Inferno (Play to Live: Book # 4) by D. Rus Page A

War its unique bullpup profile was instantly recognizable. The picture of General Aaron with a Tavor slung across his chest peering through binoculars at the mushroom cloud rising over the Golan Heights had long dominated the front pages of all media. Admittedly, this time the Israeli had really pushed their luck.
    Both the military and secret services, too busy with their internal games and scheming, had missed the menacing signs of the looming crisis, so the well-coordinated attack from their Arab neighbors had come as a complete surprise to them. How much do you really need to invade a country thirty-five miles wide? An hour's drive in a tank, and all its millions of inhabitants would find themselves pushed back into the Mediterranean.
    It was the Israeli frontier guards who had managed to prevent the initial catastrophe. They'd done their duty by dying for their country but at least they'd bought the army some time for at least a partial call-up. They hadn't lasted the twenty-four hours they were supposed to, though: the god of war favors large forces, and the Israeli guards, despite all their spirit, had been outnumbered forty to one.
    After that, the invading forces kept slowly but surely squeezing the Israelis toward the coast, looking forward to the best bit, the entertainment of choice since the time of German submarines: the gunning down of defenseless people trying to take cover in the water. The Israelis kept throwing fresh new troops into battle, hastily compiling tank crews that entered the fight in brand new vehicles still gleaming with factory wax. The soldiers worked miracles of courage even before they had the chance to piss out the tea they'd just drunk back home. When the roofs of your home city still rise behind your back, when your own children are screaming in the cellars at the sounds of approaching explosions — you will fight. You can't sit it out in trenches then.
    In any case, being taken prisoner in that particular war was not a good idea. The overreacting Israelis simply shot at anyone they saw raising their hands. They already had too much on their plate with the simultaneously uprising Gaza Strip and an Arab fifth column at their rear. As for the Arabs themselves, they exercised a much better imagination with their Israeli POWs.
    The advancing forces ground their way through the army and new conscripts, paying their way with truly Arab generosity: one to sixteen according to the most conservative estimations. The situation was hanging by a thread and the Israeli government was already digging under its skirts in search for balls when still more weapon-brandishing came from the least expected quarter, namely one of the old-school generals who probably remembered Moshe Dayan himself. Although he didn't have the proverbial nuclear briefcase, he did have the power to activate the defensive landmines stuffed with weapon-grade uranium. The earth shuddered, letting the genie out of the bottle and scorching in its nuclear flame all the enemy support troops, reserves and HQs conveniently accumulated in the rear, in all those mountain passes and little valleys.
    The advancing enemy forces found themselves cut off from their command and ammunition supplies. And how much ammunition does an infantryman carry around, for God's sake? Barely enough for fifteen minutes' worth of engagement.
    The Arabs attempted to respond with some chemical warheads which were intercepted over Syria, completely fouling the place up. At this point, European politicians suddenly remembered their mission, demanding both sides make peace. Still, stopping an already-speeding steamroller can't be that easy. While the Israeli negotiators were playing for time, blue-star forces hurried to empty their arsenals, hammering their aggressive neighbors into the nineteenth century, their smart weapons taking out everything they could reach: factories, bridges, dams and power plants. Every airplane sortie bought them one day of future