Eagle Sauce: The 055 destroyer was launched into the sea just after the founding of the country?

Chapter 924

"What are you all standing there for! Damn it!"

Major Hansen let out a trapped, beast-like growl. He shoved aside the scout who was staring blankly at his eyes, his thumb subtly flicking the safety of his Colt 1911.

His breathing became rapid, like a bellows. A bead of cold sweat finally broke through the barrier of his eyebrows and slid into his eye, stinging with a salty taste, but he didn't dare to blink.

"This isn't a magic show! Get moving!"

He shouted into the infantry communications radio microphone beside him, his voice cracking.

"Calling in 'Punisher' artillery! This is the 2nd Battalion of the Vanguard Regiment! I need coordinates... damn it, right under my nose! High explosives! Forget about 'dangerous distance,' full fire coverage!"

This time, no one rolled their eyes in secret anymore, and no one looked at him with the eyes of someone looking at a coward. Those soldiers who were previously carefree were as if they had been completely awakened by this slap, and they jumped from one extreme (contempt) to another extreme (frantic anxiety about firepower) in an instant.

"Bazooka! Where is my rocket launcher operator?!"

The platoon leader roared from behind the rock and kicked the messenger who was lying on the ground.

Two teams of rocket launchers, each carrying an 89mm M20 "Super Bazooka," scrambled forward. The gunner's hand was shaking so badly while loading that the first round almost fell to the ground because it didn't even get stuck.

At the wider bend behind, accompanied by the heavy roar of engines and the crunching sound of tracks crushing rocks, the two M48 Patton main battle tanks, painted desert yellow and which had been stuck behind, finally squeezed into their firing positions.

The 90mm rifled cannon's thick, long barrel, like the nose of some giant beast, slowly drooped down with that unique metallic scraping sound of machinery, until the three black targets filled the entire gunner's sight.

"Bore loading... armor-piercing shell! This should finally get your shell open..."

The tank commander huddled inside the turret, biting his tactical glove, as if that could calm his wildly beating heart.

Meanwhile, hundreds of meters, even kilometers away, on the rear artillery positions, the tow racks of more than a dozen 155mm heavy howitzers had already deeply embedded their plows into the soil. The gunners, like wound-up robots, pushed those heavy, giant shells, painted with the words "A Gift to Cuba" in red paint, into the red-hot barrels.

The smell of gunpowder about to be ignited grew stronger and stronger in the air.

"Fire! For the Marines!"

With Major Hansen's arm waving downwards.

The narrow valley instantly transformed into a pressure cooker with an extremely terrifying echo.

"boom--!!!"

Two tank cannons roared first, the orange-red muzzle flashes scattering all the fallen leaves and dust. The armor-piercing rounds struck their targets with unparalleled precision, requiring almost no calculation of their trajectory.

Immediately following was a deafening roar, like the cry of ten thousand beasts, descending from the sky. It was the deathly fireworks of a 155mm heavy artillery barrage.

The explosions occurred almost simultaneously. The first fireball had barely expanded in the small patch of flat ground when it was torn to shreds by the shockwaves of the second and third explosions. Countless shrapnel sliced ​​through the surrounding rock walls like razors. The distinctive whistling of rockets punctuated the explosions as they plunged into the chaos already engulfed by mud, fire, and black smoke.

The ground was shaking, as if it were suffering from some kind of severe malaria. Even with their mouths agape, the American soldiers hiding behind the boulders felt their eardrums throbbing as if they might burst at any moment. Many of them had blood streaming uncontrollably from their noses due to the high-frequency vibrations.

But nobody cares about that.

Major Hansen's hand remained firmly on his helmet. He peered through the cracks in the rocks at the raging inferno, where even steel would be blasted into tiny fragments the size of fingernails.

But he was still uneasy. The terror he felt from the other person's earlier "tilt of the head" hadn't dissipated; instead, it was amplified to its extreme by the sound of the explosion.

"Not enough... Damn it, this might not be enough!"

He suddenly grabbed the heavy backpack walkie-talkie that the air force liaison officer next to him was as heavy as a brick.

“Thunderstorm! Thunderstorm! This is Hound! There’s a damn monster ahead of me! I don’t care what you’re doing! Throw everything from your bomb bays and under your wings over here!”

"Yes, all of them! Forget about friendly fire, I just want it dead!!"

"roger (Received)."

Three minutes later.

A unique sound began to emerge from the gap at the top of the valley, drowning out the cannon fire on the ground.

“Buzz——!!!”

Several A-10s (or similar attack aircraft of that era, equipped with specialized, frighteningly large cannons) with straight, thick wings and ugly but violently aesthetic paint schemes flashed by.

They were like putting on a suicide stunt, aiming their massive rotary cannons straight at the small valley.

"Puff-puff--"

Heavy bombs were flung out from under the fuselage, like bags of cheap cement. They flew with deadly trajectories, precisely striking the already chaotic inferno.

And then the iconic death sound of that attack aircraft followed.

“Brrrrrrrt————!!!”

That was the sound of a cloth-tearing machine as four thousand depleted uranium armor-piercing rounds per minute tore through the air and steel.

This intense firepower, enough to cleave a main battle tank from its skull to its chassis, sculpted the ground of that small valley by a full half meter. Rocks turned into magma, and the sea of ​​fire became pure energy turbulence. The towering column of smoke was even higher than the peaks on either side of the valley.

The world was engulfed in a fiery, turbulent frenzy.

The violent vibrations subsided only slightly after the last Air Force wingman pulled up and the deafening roar of the engine faded into the distance.

Scorching hot rocks continued to slide down the surrounding cliffs, and puddles of liquid flame accumulated in the craters on the ground. This scene was far more thorough than the previous so-called scorched earth; it was a true physical erasure.

"This should be fine... This should definitely be okay, right?"

The tank commander lifted the turret cover. His face was blackened by smoke, and his bloodshot eyes peered through the thick, still-smoldering black smoke, trying to find the piles of what should have been scrap metal.

Major Hansen was breathing heavily, feeling as if his lungs were filled with burning cotton. He brushed the dust off his clothes, and for some reason, his limbs felt weak. He tried to take a cigarette out of his pocket, but after groping around for a while, he only managed to pull out a flattened box.

"It's definitely going to work."

He seemed to be comforting himself, or perhaps making some kind of judgment.

"Tanks! Get them! Go and flatten those wrecks! I don't want to see..."

His words were swallowed up by a sound.

That wasn't a new explosion.

Instead, it was a very slight, rhythmic sound, like a stone hitting the ground.

"Click."

"Click."

"Click."

The tank commander was about to crawl back in when the sound froze him on the edge of the turret.

The thick smoke, carried by the sea breeze and the rising thermals from the flames, slowly thinned and dispersed, revealing the core of the platform that should have contained nothing but magma.

A black, enormous shadow.

Its outline was sketched against the backdrop of orange-red flames.

"Oh, God……"

The black machine gunner, who always had a cigarette dangling from his lips and an air of nonchalance, plopped down on the ground littered with empty shell casings. His lips trembled, emitting meaningless, breathy sounds that couldn't form a complete word.

"No...impossible..."

First.

The "Broken Army" driven by Che Guevara.

It looked like it had just come out of a slightly hot sauna.

A small corner of its right arm armor was chipped off by a piece of 155mm shrapnel, revealing a silver fragment of an unknown metal underneath. Apart from that, its entire body was blackened. But that was all it was; it was just blackened.

The limbs connected by thick tubes moved so smoothly that there was no sign of any sluggishness.

It took a step with its huge steel left foot, and with a "bang," crushed a smoking, red-hot rock. Then came the second step, "bang."

Every step was like a battering ram, smashing hard into the hearts of these people.

Behind it, two other equally black armored vehicles, exuding an aura of returning from hell, slowly separated from the sides, still maintaining that triangular battle formation.

The driver in the middle cockpit, through the still intact, blindingly bright, almost dripping red monitor, watched the group of American soldiers standing like wooden chickens in the smoke and dust.

He moved the massive mechanical arm. The six-barreled rotary cannon mounted on the forearm, its dark barrel no longer metallic, had turned a dark red, like the surrounding flames, due to the continuous firing of decoy flares or some kind of energy preheating.

He moved his wrist slightly in the cockpit.

Outside, the black Grim Reaper slowly raised its arm, pointing at the M48 Patton tank that was parked at the front and trying to reverse.

The synthesized voice was no longer just a simple report. The processed, deep voice, transmitted through the armored external loudspeaker, carried a resonance and a sense of oppression that seemed to come from the metal itself, reaching the eardrums of everyone.

"We have already given our greetings."

Accompanied by a maddening hum of preheating motor, the dark red six-tube rotor began to spin faster, drawing a visible ring of heat waves in the smoke-filled valley.

"Now... it's time to... receive a return gift."