Working as a police officer in Mexico
Chapter 886 - 469: I admit you guys are fierce, but I'm cheating! _2

That means...

No one is commanding anymore!

No one is coordinating air and artillery support either.

The big boss is gone, so who's calling the shots now?

"If I were Victor, I would order the troops to charge into the United States and use the time lag to achieve strategic goals."

Hobert raised his head and looked at him, his expression exceptionally serious. "I heard Clinton caught a cold. As long as he's not dead, that's good enough. Right now, he needs to get up and immediately, *immediately* arrange for someone to take over."

"That…is impossible."

Richie Miller sighed under his breath. "You know, every political post has a price attached. Now that people are dead, their families, political parties, or organizations will absolutely not allow Clinton to intervene. If he forcefully tries..."

He paused. "Clinton will die in the hospital."

Every post is a product of political compromises and deals. What does it mean for Clinton to directly place someone there?

Does he really think he's the President?

He's just…a spendthrift put forward by others!

Hobert's face was filled with disappointment, as he spun his wheelchair around.

"F***!"

He cursed loudly, his voice echoing through the hospital lobby, causing everyone to turn their heads. All they saw was a wounded man spewing curses.

Richie Miller didn't stop him; he'd been following Clinton for a long time, and he understood how politics worked.

Huff…huff…huff…

His phone vibrated and rang simultaneously. He picked it up but hadn't said a word before he heard Chief of Staff Angel Urenia shouting on the other end, "Get back to the hospital quickly—Clinton…has a brain hemorrhage."

!!!!

Richie Miller's pupils shrank instantly.

The sky… is falling?

...

Chihuahua State, across the Rio Grande—El Paso region...

A command from the highest headquarters was issued, and the cavalry division of the Fourth Army stationed there took the lead.

Hundreds of tanks crossed the dried-up riverbank, charging into Texas.

The Fifth Army's two infantry divisions, along with a combat regiment from Cuba, launched a flanking attack into U.S. territory.

Over 40,000 troops conducted a "military raid," catching the U.S. Military completely off guard.

Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!

Hey buddy, we agreed on long-range artillery barrages, doing your job, clocking out, and calling it a day. Now you're asking for hand-to-hand combat?

Completely dishonorable!

Stationed in the area was the 103rd Infantry Division of the U.S. Military, with a full complement of over 17,000 troops. This was a fully armed division of the Yanks, boasting 300 tanks and various armored vehicles.

At this moment, on the western plains of the American Grand River.

Captain Dmitry Fedorovich, belonging to the tank regiment of the Fourth Army Cavalry Division, was leading five "Fire Lizard" tanks (also known as M1A2 Abrams) in pursuit of three U.S. tanks.

"Step on it! Step on the gas! Damn it, this is a tank's throttle—not your old, worn-down third-hand Ferrari. What are you afraid of?" Captain Fedorovich slapped the driver's helmet, cursing, "Charge ahead and blast them to bits!"

The corporal driver gritted his teeth after being slapped, and the 1,500-horsepower engine roared, spewing out black smoke from the exhaust pipe.

"Steep incline ahead!"

The observer shouted loudly.

Whoosh~

The tank ascended the steep slope at 66 km/h, then the massive, dozens-of-tons beast came crashing heavily on the ground.

Anyone who has ridden in a tank knows that in a confined space, with violent jolts, combined with odors like smelly feet, it can make people vomit instantly.

Captain Fedorovich clutched his backside, nearly gagging. The food he'd eaten earlier, which hadn't fully digested, jumped up in his throat, but he forced it back down. Damn, the taste was sweet and sour.

He picked up the vehicle's intercom. "Disperse the tanks—fire freely."

As soon as he finished speaking, a "bang" was heard from the adjacent tank. Captain Fedorovich quickly pushed aside the observer and looked out himself, only to see the tank next to him firing first.

A shot was fired—it missed...

A huge crater was blasted near the edge of the U.S. tank, uprooting grass and flowers, but not much else.

Still, it clearly startled the enemy tank, which veered sharply in panic.

"Useless!"

Captain Fedorovich shouted, "Armor-piercing shells!"

"Close-range combat!" He gripped the handles on both sides while issuing the orders.

"???"

Sweat dripped from the driver's forehead as he wiped at it with his camouflage uniform, but he still followed orders to approach.

As the gap closed, Captain Fedorovich zeroed in on the enemy, using automatic rangefinding.

His thumb decisively pressed the button.

Boom!

The vehicle jolted backward as the cannon fired. The armor-piercing shell zipped through the air, striking the rear of the U.S. tank dead center.

Bang!

Flames erupted instantly; the crew inside didn't have time to escape and were killed by the shockwave.

That trademark smell of charred scrap metal hung in the air.

And another tank realized it was doomed—a white object…a pair of briefs emerged from within.

"Captain, they're surrendering."

Captain Fedorovich remained cautious. "Tell them to get out and lie on the ground."

The five "Fire Lizards" encircled them from dozens of meters away. The opposing tank crew climbed out, raising their hands, and slowly lay face down.

Capturing an intact M1A1 guarantees at least a second-class honor!

As Captain Fedorovich dismounted, the U.S. tank commander—who was a lieutenant—looked completely filthy, his face darkened. Hearing footsteps, he raised his head, "We demand adherence to the Geneva Conventions and humane treatment of POWs."

The comment nearly made Captain Fedorovich laugh out loud.

"We've already withdrawn from the United Nations, Sir."

The U.S. tank crew felt a sudden chill in their hearts...

"But don't worry—after laying down your weapons, we guarantee your lives. Here, have a smoke." Captain Fedorovich squatted down and handed them cigarettes. "Mexican Camel—they're quite smooth."

The U.S. soldiers hesitated before accepting, nodding thanks.

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