Chapter 485: The Roar of Rocket Artillery and the Power of the

Before dawn, the red‑soil plateau lay as still as a huge tomb.

The dead silence didn't last long before a dull tremor from the horizon shattered it. It wasn't thunder; it was the sound of steel tracks crushing rock and brush.

Manuro lay on the trench edge, the view through his binoculars chilling his limbs. Dozens of T-62 Tanks formed an attack formation, the red star on each turret blazing in the dawn, followed by a mass of black infantry. In the air, two Mi-24 "Doe" armed helicopters swooped like huge Vultures, noses down, the rotors whipping the red soil into a swirling cloud.

Boom!

The first tank shell hit a work shed on the minefield's outskirts, the makeshift building instantly exploding into a fireball.

The blast sounded like a starting gun; the guards behind Manuro, who usually shouted loudly, didn't even wait for an order, flinging their rifles and fleeing with heads tucked, like startled antelopes.

"Come back! All of you, come back! Bastard!" Manuro drew his Gold‑Plated Desert Eagle, fired two shots skyward, but none of them turned back.

He collapsed in despair in the trench, his dark face now ashen, turning to the side: "Mr Lu! It's over! Completely over! That's a tank cluster! We're too few to even squeeze into a tooth gap! Withdraw quickly, I have a vehicle hidden in the back hills…"

Lu Qingshan sat cross‑legged at the bottom of the trench lined with grass mats, cradling a sweet potato he had just fished out of the charcoal fire.

The skin was charred black, but he didn't mind the heat; both hands fumbled, tearing a piece of skin to reveal the golden, soft flesh steaming inside.

"What's the hurry?" Lu Qingshan blew the steam off the sweet potato, took a bite, and said vaguely, "Breakfast isn't finished yet."

"What time is it to be eating sweet potatoes!" Manuro snapped, reaching for the thing in his hand, "The tanks are less than a kilometer away!"

"Let the bullet fly a little longer." Lu Qingshan didn't lift his head, took another bite, "Too close it'll chip your teeth; too far it won't hurt."

In the distance, Qian Weiguo crouched in an observation post camouflaged as a dirt mound, a unlit Smoke Pipe clenched between his teeth. He squinted, watching the steel behemoths inch into the coordinates mapped by Ding Wenjiang and his men overnight.

Eight hundred meters.

Five hundred meters.

Three hundred meters.

Even the Soviet tank drivers could see the laundry lines in the minefield that hadn't been taken down yet.

"Old Money, that's enough." Su Mingyuan's gentle voice came through the headset.

Qian Weiguo slipped the Smoke Pipe to his waist, grabbed the radio, and said only one word.

"Fire."

There was no earth‑shaking roar of synchronized artillery; only a rapid, monkey‑like "whoosh‑whoosh" clatter.

Manuro instinctively clutched his head.

The expected explosion didn't occur beside him. He looked up in shock and saw a scene he would never forget.

From the seemingly ordinary mounds, grass, even the freshly watered vegetable plots on the minefield's edge, countless fire dragons suddenly erupted.

There were no massive launchers, no complex fire‑control radars. The Type 63 107 mm rocket artillery, already broken down into individual components, now revealed its ferocious guise as a guerrilla‑force marvel.

Some were set on earthen ramps, others simply placed on the ground with two bricks underneath to adjust angle, a few wires tied to dry batteries.

Simple, crude, yet lethal.

Hundreds of rockets screamed sharply, raining down on the tank column.

It wasn't artillery fire at all; it was a splash.

Boom—boom—boom—

The three T-62s at the forefront were instantly engulfed by the firestorm. Though the 107 rockets lacked the punch of heavy guns, they compensated with volume and targeted the thin armor on tank tops.

Amid the rapid explosions, Soviet adviser Ivanov sat in the command vehicle, vodka spilling down his trousers.

"This can't be!" he exclaimed, staring at the vanguard engulfed in flames, his eyes bulging, "Where is their artillery position? Why isn't the radar responding? This is unscientific!"

Before he could recover, another group in blue work clothes emerged from the thickets on both sides.

They brandished old‑style RPG‑40 launchers, their movements as practiced as an assembly line.

"Aim for the legs! Not the head!"

Someone shouted the command.

Dozens of rockets, trailing flames, pierced precisely between the tank's tracks and road wheels.

A sickening metallic snap rang out, and the once‑indomitable steel torrent instantly became a dead turtle lying in the fire pit.

The Mi‑24 pilot above grew frantic, nose down, preparing to sweep the ground with his rocket pod.

At that moment, two plumes of white smoke rose from an abandoned water tower in the minefield.

They were modified portable anti‑air missiles; though copies, they were spot‑on against low‑hovering targets.

The lead pilot didn't even have time to release chaff before the radar alarm wailed through the cockpit. He yanked the stick, the helicopter made a clumsy, desperate turn, nearly colliding with a wingman, black smoke trailing its tail, and fled without looking back.

Air cover vanished.

Ground armor collapsed.

In just half an hour, the battlefield underwent a staggering reversal.

Doo—du‑du—doo—

A bright, soaring charge call, bearing a strange penetrating force, suddenly rang across the red‑soil plateau.

The sound was unfamiliar to Manuro, but for the slightly older Soviet advisers it was a nightmare etched into their bones.

In the peninsula war decades ago, when that sound sounded, it meant the unit in single‑layer uniforms, subsisting on fried noodles, was about to launch a reckless, all‑or‑nothing charge.

Blue‑clad workers leapt out of the trenches across the hills.

They brandished gleaming Type 56 submachine guns, yellow safety helmets atop their heads, shouting incomprehensible chants like tigers descending a mountain, pouncing on the government infantry now reduced to a chaotic stew.

No tactical maneuvers? No, their tactics were textbook‑perfect.

Three‑by‑three covering fire, alternating volleys, interleaved encirclement.

This isn't civilian labor; it's seasoned veterans who have honed killing to their bones.

Manuro lay on the trench edge, his mouth agape enough to fit a fist, watching the T‑62 that had just doomed him be pried open by a few 'civil workers'; a grenade tossed inside, a muffled thump, then the 'civil workers' deftly climbed in, hauled out the corpses, and began… dismantling the machine gun?

"Lu… Mr Lu…" Manuro mechanically turned his head, watching Lu Qingshan patting the sweet‑potato peel fragments, his voice trembling like a sieve, "Is this… also part of the business?"

Lu Qingshan rose, dusting the soil from his backside.

The sunrise rose behind him, stretching his shadow long enough to blanket Manuro.

This is after‑sales service.

Lu Qingshan looked at the smoke‑filled battlefield in the distance, his tone flat, "Manuro, you must remember. As long as you obey, this 'broom' can sweep away all the trash on the road to the Luanda Presidential Palace."

He pointed at Qian Weiguo, who was in the distance directing people to clean the battlefield.

"But if you don't obey…" Lu Qingshan smiled, not finishing the sentence, but Manuro only felt a chill down his back, more Fear than when he had just faced the tank.

The battle ended faster than expected.

In less than an hour, aside from a few still‑burning tank wrecks, the remaining government troops either raised their hands in surrender or had long ago thrown away their guns and plunged into the jungle.

Lu Qingjun jogged over, waving a blood‑stained Leather Notebook in his hand, his face flushed with excitement.

"Brother! Look what I picked up!"

Lu Qingshan took the notebook, opened it, and glanced through.

It was Soviet Union advisor Ivanov's battlefield diary. The final page was scrawled, evidently written in extreme Fear.

There was only one line of Russian on it.

Lu Qingshan couldn't read it, and handed it to Su Mingyuan beside him.

Su Mingyuan adjusted his glasses and read softly, "We are not facing an African guerrilla force, nor Western mercenaries. This is an Eastern Ghost unit with a high level of tactical proficiency. God bless us, don't let them cross the river."

"Ghost?" Lu Qingshan closed the notebook, tossed it to Manuro, "Tell them, Ghosts don't farm. We're just here to do business."

…

Capital City, late night.

The lights in Fuqiang Hutong had gone out, but a office in Zhongnanhai remained brightly lit.

Old Chen, wearing an old military coat, held a battle report that had just been transmitted back through an encrypted line.

The paper was light, but in Old Chen's hand it felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.

"Zero casualties."

"Annihilated the enemy's vanguard armored unit."

"Captured six T-62 Tanks and a number of various light and heavy weapons."

Old Chen stared at the words, and a faint grateful smile gradually appeared on his weathered face, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes loosening.

He picked up the Red Telephone on the desk.

"Shanghong, are you asleep?"

On the other end, Wang Shanghong's voice was unusually clear: "Old Chen, I'm holding the line. Over there…"

"We won." Old Chen's voice carried a swagger, "A beautiful victory. That kid has taken our old hallmark and expanded it across Africa."

"And the next step…"

"Next step?" Old Chen walked to the window, gazing at the pitch‑black night outside, his eyes deep, "We should make those Westerners come to beg us. With the nail driven into Angola, anyone who wants to break ground in Africa will have to check our mood first."

He paused, then added, "Tell Lu Qingshan not to rush back. Since this is business, spread the stall wider. We still lack many things."

He hung up, Old Chen sat back down, stared at the battle report, his fingers lightly tapping the desk.

"107 rocket launcher… good stuff, looks like we can sell it for a good price again."