Chapter 33 Champagne is for drowning sorrows.

The command center was still immersed in the joy of victory.

The adjutant deftly retrieved two bottles of vintage Lafite red wine; with a soft "pop," the corks were elegantly pulled, and the mellow aroma of wine instantly permeated the air of the command center.

A young waiter, carrying a silver tray, respectfully delivered glasses of crimson wine to each of the generals.

"Come! Gentlemen!" General Moshe raised his glass high, his face glowing with pride. He walked spiritedly to the massive screen wall, turning his back to the flickering data, as if announcing his achievements to the whole world. "To our invincible iron fist! To the glory of Israel! Cheers!"

"Cheers!" The generals responded in unison, their faces beaming with proud smiles, ready to drain their glasses in one gulp.

The advisor from the Ugly Country also smiled and raised his glass, preparing to congratulate General Moshe and calculating how to use more flowery language in his report to The Pentagon to describe this "overwhelming victory."

The atmosphere in the entire command center had reached its peak.

Just then, the heavy soundproof door to the intelligence analysis department was violently pushed open, almost as if it had been rammed. A colonel in charge of real-time battlefield image analysis stumbled in, his face as pale as paper.

He seemed to have tripped in his haste, nearly falling to the ground. He completely ignored the joyous celebratory atmosphere in the command center and didn't even bother to salute the gathered generals. He clutched a military tablet computer tightly in his hand, his lips trembling, unable to utter a complete syllable due to extreme fear and shock.

"Gen... General..."

General Moshe's celebratory mood was interrupted, and obvious displeasure appeared on his face. He hated seeing his subordinates in such a panicked state while he was enjoying the fruits of victory.

He frowned, looking at his uncomposed subordinate, and scolded in a deep voice: "What is the panic about! You have no military bearing at all! Has the sky fallen?"

"It... it's the 'iron fist' brigade..." The colonel's voice carried a sob. With trembling hands, he held the tablet up to General Moshe. "General... you... you had better see for yourself... we just restored the signal from a high-altitude reconnaissance drone over the front line..."

"What could be the matter? Isn't it just a battle result report? Did David capture a few prisoners, making you this excited?" General Moshe muttered impatiently, taking the tablet with a hint of showmanship.

The few generals beside him also curiously crowded around, wanting to see the glorious battle results of their ace unit to prepare some bragging material for the victory banquet that evening.

However, the moment General Moshe's gaze fell upon the screen, the smile on his face instantly froze.

His pupils contracted violently, and the hands that had just been steadily holding a cigar and a glass began to tremble uncontrollably.

What was displayed on the screen were the cold and clear real-time aerial images just transmitted from tens of thousands of meters above.

That was no glorious battle report. That was a burning hell.

The once imposing "iron fist" armored brigade position had now turned into a vast expanse of scorched earth. Hundreds of "merkava" tanks and Namer armored vehicles were scattered across every corner of the Gobi desert, twisted, broken, and strewn about like toys discarded by an angry child. Every single one was burning, billowing thick smoke into the sky.

As the image zoomed in, the horrifying details became clearer. Tank turrets had been blown off entirely and were overturned on the sand; the sides of armored personnel carriers had been ripped open, and the soldiers inside had been roasted into charcoal by high-temperature flames; the barrels of self-propelled artillery were twisted into corkscrews.

Not a single vehicle was intact. That was not a battlefield. That was a massive, open-air steel graveyard. A slaughterhouse where a collective death sentence had been executed with precision, efficiency, and cold cruelty.

"Clang!" A crisp sound rang out, sounding exceptionally harsh in the deathly silent command center.

The glass in General Moshe's hand slipped from his trembling grip and fell onto the carpet. The crimson wine splashed out, looking like a pool of glaring, fresh blood.

The command center instantly plunged into a deathly silence. All cheers and laughter ceased abruptly, as if someone had grabbed them by the throat.

The smiles on the generals' faces froze. They stared blankly at the images on the screen, then at the Commander, who was pale, with purple lips and a swaying body, and a cold chill shot from the soles of their feet straight to their scalps.

The young communications soldier who had previously run in joyfully to report the good news, the moment he saw the screen, let out a strange "gurgle" from his throat, rolled his eyes, and collapsed to the ground, fainting from sheer terror.

The advisor from the Ugly Country, who had been maintaining an elegant smile, also froze. He seemed to realize something, lunged forward in a stride, and snatched the tablet from General Moshe's hand.

The moment his gaze touched the screen, his composed, gentlemanly demeanor instantly crumbled.

His eyes widened, his mouth opened unconsciously, and his Adam's apple bobbed violently, yet he could not utter a sound. He stared fixedly at the precisely destroyed tank wrecks on the screen, especially the uniform, small, and lethal penetration holes on the tops of the tanks, and muttered unconsciously:

"God... this is impossible..."

"This wasn't done by conventional weapons... This isn't from rockets, nor is it artillery fire..."

"This attack pattern... this saturation... this surgical precision strike... what happened? That bunch of people under Hassan... where did they get this kind of thing?"

His voice was filled with unprecedented shock, confusion, and a hint of... fear, which even he himself had not yet realized.