351: Chapter 351 Sudden Fiery Attack

Senator Carter's voice became low and dangerous: "General Milley, are you saying—we're losing this war?"

"No, Senator." Milley's tone was heavy. "There is a big difference between losing and being unable to win. We won't lose this war—our Navy still controls the Persian Gulf, our Air Force maintains air superiority, and our ground forces are still capable of launching offensives. But the problem is that the cost of these offensives is growing exponentially. Persia's asymmetric tactics—tunnels, drone Swarm, electronic jamming—make every step forward cost far more than expected. The original equation of war is being rewritten: a poorly equipped guerrilla force, with the help of a few electronic jamming systems and several hundred small drones, can bring an armored brigade to a standstill."

He paused, then spoke the words that would be repeatedly quoted by future generations: "We are not fighting a conventional opponent. We are fighting a bunch of people we can't see, from places we don't know, using technology we don't fully understand yet. No matter how brave our soldiers are, they cannot fire upon an invisible enemy."

A long silence fell over the hearing hall. The hearing was broadcast live on television and the internet, and tens of millions of viewers across the USA heard the echo of those words under the Capitol dome.

Meanwhile, outside the White House, in Lafayette Square.

Over thirty thousand protesters packed the square and surrounding streets to the point of being impassable. They held various homemade placards with slogans like "Bring the Boys Home," "No More Bleeding for Arms Dealers," "General Milley Spoke the Truth—Ceasefire Now!" and "Every Bullet of the Empire is the Bread Money of the Poor." Student movement organizers raised a giant anti-war flag in the center of the square, shaped like the USA flag, but with stars replaced by skull patterns and red and white stripes printed with the initials of fallen soldiers.

Among the demonstrators were young men in oil-stained overalls, young mothers pushing strollers, and veterans in Vietnam-era uniforms. The wrinkles on their faces were etched with history. A faded badge was pinned to one veteran's jacket—"Vietnam 1970-71"—and he held a piece of cardboard with a handwritten message in marker: **The only thing I learned in the rainy season jungles is—if your general says this war cannot be won, then every day you keep fighting is murder.**

"Bring my son back!" A middle-aged woman was surrounded by reporters. Her son, a lieutenant in the 101st Airborne Division, had suffered a severe head injury in a crash in the Karun River Valley last week and was now being treated at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. She held up her son's photo and wailed into the microphones: "What right does the government have to send my child to die? What right?!"

"What does this war have to do with USA security? What does it have to do with Persia's nuclear facilities? It's clearly the arms dealers wanting to get rich; let them go fight it themselves!" another protester shouted angrily to his companion. His hat was printed with the slogan "Not in My Name."

Riot police lined up on Pennsylvania Avenue, gripping transparent riot shields tightly, sweat trickling down their necks under their helmet brims. But they were facing citizens, not enemies.

Meanwhile, in the White House's Oval Office, the new president sat alone behind bulletproof glass. The curtains were half-drawn, and sunlight cast patterns of light and shadow across the President's desk. A freshly printed public opinion poll report lay on the desk. For the first time, he opened the red-covered folder with trembling fingers. A set of numbers was printed in bold in the most prominent position: **Approval rating has dropped to thirty-one percent. Public support for the war has fallen by nearly thirty percentage points since the start. Over sixty percent of respondents demand the immediate start of ceasefire negotiations.**

His gaze drifted over the edge of the folder, landing on the surging anti-war crowd in the distance outside the window. He could faintly hear their slogans through the soundproof glass: "Ceasefire! Ceasefire! Ceasefire!"

He murmured to himself: "They didn't elect me to keep this war going."

But inner sanctum politics had its own logic. In the Oval Office safe, several encrypted briefings from major financial consortiums painted a completely opposite picture: if the USA admitted military failure in Persia, international oil prices would inevitably fluctuate violently, Middle Eastern allies would accelerate their shift toward other powers, arms exports would shrink sharply, and the dollar's settlement status in global energy trade would be shaken. The stock prices of the top five defense contractors had shrunk by nearly a quarter in just a few days. An emergency market analysis from a hedge fund predicted: a ceasefire would lead to a drop in GDP growth of at least two percentage points in the next quarter, and a sell-off in the military-industrial sector could trigger systemic risk.

In a basement meeting room in Manhattan, Greenberg slammed the analysis report onto the table.

"If this continues, our empire is finished." He bit his cigar, his voice raspy and low. "It's not losing to Persia. It's not losing to Zhang Cheng. It's losing to ourselves—our own division, our own short-sightedness, our own arrogance."

His knuckles rapped on the cover of the analysis report, which had a line of bold text in red: "Analysis of the Vulnerability of USA's Global Military and Technological Superiority."

"Persia is using tactics learned from Gaza, Gaza is using technology given by Zhang Cheng, and Zhang Cheng is using our own hubris to dismantle us. Crippling an armored brigade in the Karun River Valley, shooting down eleven helicopters, shattering the prestige of the carrier strike group—these are not just failures; they are the empire's reckoning."

He lowered his voice and spoke to the core members present: "We do not accept failure. If a conventional war cannot be won, then we must discuss more extreme options."

The room was so quiet that the hum of the central air conditioning vents could be heard.

"Tell the new president that we're giving him two paths: either immediately request Congress to pass the Third Troop Surge Act and send at least another hundred thousand ground troops to Persia; or authorize the military to initiate the tactical nuclear strike option against Persia's core targets."

"Use nuclear weapons?" The hedge fund manager's eyes widened. "Drop nukes inside Persia? That crosses the red line!"

"Red lines are for the weak." Greenberg pressed his half-smoked cigar into a crystal ashtray. "The strong redefine the rules. If conventional forces cannot ensure dominance, then we use tactical nukes to suppress the situation. This is a showdown, not a negotiation."

"What is the name of that plan?" someone in the corner asked softly.

"An old file from 1958," Greenberg loosened his tie. "Codename: 'Fire Raid.' A contingency plan drafted by the Pentagon back then to curb Soviet Union influence in the Persian Gulf. Dig out those yellowed papers and update the coordinates—the nuclear reactor in Bushehr, the naval docks at Bandar Abbas, the Revolutionary Guard command center north of Ahvaz, and the underground centrifuge plant in Isfahan. Four B61-12 tactical nuclear bombs, dropped from B-2 stealth bombers out of Guam and Diego Garcia. Then tell the world that if they don't accept our ceasefire terms, the next one falls on Tehran."