Black Hawk Down

Having been urged and cursed by readers to update, I still want to say, please don’t curse! I’ll do my best to write and update. As someone working a day job, writing isn’t easy, and I’m putting a lot of care into this book—constantly revising after writing, reflecting on the setting and tone. As a novice whose military knowledge is far from comprehensive, I can only try to improve as much as possible. For the sake of telling a good story, I refuse to pad the word count meaninglessly. I hope you understand! Also, thank you to the readers who responded to my request and gave rewards—thank you!

Boom!

Boom!

Under the astonished gazes of the American soldiers, the rescue helicopters that had just lifted off and attempted to return along the road didn’t even have time to react before being transformed into two fireballs in midair, crashing violently to the ground with thick smoke billowing skyward.

The communications channel descended into utter chaos.

“We’re under attack! Under attack!”

“Damn it! I’m being targeted!”

“Evade! Evade!”

“We’re about to be hit!”

“Oh! My God!”

Boom!

Boom!

But it was already too late!

Two earth-shattering explosions rang out, and then all fell silent. Inside the command post, everyone was stunned. After hearing those two explosions, who couldn’t guess what had happened?

Damn it!

Their rescue helicopters had been shot down—by whom?

Damn it!

Those Libyans!

“Oh my God! How could this happen!” Some of the female soldiers couldn’t help but cover their mouths in disbelief.

“Bastards!” With a loud bang, Sloan Allen smashed his fist against the glass door in front of him, his rage murderous. Just a moment ago, he’d hoped to eliminate all targets and bring back the entire Nightingale Squad, even if only their bodies.

But in the blink of an eye, the outcome that had seemed so close vanished like a bubble.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

“Damn it! We’re being locked on!” The pilot of the Black Hawk in the public communications channel cried out again, leaving everyone dumbfounded.

What was happening? Who was attacking them?

“Damn it! I’m under attack!”

“Calling Eagle! We’re under unknown attack in the air, repeat, unknown attack!”

The voices were frantic. The warning alarms from the helicopters were clearly audible, making it easy to imagine the life-or-death struggle they were now experiencing.

Libya.

Over the intersection of Highway 88 and Highway 89, a deadly battle was indeed unfolding—but survival would not be for the Americans.

Within visible range, over ten rockets launched almost simultaneously from different directions, streaking toward the Black Hawk helicopters. More than twenty pickup trucks sped along the roads from both east and west, followed by a similar number of troop transports.

Boom!

After a deafening explosion, another fireball appeared in the air—the first to be hit was the attack helicopter.

“Eagle Eye down!”

“Repeat: Eagle Eye down.”

Eagle Eye, the helicopter assigned reconnaissance and patrol duties, managed only a final message before plummeting from the sky.

“Enemy spotted at eleven o’clock, left side!”

“Enemy spotted at two o’clock, right side!”

“They’re Libyans! Damn it, they’re carrying loads of RPGs!”

“Retreat! Quickly!”

“Cavalry One, withdraw immediately! Now!”

“Two, pull back!”

Boom! There was no time. The pickup coming from Highway 89 on the left almost scraped beneath the helicopter. The Americans had clearly underestimated their opponents, never imagining Libyans would approach from Benghazi’s direction, disguised perfectly as rebels.

Everyone knew they were government troops, but there was no evidence to prove it. Libya’s civil war was fought by Libyans, and who could tell government from rebel forces?

Another explosion.

A Black Hawk’s tail rotor began to smoke and burn, spinning out of control midair—crash inevitable.

The Libyans quickly fanned out, surrounding the Marines on the road and to the left. Their lack of military training didn’t matter; numbers would make up for it.

Not far away, Li Changjiang and the still-living Ryan stood wide-eyed, watching the Libyans charge with reckless abandon.

If every war was fought like this, no one would survive. It was like plugging bullets with their chests, but the Americans, no matter how skilled, couldn’t hold out.

As more and more Libyans joined the assault, four or five hundred men surged forward like a tidal wave, and American casualties began to mount.

“Fall back! We can’t hold!”

“Requesting support! Requesting support!”

“Jack! Jack! Damn it!”

“Colonel, we’re under siege—it’s a trap! Requesting backup!”

Inside the command room, Sloan Allen’s face had turned a frightening shade.

Support?

He knew better than anyone—over five hundred kilometers away, how could they possibly provide support? Even deploying helicopter units would take nearly an hour—there was simply no time.

Was history about to repeat itself, as it had in Somalia twenty years ago?

The last two Black Hawks dodged the RPGs and pulled up, trying to escape the battlefield, but the Libyans were faster. As soon as the first wave of rockets was dodged, another ten plumes of smoke streaked upward from below.

“Damn it! We’re under attack! Under attack!”

“Evade quickly!”

Boom!

Another thunderous blast—this time, they didn’t even have a chance to hover. The fuel tank was hit, and the chopper turned into a fireball, crashing down. Not far away, the other Black Hawk had already fallen. More than five Marines rushed over, but were quickly driven back—they simply couldn’t reach it.

The pilot and gunner aboard the helicopter were still alive, taking cover behind the wreckage and firing back, but the Libyans were no fools. They stopped attacking the Marines on the road and instead focused their fire on the two men behind the helicopter.

Thud!

“Aaah!”

“Bastards!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each cry of pain from the two Americans over the radio stoked the fury of those listening, but there was nothing they could do. They knew the Libyans wouldn’t kill them immediately, but no one could endure such torment.

Inside the command center, the veins on Sloan Allen’s arm were standing out, ready to burst.

“Dispatch the Air Cavalry immediately.”

“But Colonel—”

“Major, execute the order now!”

“Yes, sir!”

The major, clearly in disagreement, went to relay the combat orders, but everyone understood that distant water couldn’t quench a nearby fire.

“Contact the Johnson amphibious assault ship—order them to launch aircraft at once.”

“Yes, sir!”

Out on the Mediterranean, not far from the Gulf of Sirte, the USS Johnson of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet, currently steaming home, suddenly made a sharp turn. The massive ship churned up waves, stirring the previously calm sea.

Within minutes, two AV-8B Harrier short/vertical takeoff and landing attack jets launched, heading straight for the Libyan interior.

At the same time, the radars of various warships from different nations around the Gulf of Sirte detected the American action.

The situation instantly became more complicated.