and the only bargaining chips to avenge the blood debts from the 1515 armed forces entrenched in Mosul City.
He picked up the microphone: "This is 'Sandstorm' to all units.
Final confirmation of shelling coordinates. Targets: City's east 'Slaughterhouse,' city's south 'Old Mill,' city's west 'Oil Depot.' Three rounds of simultaneous firing, ten seconds apart. Over."
The order pierced through the heavy night along the invisible radio waves, heading towards the meticulously camouflaged artillery positions five kilometers north of the city.
There, the silent muzzles slightly raised, pointing at the sleeping city.
Next to one of the rocket launchers, Chief Hadi, an old soldier with a scruffy beard and wind-scarred cheeks, was making the final angular adjustment to the 107 rocket launcher with his calloused hands.
Standing next to him was the young loader, Ali.
Ali was only seventeen, seemingly nervous, sweating profusely even in the sunless night.
"Steady, lad!"
Hadi's voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping.
"Think of your sister, think of what the 1515 bastards did to her."
He didn't take his eyes off the scope, but his words struck Ali's heart like a cold iron hammer.
Ali took a sharp breath, nodded vigorously, the fear in his eyes replaced by a deeper, blood-tinged hatred.
He clenched his teeth, pressing his trembling fingers firmly on the cold metal of the shell.
Time crawled painstakingly through the stagnant air.
"Sandstorm! Sandstorm! Shelling countdown, ten, nine, eight..."
Samir's voice finally broke the deathly silence of the communication channel.
The triangular flag of the position commander was raised...
Hadi also sharply raised his arm.
"Three, two, one! Fire!"
As the commander's triangular flag dropped, Hadi's arm slashed down hard like a guillotine cutting fate.
"Launch!"
The command tore through the silence.
The first wave of 107 rockets soared abruptly into the sky with an ear-piercing screech! The orange-red flames spewing from the tail instantly illuminated the entire artillery position, lighting up faces filled with tension, hatred, and defiance.
The ground shook violently as they lifted off, the dust swept up pounding onto the faces and bodies of the artillerymen like a scorching sandstorm.
A round of rockets quickly emptied.
"Reload! Quickly!"
Hadi's shout was almost drowned out by the deafening sound of artillery.
Ali and another loader immediately dashed forward, working together to reload the launchers with new rockets as fast as possible.
Quickly, the emptied launchers were filled again.
"Fire!"
Hadi's arm slashed down once more.
The second volley!
Then the third volley!
The sky was already painted red.
This was an artillery barrage.
What mattered was area coverage, and the demand was for speed! Density! Precision!
Dozens of shooting stars with trails of death streaked across the sky, ripping through the silent night above Mosul City, appearing as meteors, illuminating the sky over the city as if it were daylight.
The whistling sound moved from far to near, then struck fiercely at the city's edge where the pre-marked targets—the strongholds occupied by the 1515 armed forces—were located.
"Boom—Boom—!!!"
The massive explosion sounded like an invisible giant fist, pounding fiercely on the ground in Mosul City.
Mosul City instantly turned into hell.