strictlysupreme Chapter 921 The Eve of War
Chapter 921 The Eve of War
A few days later.
Two battle flags, adorned with white five-pointed stars and bright red stripes, were fluttering taut at the top of the tallest mast of the USS Olympus.
The Caribbean night was torn apart by countless beams of searchlight, revealing a massive fleet stretching for over ten kilometers on the sea.
Like the world-destroying legion depicted in the Dark Bible, it silently and arrogantly bared its millions of fangs at the rather pitiful little island in front of it.
8pm.
"Dinner's ready, kids."
This was accompanied by Admiral Hughes's ironic and cruel order broadcast over the fleet's radio.
The world was deprived of hearing in that instant.
"Boom-boom-boom!!!"
If you were standing on a Florida beach tens of kilometers away, you might think that an underwater volcano erupted there, powerful enough to cause a magnitude 12 earthquake.
The ten destroyers and five heavy cruisers, already lined up in a row, unleashed orange-red fireballs—all of their 127mm or even 203mm caliber main guns—in the same second, as if to ignite the sea and sky.
Those high-explosive steel projectiles traced impenetrable parabolic arcs through the air.
They didn't look like they were shooting; they looked more like they were plowing the land with an iron plow.
Northern Cuba, a once picturesque alluvial plain coastline covered with sugarcane and palm trees.
At this moment, it has become the lowest level of purgatory, a realm that even Dante never described.
When a high-explosive bomb landed, an area the size of half a basketball court was blasted into the air, along with soil and trees.
Then came a hundred shots, then a thousand shots, an uncountable hail of bullets.
The soil was no longer soil; it was sintered into glassy crystals by intense high temperatures.
From the ancient trees that have stood for centuries to the birds that perch on them, and the thatched huts of the fishing villages that were originally situated by the sea, they were all vaporized into countless unrecognizable dust particles in this series of dense and suffocating shockwaves, before they could even utter a groan.
But that's not enough. In Admiral Hughes's script, fear must have a shape.
"Air Force enters."
A muffled buzzing sound came from the sky.
Dozens of B-52 Stratofortress strategic bombers, which had been circling and waiting at an altitude of 10,000 meters, opened the doors of their bottomless bomb bays.
What fell was not raindrops.
Heavy aerial bombs, painted with yellow warning stripes, fell in strings, like hens laying eggs.
It contained not only regular TNT, but also napalm, a demonic invention designed specifically to destroy life.
"puff--"
The entire area of the once dark forest and the small town scattered among it were instantly engulfed by a thick, bright, and highly adhesive orange-red sea of fire.
The flame has no backbone; it greedily licks at everything flammable.
From the bushes, to the cracks in the rocks, and then to... people.
"Oh, God……"
An American war correspondent standing in front of the observation window put down his camera.
His hands were trembling. Even across the sea, several kilometers away, and through the lens of his binoculars, he could almost smell the distinctive burnt odor of roasted protein mixed with sulfur.
In the corner of his field of vision was the working-class area.
It's nothing that the house collapsed.
But those figures running out of the collapsed houses, their bodies covered in flames... they were running with such desperation.
Some people tried to jump into the nearby ditch, but the flames floating on the water did not mercifully go out. Instead, like a group of piranhas, they burned the bodies that tried to survive to charcoal in the water.
A humanoid figure that looked like it was holding a child only ran a few steps before being torn to pieces by the subsequent shockwave that seemed capable of tearing the earth apart, and merged into the backdrop of the churning sea of fire.
There is no difference.
Whether it's a guerrilla fighter, an old man, or a baby who has just learned to call for his mother at dusk.
Faced with this so-called "great power strategy," they are all "suspicious targets."
It's data. It's ashes.
"Beautiful! Those fireworks were fucking awesome!"
However, the air smelled completely different in the senior officers' lounge of the flagship cruiser.
There is no bloodshed here, only the aroma of expensive Cuban cigars and the sweetness of brandy.
An air force colonel with a small mustache excitedly raised his glass and spoke to the fiery red light that illuminated half the night sky outside the porthole.
"It should have been done a long time ago! I told you, those cowards in the CIA were just making a fuss over nothing, talking about distinguishing between civilians and human rights. Pshaw! In war, there are only two kinds of people—the living Americans and the dead enemies."
“You’re right, Bob.”
The naval artillery commander next to him also unbuttoned his top button, his face flushed.
"Listen to that noise! I bet even if there was an armored division buried there, it would all be scrap metal by now. Not to mention those monkeys that just jump around in the trees."
He made an exaggerated gesture.
"What is a man's romance? It's that caliber is justice, and range is truth! Come, let's drink to our 'truth'!"
The crisp "tinkling" sound of the crystal glasses clinking together was like some kind of most elegant music, yet it masked the most tragic cries of human suffering happening in the distance.
……
Two hours later, the bombing stopped.
It wasn't because they were kind, but because they felt there was really nothing else worth blowing up.
The entire landing zone had been turned into a patch of scorched earth, emitting black smoke and still slightly hot.
"Alright, let the lads from the First Division go up for a walk."
"I spoke in that tone of someone walking a dog," said General Hughes.
Flat-bottomed landing craft, fully loaded with landing troops, emerged from the belly of the transport ship and rushed toward the beachhead.
The famous "First Red Division" soldiers on the ship all looked relaxed, even a little nonchalant.
Many people didn't even bother to fasten the straps of their heavy M1 helmets, and some even carried their rifles on their backs.
"Hey, I told you we came here for a picnic."
A sergeant sitting at the front, chewing gum, boasted to his new recruits.
"See that fire over there? That's a fire our navy daddies made for us. By the time we get up there, we probably won't even find a mouse breathing."
"The main task then will be to dig through the ruins to see if we can find any unburnt gold teeth or silver items as souvenirs."
The soldiers burst into laughter.
In their common sense, faced with such a saturation bombardment that would slap even God, such flesh-and-blood enemies should have long since turned into a pile of carbonized material that could be used directly as inorganic fertilizer.
This was a cleanup operation with no suspense whatsoever.
……
but.
These people, drinking and singing, feeling that the world is already at their feet, are completely unaware.
Beyond their cognitive dimension.
Twenty meters below that scorched, smoking earth, which had even altered the terrain.
Inside the underground tunnels and air-raid shelters, which have been reinforced and whose ventilation ducts are cleverly disguised using artificial mountains.
The dim, emergency lights swayed gently, casting circles of light tinged with dust.
Countless bright, clear, and hateful eyes were silently staring at the concrete domes overhead that occasionally emitted muffled thuds.
Castro sat with his arms crossed in front of a portable, man-portable active phased array radar terminal.
This little gadget was one of the "local specialties" that Fang Yu gave him.
On the screen, those red dots that originally represented destruction—the bomber formation—are now receding into the distance.
And those countless green dots, slowly creeping towards the coastline—
Those "battlefield cleaners" who thought they were safe now seemed so ridiculous and so "delicious" in his eyes.
Many of the guerrillas around him had clenched their fists for the past few hours, biting their lips as they listened to the deafening explosions on the ground that seemed to shatter their hearts.
They knew that was their home, their village, and perhaps the cattle and sheep they hadn't had time to bring into the cave were being destroyed.
That anger did not dissipate with the explosion; instead, it was like volcanic magma compressed to its limit, becoming even hotter deep underground.
"They blew the ground flat."
Che Guevara was still wiping the mechanical left arm of his beloved "Broken Army" armor, his voice as cold as the rocks beneath the ground.
"That's great."
He looked up, and the fire burning in his eyes was hotter than any napalm bomb outside.
"At least this way..."
"When we bury them, we won't have to go through the trouble of digging a hole."