Grenade (portable) rocket-assisted grenade launcher; 7 is the version number. It is a man-portable anti-tank weapon that fires rockets, mainly used for close-range strikes against tanks, armored vehicles, and fortifications. Its formal name is "rocket-assisted grenade launcher," commonly known as a Rocket Launcher.
In later years, the RPG-7's fame was known worldwide, wielded to perfection by terrorist organizations, repeatedly producing battle cases that stunned the globe.
By now, more than twenty years had passed since the birth of the RPG-7; countries like Iran and Iraq could already manufacture this low-cost, high-effect weapon themselves.
The instant he saw the tail-smoke, every hair on Qusay's body stood on end. "Hades—hit the gas, hard left!"
As an unguided rocket, the RPG-7's drawback is obvious: no guidance system—aiming relies entirely on the gunner's skill. Once fired, altering the trajectory is impossible.
Therefore, spotting the launcher in time and changing direction lets you evade the danger.
Qusay even felt lucky: if the gunner had aimed first at his pickup instead of the Chieftain Tank, the tank's limited visibility would have left it nearly defenseless against nearby infantry.
That's why tanks in urban warfare need infantry protection; without it, they become sitting ducks.
The smoking rocket streaked past Qusay's pickup, missing by a whisker.
Relief had barely settled when his heart leapt into his throat again.
The errant rocket was heading straight for the ammo dump he'd spotted moments earlier!
"Pull back—full speed, now!" Qusay shouted over the radio.
What the hell was that Iranian soldier thinking, firing a rocket in a no-flame zone? He'd really done it this time.
Qusay spared no thought for the court-martial the man faced; getting out intact was all that mattered.
Sympathetic detonation of ammo is no joke.
If he'd been a minute earlier—unaware the cache was enemy ordnance—he'd have been toast. Qusay wanted to be a hero, not a martyr.
Realizing the danger, Hades floored the accelerator; the ten-ton pickup surged back the way it had come.
Only by clearing the base before the blast could they survive.
At the radio call, everyone knew it was life-or-death. Both pickups shot ahead; the Chieftain revved and thundered after them.
Iranian grunts inside the base dropped their weapons; they too fled for their lives.
Anyone still standing in place was either a fool—or the very soldier who'd fired the rocket.
allah above, how could this happen?
He had no time for remorse; a blinding flash seared his eyes, and the next instant a blast wave hurled him skyward.
The shells, bullets, and grenades—enough for half a month of armored advance—hauled in by pickup, now ignited like festival fireworks.
"Boom—boom!" Ammunition cooked off in colossal roars; searing, high-pressure air churned into a violent storm. Within a hundred-meter radius nothing remained upright.
The exploding ammo set off fuel trucks; the chain of blasts sounded like Chinese New Year.
Amid the storm the pickup bucked like a tiny fishing boat on a raging sea, threatening to flip at any second.
The rearmost Chieftan bore the brunt, but its armor far outclassed the pickup's; its greater weight helped, and Marwan had ordered the NBC System activated in time.
Built for nuclear war, the tank's sealed vents and over-pressure system kept interior pressure higher than outside, minimizing blast effects.
Even a kilometer away the base still blazed; fuel trucks were flung skyward. A sea of fire raged.
No one could have survived; the place had become hell itself.
Marwan popped the driver's hatch for a breath of air. The sprint had strained the Chieftain; he shut the engine down before it overheated and burst.
"That was a rush!" Hades punched the seat, grinning at Qusay beside him.
The men jumped down, watching their former battlefield turn to scorched rubble. Flames lit the darkening sky; pride swelled in their hearts.
We are the Sidewinder Special Forces—first call, sure victory!
Victory made them drop their guard; no one noticed several Cobras slipping in for the kill.
"Damn it, where are the fuel trucks? What the hell is Transport Battalion doing?" The two withdrawn tank battalions fretted as they waited for fuel.
The earlier fight had taught them caution—pride of the armored corps, the massive Chieftains, had bogged down; losses to swamps nearly matched those to enemy fire—a staggering ratio.
Fuel-hungry Chieftains forced the first two battalions to pull back and refuel.
Their only comfort: most of Iraq's t62s had been wiped out.
Elite crews and precise Chieftain fire-control meant many t62s were knocked out at 1,800 meters.
That gave them confidence—once clear of the marshes, open ground lay ahead.
Half the opposing armor brigade had already been smashed; a final push would open the southern road.
The two battalions burned with impatience; heavy losses or not, they could see the Iraqi brigade was cracking.
In battle, willpower often tips the scales.
They waited anxiously for the fuel trucks.
A sharp-eyed soldier spotted a distant blaze—massive; what was it?
The fire came from their own logistics base; coupled with the delayed fuel trucks, a grim premonition gripped them.
Inside the armored command vehicle Rajavi received a report he could scarcely believe.
"Thirty-Second Armored, this is Condor One. Rear logistics base has exploded—repeat, exploded. Visual confirms all fuel and ammunition lost."
Condor One was the call-sign of the CH-47 Chinook flight, originally scheduled to fly in cement before dusk. Approaching from Ahvaz they saw the inferno below and reported at once; their escorting Cobras launched immediate, furious retaliation.
Without ammo or fuel, a giant armored force becomes dead weight. Rajavi felt as if slapped across the face; for moments he couldn't speak.
Up front, two armored battalions were locked in bloody combat with Iraqi tanks and gaining the upper hand—t62s were faltering. Smash them, and the torrent could surge behind Iraqi lines and rip a breach.
Two more battalions waited to the rear for fuel—now disaster had struck.
What orders to give?
"Inform General Sharaf immediately," Rajavi told his aide.
The consequences were too grave; if he ordered retreat, blame for defeat would land on him. Better to ask.