Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 62 "Ruthby Has No Tomorrow"

Are we preparing for war?

Back at base, Bandar approached Lu Lin to inquire about the situation, and Lu Lin replied, "How is the new recruits' training going?"

“It’s alright,” Bandar said. “The veterans from Nukoshir have been scattered into different teams, and the royal family has even hired instructors from the United States to provide professional tactical guidance.”

Lu Lin was rummaging through something, and Bandar looked on, completely bewildered: "What are you looking for?"

"nothing."

Lu Lin actually wanted to find a calendar to see when Yom Kippur was, but he later realized that Yom Kippur was not marked on the Islamic calendar at all.

"Going back to what we were saying," Lu Li gave up on looking for the calendar and continued, "The Alliance does indeed have plans to start a war, and it won't be long."

Bandar took off his hat, wiped his receding hairline with his hand, and a hint of excitement appeared on his face.

"When exactly?"

"It's not decided yet, but I estimate it will have to wait until spring or autumn/winter, when the temperature won't be too high, and our planes and tanks won't malfunction due to the high temperature."

Lu Lin: "I suspect that this is one of the reasons why we didn't encounter too many Zion armored forces head-on in Nukorhill."

Lu Lin continued his analysis: "However, it is unlikely this year or next spring. The military strength of several frontline countries has been greatly damaged in the war. Even with Ant's 'clearance sale,' it will not be able to recover its strength in a short period of time."

So, we have at least six months to prepare.

This war was larger in scale than the one Lu Lin remembered. Besides Masr losing the Sinai Peninsula, Suriya even lost its capital, Damascus, and its national defense system was completely destroyed. Hashim was also driven to the outskirts of the capital, Amman. If it weren't for the river blocking the way, it would basically have become a government-in-exile.

"Judging from the current situation, the frontline countries of Masr must be very anxious, especially Surria. Losing an important city means losing most of their war potential. The longer it drags on, the wider the gap will become between them and Zion."

Bandar nodded: "But the lost troops are not so easy to make up for. It takes more than a few months to mobilize for war and train soldiers into a fighting force."

"That depends on how much investment Ant and the United States are willing to make. If they provide full assistance, it is possible to build a defensive line in a short period of time."

The territory occupied by Zion is currently unstable. The local people's resistance forces and guerrillas are full of fighting spirit, but they will definitely be gradually suppressed over time.

Lu Lin's eyes also looked somewhat heavy: "Actually, there is another way to make soldiers grow up quickly, which is to throw them into the battlefield and let them roll around. As long as they survive, they can be considered veterans."

“Or become a seasoned veteran,” Bandar added. “But indeed, by then you’ll have learned everything you were supposed to.”

During World War II, the Soviet Union did exactly that. New recruits who survived a day on the battlefield could be promoted to platoon leader, and those who survived three days could become company commanders. This embodied the principle of "treating soldiers like children and using them like mud."

However, the population of Arab countries is not that large, and the intensity of modern warfare is completely different from that of World War II. While urban warfare may have some learning value, in the case of air and missile exchanges, there is absolutely no point in dying.

Moreover, based on Lu Lin's knowledge, the Arab army had suffered numerous losses due to command errors.

After the two finished talking, Bandar walked out of the office, and Ibrahim followed him out.

He nudged Bandar in the back with his elbow.

Bandar turned around: "What's wrong?"

"Uh," Ibrahim asked, "If I accidentally anger Your Excellency, is there any way to make amends?"

“You’re not a petty person, you can just apologize to him frankly.” Bandar asked curiously, “What did you do?”

"It's nothing," Ibrahim said, finding it difficult to answer.

Bandar shrugged and turned to leave.

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.

Al-Iraq, Rutbai.

Assef walked into his usual coffee shop, where the news was playing on the television.

The man on the screen read the battle report in solemn Arabic. The scene cut to a ruin, where several helmeted soldiers stood in front of a charred building. The camera shook for a moment before quickly cutting back to the studio.

The owner, Uncle Haji, glanced at it, shook his head, and turned off the TV.

Assef ordered a coffee and listened to the quiet conversations around him; the men's topics always revolved around politics, religion, and the upcoming election.

The occupied town is at a delicate moment, like a taut string that could snap at any moment.

He took a sip of coffee; it tasted bitter, but it brought him a sense of warmth. Several elderly people sitting in the corner were discussing the suicide of a young woman named Cardiff, a student at a local university.

"Hey, Assef, pass me a cigarette."

Assef handed the cigarette to Haji, took a sip of coffee, and continued reading the newspaper.

Outside on the street, several children kicked a deflated can, laughing as they ran past. In the distance, the roar of an engine could be heard; it was unclear whether it was a military vehicle or a regular truck.

Ever since those tanks rolled in, people quickly learned not to look up. A heavy thud of leather boots approached, and the conversation in the coffee shop abruptly ceased.

The door was suddenly pushed open and slammed against the wall. A squad of soldiers stood in the doorway, their uniforms crisp and their armbands bearing glaring symbols.

"Everyone, show your identification," the lead soldier said in broken Arabic.

Two armed soldiers stood in the best-viewed corner of the store. Assef's fingers trembled slightly as he slowly pulled his wallet containing his ID card from his pocket.

A lieutenant strode over, snatched the wallet from his hand, pulled out his badge, and stared at him with hawk-like eyes: "Assef Jassim Al?"

Assef's Adam's apple bobbed: "It's me."

Have you seen anyone suspicious lately?

"No, sir."

Do you know anyone suspicious?

"No, sir."

The sharp-eyed lieutenant stared at him for a while, and seeing Assef's nervous expression, a smile spread across his face.

He pulled two bills from his wallet and handed them to the shopkeeper: "Give me a cup of coffee, Assef's on the table."

Uncle Haji nodded and began brewing coffee.

The lieutenant returned the wallet to Asef and said with a smile, "Don't lose it, otherwise it will be a lot of trouble to verify your identity, and I'll have to invite you to sit in the police station."

His gaze then fell on the cigarette box on the counter, the small box stamped with a crooked seal, and the smile on his face vanished instantly.

"Whose is this?" he asked loudly, holding up the cigarette pack.

No one answered.

The lieutenant fiddled with the cigarette case, then turned to Asef and asked in a gentle tone, "Tell me, whose cigarette case is this?"

Under the lieutenant's gaze, Assef's sweat trickled down his temples.

Cold sweat soaked his back.

"Tell me, whose cigarette case is this?" the lieutenant asked again, his smile vanishing.

“It’s mine.” Uncle Haji handed the coffee to the lieutenant. “I’m the only one smoking here.”

"Thank you." The lieutenant gracefully accepted the coffee cup, his fingertips gently tracing the rim. He looked at the open and honest Haji, then lowered his head to take a sip.

"To be honest, I don't like coffee."

He put down his cup, took out a snow-white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and carefully wiped the corner of his mouth.

"You know what the stamp on it means, right?"

Haji: "It's just an advertisement."

“Yes, but this is the resistance’s advertisement,” the lieutenant corrected. “They’re making you resist, making you bleed, making you make pointless sacrifices.”

You might think I'm scary now, but I'm actually your friend, and I'm the only one who will be good to you.

“You’re right, sir,” Uncle Haji said.

The lieutenant nodded, then nodded again.

“Well, friends are friends,” he shook the cigarette pack, “this is contraband, huh?”

Uncle Haji's cheeks twitched: "You're absolutely right."

"No, no, no." The lieutenant held up one finger: "I follow the rules and won't arrest people randomly. Trust me, as long as you are innocent, I will personally bring you back."

Please come with me now.

So the boss was taken away by the lieutenant, and the sunlight streamed in again.

The sounds of children kicking cans outside the window disappeared, and the truck noises gradually faded away. Assef gulped down the last mouthful of coffee and realized that his back was soaked with sweat.

He pushed open the shop door and looked at the empty street, but he already felt a sense of accustomedness to it.

"Maybe I'll have to find a new coffee shop tomorrow," Assef thought.

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.

(End of this chapter)