Working as a police officer in Mexico

The Third Division was stationed near Sinaloa State, already fierce as wolves!

Upon receiving the orders to storm into Jalisco State, they charged straight in!

Compared to the artillery assembly of the Marine First Division, Division Commander Alexeyevich Brusilov was a "cavalry supremacy" enthusiast.

But now there were no horses, only tanks and armored vehicles!

The division altogether had 68 M48 medium tanks and 212 various armored vehicles, still looking quite rudimentary.

After all, it wasn't a pure tank division…@@novelbin@@

The pure ones, Victor couldn't afford, always needing three to four hundred, the maintenance costs don't pay themselves, do they?

Could logistics keep up?

However, even if the M48 medium tank was an old antique, its engine roared with the might of your grandfather.

Hundreds of them still posed a significant threat.

Division Commander Alexeyevich Brusilov waved his hand, "Let the drug traffickers see the shock of the Northern Army!"

The tank squadron led the charge into the Cerro Rico Volcanic area.

Drug trafficker guerrillas hiding in the rock crevices watched the approaching tanks, the ground trembling beneath them.

One man lay on the ground, his insides shook so much due to sensitivity that it was a "day of grounding." Experience new tales on My Virtual Library Empire

The traffickers' faces went pale, their limbs trembling with fear.

Of course, there were those who could boldly counterattack in the face of a tank squadron, but clearly not these traffickers.

The guerrilla needed a strong will, fighting with the wind is easy, Niger could handle a gun and lead cheers from behind, but facing headwinds…

"Run! Run fast!"

Some traffickers couldn't withstand the pressure, taking to their heels toward the rear, their leader shouted at them but instead, his subordinates ran even faster, seeing that something was wrong he swore and also started to run.

A human could roughly run at about one meter per second, that's 3.6 kilometers per hour!

And the M48 medium tank? 48.3 kilometers per hour!

You can't outrun an engine!

Boom!

A tank fired a 105 mm rifled cannon high-explosive bomb, blasting a rock nearby, the explosion and shockwave knocking down the clustered traffickers!

See…

Fighting up to now, still not realizing to spread out when fleeing.

That's what you get for getting bombed.

Remember, when a battle turns into a rout, never cluster together, it's easy to become targets for concentrated fire.

The junior trafficker leader clutched his chest, he wasn't dead, but it hurt bad, the internal jolt was unspeakable, and he rolled on the ground, his pupils dilating as he saw tracks slowly approaching.

"Ah! Ah!"

He shuffled backwards in panic, but no matter how loud you scream, those above can't hear you.

The tracks rolled right over his feet, the screams cut short!

As it turns out, the dead can't scream.

The tank continued forward, tracks sticky with blood and flesh, the infantry following nearly threw up, most of them in the Third Division were rookies.

Under the tank squadron's assault, the guerrillas in the Cerro Rico Volcanic area were basically unable to mount an effective counterattack.

Those who did counterattack would hit and run, the tanks didn't bother, leaving them all to the infantry behind, as the tanks continued their relentless charge!

As long as the fuel held up, they kept charging in!

Three hundred plus various armored vehicles split into dozens of small groups, sweeping through the surroundings!

To quote Division Commander Alexeyevich Brusilov: this was called the flowering of iron cavalry, stirring Jalisco into utter chaos!

Two M48 medium tanks zoomed at high speed, charging into a village followed by about an approximate platoon of 40 men.

As the troops entered, a donkey at the village entrance brayed, lifting its head and flicking its tail at these unexpected guests, a woman feeding it screamed in fright at the sight of the tanks.

Hearing the scream, the villagers hurried out, stared blankly at the fully armed Northern Army.

A Lieutenant climbed down from the tank, wearing glasses, sized them up, sniffed, then smiled and said, "Don't worry, we're from the Northern Army, not some drug traffickers, where's the Village Head?"

A few villagers exchanged glances, a thin young man raised his hand, "The Village Head is behind, I'll call him."

The Lieutenant looked at the others, "What place is this?"

"Bal Yata Village!" someone answered.

A subordinate unfolded a map, found the location on it, already past the volcanic area, entering the Guadalajara area, only 11 kilometers from the Almshouse!

"We're a bit disconnected, should we wait for the main force?"

The Captain nodded, turned around to look behind, everyone showing signs of fatigue, even bumping along in vehicles was uncomfortable.

"We'll rest here, contact the company, report our location," he said to the nearby junior Lieutenant platoon leader.

The reply came, and he ran back to the tank to report the coordinates outside.

The young man who ran off returned, followed by an old man, stooped, blind in one eye and leaning on a cane, limping.

The Lieutenant frowned, this didn't look like a Village Head at all.

"The Village Head was beaten by drug traffickers in his youth, had his leg tendons severed," a villager explained.

The Lieutenant then realized.

"Hello... officers," the Village Head spoke haltingly, lifting his head to look at them, glanced at the tank, his voice a bit hoarse.

The Lieutenant took it as nerves, waved his hand, "We need to rest here a bit, help us prepare some food, here's the money."

He said, pulling out a wad of cash and handing it over.

The Village Head waved his hands vigorously, "No need, no need…"