The sandstorm is coming.
The sky over the Mosul Region isn't blue.
It's a color somewhere between earth yellow and rust red, as if the entire sky is infected by the wounds of this city.
The sandstorm strikes from the west, carrying with it the soil from the banks of the Tigris River and black particles from burning oil, creating a strange halo under the afternoon sun.
Visibility is less than 500 meters, the entire world looks as though it's viewed through dirty amber.
Inside the middle bulletproof vehicle, Song Heping presses the talk key: "All vehicles, maintain distance, turn on fog lights."
His voice is as steady as usual, his fingers sliding on the tactical tablet, eyes fixed on the screen.
On the screen, 34 green dots representing the convoy are passing through the industrial ruins of Mosul's East Suburb, like a group of cautious beetles.
