Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 65 "Stop fucking talking!"

"You're awake."

Enshium slowly woke up and heard someone calling him from beside him.

So he subconsciously turned his head, only to find that he couldn't see anything at all; everything in front of him was pitch black, with a hazy red glow.

"Slow down, your eyes are still swollen," the man said.

Enshium then moved his limbs, and this movement caused him excruciating pain all over his body, making him think he was being dismembered.

"Why can't I move my legs?" he exclaimed in alarm.

"It's hanging there; it's probably broken."

Enshium's hearing gradually returned, and he recognized the other person as a young man. The man asked, "How did you come up with the idea of ​​running away?"

Nshum wasn't in the mood to talk to him right now.

But the other party clearly took this as an invitation to chat: "Since you can't go anywhere right now, why don't I introduce you to our commander, Major General Amir?"

Upon hearing his younger brother's name, Enshium's mood instantly soured. He felt he was in this situation entirely because of his brother, so he said, "I said shut up!"

"—He is an apostle sent by God, in charge of war and victory, and a weapon sent by our Lord to deal with the despicable Zionites."

Enshium felt a throbbing pain in his temples, and the pain and irritation made him raise his voice an octave: "Hey! What's your name?"

“Me?” The other person seemed pleased to be asked that. “My name is Al-Haril Tuvache Al-Otaibi, you can call me Al-Haril, that’s what everyone calls me—”

“Al-Hali,” Enshium interrupted him, “do me a favor, and also do yourself a favor. Don’t talk to me, let me have some peace and quiet.”

Al-Hali, however, didn't seem to care: "Hey, look how badly you're injured. I'm just trying to distract you. There's a theory in pain management that says..."

"Doctor!? Where's the doctor?!" Enshium suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs.

A flurry of footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by a burly male nurse who entered. Looking at Enshium, whose body was wrapped in bandages, he asked, "Where does it hurt?"

"I want to change rooms!" Enshium shouted.

The male nurse walked around him, somewhat puzzled: "You seem to have no problem with urination or defecation."

Enshium was furious: "I am an army major, and as an officer, I demand that I be moved to a different ward!"

The nurse flipped through the resume: "It says here you are a private."

Enshium then realized that he had been completely stripped of his money, so he changed his tune and said, "I'll give you the money and get me a private room!"

The male nurse hung the medical record back at the foot of the bed, turned and walked towards the door. "These suspenders aren't available elsewhere, just bear with it." Before leaving, he didn't forget to close the door behind him.

The ward fell silent once again as the door clicked shut.

Just as Enshium was about to close his eyes, he heard Al-Khali excitedly continue, "Where were we? Oh right, Major General Amir's miracle! You know, at the Nukhir outpost, he was all alone..."

You fucking shut up.

Countless images flashed through Nshum's mind, finally settling on the image of Amir beating him twice. The immense humiliation and frustration overwhelmed him, and coupled with the incessant noise in his ears, he felt his mentality was about to collapse.

Is this the most vicious punishment I could ever receive?

"The major general sang as he guided me forward; he was surrounded by the flames of Allah."

The cardiac monitor beside the hospital bed suddenly emitted a sharp screech. Al-Hali turned his head and saw that Nshum had lost consciousness, and his IV line was dangling precariously in mid-air, with a trace of blood on the needle.

"Doctor! Doctor!" Al-Harry rushed to the door, holding his IV drip. "Someone pulled their own tube!"

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.

The following day, Lu Lin arrived at the military base in Haraib Port by plane. He could feel the wheels hitting the gravel on the ground as the plane landed; it was far worse than his own airport.

Flying to such a distant location to attend the meeting was naturally for security reasons—Zion's radar monitors its movements almost around the clock, and no one knows where a Samod spy might appear from.

"Long time no see, Major General Amir."

The person who came to say hello was an old acquaintance I had met in Cairo, Lieutenant General Assad of Surya, a veteran of three Middle East wars.

After exchanging greetings, the two got into the same car, with Ibrahim and the others following behind.

"Want a cigar?" Lieutenant General Assad pulled a metal box from his pocket, inside which were neatly arranged thin cigars.

Lu Lin thanked him, and the two began to smoke. Assad, while smoking, remarked:

"I heard that during the World War, the Prosenians mixed stimulants into the cigarettes they gave to the soldiers on the front lines, so that once the soldiers finished smoking them, they could suppress their fear and turn into real beasts."

Lu Lin replied, "Even the strength gained through drugs can't withstand bullets made of steel, but perhaps it can reduce some of the soldiers' suffering before they die."

Assad looked him straight in the eye: "But is it possible that this could actually lead to more soldier casualties?"

Lu Lin: "The blame for the sacrifices should not be attributed to doping, but to the commanders. A single command error on our part could lead to the deaths of hundreds or thousands of soldiers."

Just like Prosper back then, he fell victim to arrogance.

Assad lit a cigarette and held it out the window: "You're right."

The jeep parked outside the makeshift tent, and Lu Lin could see a group of people wearing different styles of military uniforms standing together from a distance.

"Let's hear what Masr, the newly promoted Minister of Defense, has to say."

After the death of former President Ferdinand of Maas, former Vice President Dureva unsurprisingly succeeded him.

The original military leadership was also largely replaced in an effort to quell public discontent.

The newly appointed defense minister is named Aronmes, a veteran with an impressive resume.

Aronmes served in the World Wars and the first three Middle East wars, and was a classmate of former President Ferdinand at the Military Academy.

This time, he was appointed to a critical post, promoted from commander of the Eastern Front to Minister of National Defense, responsible for overall coordination, leading operational plans, and coordinating the establishment of a united front among the armed forces of various countries.

"The defeat in the battle against the Zionists also gave us valuable experience."

Aronmes was a dark-skinned, unassuming soldier. Seeing that officers from various countries had mostly arrived, Aronmes began, "We have deeply reflected on the mistakes we have made. Modern warfare is different from the methods of combat used in world wars."

The Zionians taught us that gaining air superiority is the key to our victory.

Ground armored forces can only advance steadily under the cover of the air force; otherwise, they will only become medals in the hands of enemy pilots.

In the struggle for air supremacy, we will engage in air combat, ground-to-air defense operations, and special forces operations.

We will adapt to local conditions, break away from rigid military deployments, and implement different operational strategies according to different situations.

Aronmes' voice echoed in the tent, as he explained the intentions behind the deployment of SA-6 air defense missiles on a military map.

Lu Lin listened from the side and nodded slightly, but also felt a little strange.

Aronmes said that although the strategic thinking was not very profound, it had generally turned in the right direction.

However, on the other hand, if they could think of all this, then they shouldn't have suffered such a crushing defeat later on.

Lu Lin couldn't figure out where the problem lay.

(End of this chapter)