Chapter 32 Misunderstanding Phenomenon: Reporting to the General, we have won!

Israel, Tel Aviv, Ministry of Defense Underground Command Center.

Unlike the front lines, where sand filled the sky and flesh and blood flew, it was brightly lit here, and the cold air from the constant-temperature air conditioning made one unable to feel a trace of the outside heat.

On the huge tactical screen wall, military intelligence data streams from all over the world were being displayed in real-time, but the attention of most senior officers was clearly not here.

The atmosphere in the command center was peaceful, one might even say a bit lazy.

The Commander of the National Defense Forces, General Moshe, was holding a cup of top-grade black tea imported from the distant East, discussing the upcoming polo match this weekend with several generals beside him.

"Abraham, how is your new Arabian thoroughbred? I heard it cost quite a bit. Are you confident you can beat me in the weekend match?" General Moshe elegantly cut the tip of his cigar with a cigar cutter, a confident smile on his face.

The Air Force Brigadier General called Abraham laughed loudly: "Hahaha, Moshe, my horse is certainly the best. But I heard you managed to get a batch of top-quality Cuban cigars from the Ugly Country advisor? Those are rare items on the market right now."

"That's right, only those who know their stuff can taste them." General Moshe proudly shook the cigar in his hand, "Come to my office tonight, and we'll enjoy them properly."

Communication with the ace "iron fist" armored brigade on the front line had been cut off for over half an hour.

But no one in the command center took this seriously.

In their view, there were only two possibilities for accidents on this Gobi desert: either the harsh sandstorm weather caused a short-term failure of communication equipment, which is very common in the desert; or, that group of Hassan militants was scared out of their wits by the illustrious reputation of the "iron fist" brigade and did not dare to show their faces at all, causing Colonel David to feel the patrol mission was too boring and end it early.

As for a firefight? That was impossible.

Using the world's top "merkava" main battle tanks to deal with a group of guerrillas holding AKs, that is not called a firefight, that is called target practice, or one could even say it is armed child abuse.

"Report!" A young second lieutenant responsible for monitoring battlefield communications suddenly stood up, a trace of uncertainty and nervousness on his face, "Communication with the 'iron fist' brigade remains interrupted, it has been over 40 minutes, which exceeds the time limit for routine equipment failure."

General Moshe frowned unhappily upon hearing this. He did not like being disturbed by such technical "trifles" while enjoying tea and discussing polo.

The Air Force Brigadier General Abraham beside him chuckled and said in a joking tone: "Our communication equipment is from the Ugly Country, after all, it is normal for it to throw a little tantrum occasionally. Perhaps Colonel David has already taken his men into the gullies to catch those rats; you know how signals are in the desert."

"That's right," another army general chimed in, "Perhaps David is enjoying the pleasure of beating a drowning dog and does not have time to pay attention to us old men drinking tea in the rear. Young people just love to show off their military achievements."

A burst of relaxed laughter rang out in the command center. These high-ranking generals had not tasted failure for too long; in their dictionary, the word "defeat" simply did not exist.

Just then, a communications soldier responsible for monitoring the public communication frequency of the Hassan organization suddenly sprang up from his seat as if electrocuted. He excitedly took off his headset, and due to excessive excitement, he even forgot the most basic military etiquette, scrambling and crawling toward the command console.

His face bore an expression of near-manic ecstasy, his voice cracked from excitement, and he reported loudly, gasping for breath:

"General! General! A victory report has come in from the front line! It is... it is a victory report from the front line!"

The entire command center fell silent instantly, everyone's gaze focused on this young communications soldier.

General Moshe put down his teacup, a smug smile of "as I expected" on his face. He just knew that kid David must have performed a meritorious deed again.

"Speak! The specific situation!" He said majestically.

Because the communications soldier had run too fast, he leaned on the command console and gasped for air. He tried his best to organize his words, taking the few keywords he had heard from the heavily interfered, intermittent audio stream, and using his strong self-confidence and belief in the invincibility of the "iron fist" brigade, he automatically filled in the gaps and connected them, thus creating a mondegreen phenomenon.

"Report, General! It is... it is Hassan's troops... we beat them... into a rout! Our side... achieved a complete victory! Repeat, a complete victory!"

This sentence was like a giant rock thrown into a calm lake, stirring up a wave of ecstasy within the command center.

"Hahahaha!" General Moshe was the first to laugh out loud. He slapped the table violently, crushed the expensive cigar in his hand into the ashtray, and stood up from his seat in high spirits.

He looked around at all the officers present, as well as the Ugly Country military advisor who had been sitting in the corner with a smile on his face, and said in a resonant voice:

"Gentlemen, did you hear that? This is the efficiency of our Israel! This is the strength of our ace troops!"

He proudly held up three fingers.

"Less than an hour! We have dealt with a group of fleas that have plagued us for months! They did not even manage to put up a decent resistance against us! I guess our losses are... zero!"

Inside the command center, thunderous applause and cheers erupted instantly.

"Long live the iron fist brigade!"

"For Israel!"

"I knew it, those terrorists are vulnerable!"

The generals raised their glasses one after another, congratulating each other, everyone's face beaming with the pride and arrogance of victors.

The Ugly Country advisor, who had remained silent all along, stood up at this moment, smiling and raising the teacup in his hand, nodded to General Moshe, and said in an approving tone: "Congratulations, General. Your army's combat capability has impressed me once again. I will report this glorious victory to The Pentagon truthfully."

"Hahaha, Mr. Advisor, this is just an appetizer." General Moshe was in high spirits, his vanity greatly satisfied. He waved his hand and ordered his adjutant:

"Come here! Open a bottle of '82 Lafite! No! Open two! I want to personally commend our heroes—the 'iron fist' brigade—right here! Notify the whole army, award Colonel David and his soldiers! They are the pride of the nation!"

"Yes, General!"

The entire command center had completely turned into an ocean of joy. Glasses clinked, and laughter filled the air.

No one noticed that in the corner, the young communications soldier who had misreported the military situation, after the initial ecstasy, quietly put on his headset, trying to capture the front-line signal again to find more detailed evidence for this "great victory."

But this time, no matter how he adjusted the frequency, all that came through the earpiece was dead, chilling static noise.