by Mark Greaney
The president pressed hard against the pain with his hand, and blood dripped through his fingers.
* * *
• • •
In the destroyed apartment building Court fired a third round, and on his right the young Syrian FSA soldier watched the scene through the binos.
He made out the distant image of a Russian officer spinning and tumbling, men on their hands and knees crawling, and the ones in the dark suits who came off the plane, clearly Azzam’s bodyguards, rushing to a point low on the ground next to the Typhoon MRAP.
Court fired again and again, draining the five rounds in his weapon, and then he ejected the magazine, knocked it away, and banged in another five-rounder. This took him less than three seconds, but when he got his eye back in the scope and looked at the area where Azzam had been speaking, he saw only a few still or writhing forms prone in the dust.
“Shit,” he said.
“What?” the Terp asked.
“I don’t think I got him.”
The Syrian scanned with his own glass. “I don’t see him. He must be behind the vehicles.”
A transmission came over the radio from the Carl Gustaf team. The Terp listened, then turned to Court. “Good news! Yusuf says the helicopter is leaving his area. They have not been spotted and are moving towards the airport.”
Court said, “Yeah. Great news. What do you want to bet that helo is inbound for us?”
* * *
• • •
Behind the rear Typhoon, one of Azzam’s bodyguards took off his black jacket and pressed it against the president’s face to stop the blood.
“He’s shot in the face!” he shouted, and his colleagues converged on him.
Russian Spetsnaz officers raced over, as well. Bodyguards tried to fight them back until they saw one with a medical kit, and this man was allowed to follow Azzam as he was ushered into the back of the Kamaz Typhoon.
The Syrian president was conscious and alert but had a look of utter disbelief over what had just occurred, as if he were still unaware he’d been struck by a fragment of a sniper’s bullet.
Two of Azzam’s bodyguards laid him down on the side-sitting seats in back of the armored vehicle, and then the Russian medic began treating the president’s wounds, while Azzam’s lead protection agent knelt at his shoulder, ready to assist.
The bodyguard called out to his teammates, most of whom were still outside the vehicle. “He’s not critical! Repeat, not critical! But we need to get back to Damascus. Contact the aircraft and tell them to be ready to roll as soon as we get on board, then call Dr. Qureshi at Tishreen. He can tend to him better than anyone else in the country.”
Azzam tried to talk but blood filled his mouth.
His guard patted him on the shoulder. “Mr. President. You will be fine. It’s just a small ricochet that hit your face. This medic is Spetsnaz, the best. He will take care of you. We will expedite you back to Damascus and get you to Tishreen Military Hospital, where they can make you good as new.” The guard looked up. “Get this vehicle moving to the airport, now!”
* * *
• • •
While the president was being tended to at the mortar position, the base’s leadership shouted orders into their radios. “The sniper rounds came from the city! Get helicopters to the west. Check the high buildings in Palmyra out to four kilometers.”
The Russian Spetsnaz colonel in charge of the base said, “This contact is limited. It’s one sniper. Everyone calm down. We will deal with the attack.”
* * *
• • •
By the time the Typhoon bounced over the highway and continued down the new asphalt road to the airport, the lower part of Azzam’s face and right cheek were completely bandaged, and he was sitting back up.
He was having problems being understood by his men, which was understandable considering the location of the wounds, but he had regained control of the moment. There was no real pain in his torn face—that would come later—but for now he was more concerned with making sure whoever fired at him was destroyed.
“You have helicopters looking for the shooter?” he asked the Spetsnaz medic, who didn’t speak Arabic and would have no idea, anyway. The translator from the SAA was dead, still lying back at the mortar position, so communication in the Typhoon was done with nods, finger pointing, and a lot of shouting.
The medic just tied off the president’s dressing behind his head and radioed to his platoon commander that he’d like to fly with the president all the way to Damascus to monitor the bleeding.
The bodyguard promised Azzam that Russians and Syrians would find and kill whoever shot him.
* * *
• • •
The Terp took his eyes out of his optics slowly. “I think Azzam is in the rear MRAP.”
Court said, “You’ve got the twenty-power optics. Mine is thirty-five, but I didn’t see him get in. There are too many people down there running around. Are you sure?”
He looked at the two vehicles again. “The rear one.” After a hesitation he said, “I think.”
Court said, “You need to be sure. The Carl Gustaf takes a half minute to reload, re-aim, and refire. Those guys aren’t going to be able to take out both vehicles before the enemy is on top of them.”
The young man said, “I saw men in suits get in the rear one. They are the bodyguards. Why would they get in if Azzam was not—”
“That’s good enough for me. Tell the other team Azzam is inbound to the airport.”
Court took his eye out of the scope now and looked into the open sky. “Russian helos. Coming right at us.”
A pair of Mi-24s approached from above the airfield, coming in hard and fast to the eastern portion of the city.
The Syrian held the radio to his mouth, but he didn’t transmit. Instead he said, “I can’t be sure it’s the right vehicle. Why don’t we get them to shoot down the plane when he leaves?”
“Negative,” Court said. “That aircraft will be moving instantly, taking off to the west and farther away. At the range those guys will be firing from, they’ll miss if the plane rolls at all. And there is no chance in hell of them hitting the plane in the air. The Carl Gustaf is not a SAM; it’s a dumb rocket.” Court raised an eyebrow. “A really big dumb rocket.”
The Terp said, “So . . . do I tell Yusuf they need to fire at the rear Typhoon?”
Court said, “No, you watch both vehicles until they get on the tarmac. Then you tell him which one to hit. You have to make sure the vehicles don’t switch positions on the drive.” He then said, “Kid, those men should know: if they fire from where they are, out in the open like that . . . the Russians will see them. They will lose their lives, and they won’t get another shot.”
The radio crackled between the two men lying in the dark snipers’ hide. A man spoke Arabic; Court recognized the voice as belonging to Yusuf.
The Terp said, “There are two towers at the northern edge of the airfield. Yusuf says they can’t move any closer to get into range because the men in those towers will spot them.”
Court looked back to the incoming attack helos. They would be here at the building within seconds.
“Northern edge?” Court clarified, and then he scooted forward in his hide, in front of his weapon, until he could see the entire northern side of the base. He spotted the two towers only when he brought his rifle to his new position and looked through the scope.
“It’s one point four miles. I can probably get a hit on those guys from here, which will help out the other team.”
The Terp said, “We are out of water. This area is very dusty.”
Court replied, “Nothing I can do about that.”
“The helicopters are near us. If you fire, the helicopters will see our position.”
Court began steadying the massive rifle on his right f
orearm. “Yep.”
The young Syrian crawled forward with the binos to position himself on Court’s right. He looked through them.
Court said, “Tell the boys to be ready to move. When I take these guards, that’s going to draw attention to their side of the base soon enough. Azzam will be at the airport in three minutes. Don’t figure they have much more time than that to act before they’re spotted.”
The Syrian nodded and made the transmission. After he finished he said, “They will die proud Shahid.”
Court dialed in the range for the farther of the two towers on his scope. Then he settled in behind the weapon. “Firing.”
After the crack of the rifle, dust kicked up in the ruined apartment and obscured both men’s views, but when they cleared, the FSA soldier said, “Hit! The guard is down.”
Court had already shifted his aim to the nearest guard. Ten seconds later the man’s head snapped back and a spray of blood misted the air above him.
“Hit,” the FSA soldier repeated.
Court said, “Tell your guys to haul ass.”
The two Russian helicopters streaked by the apartment building, just three hundred yards from where Court and the Terp lay.
CHAPTER 76
A minute after the two helicopters passed by Court and the Syrian’s building, all was silent in their sniper’s hide. The two Typhoons neared the airport to the southeast, and both men tracked the vehicles with their optics.
Then, from nowhere, Court saw a Russian Mi-24 streak by again at his eye level, within fifty yards of the opening in the apartment’s wall. It passed by from left to right at speed, and Court could see the white helmets and black visors of the two men on the other side of the windshield.
Court tried to get his scope on one of the men, but the helo shot past the hole in the apartment wall too quickly.
The Terp said, “The transports will be on the tarmac in one minute.”
“Right. Tell Yusuf that they need to—”
Without warning an explosion on the floor below him lifted Court into the air. The Syrian flew with him; they crashed into the bathroom on their right and slammed down on the floor there.
Rusty water drained out of a pipe and onto Court’s pants. He looked around and saw the kid lying half in and half out of the bathroom on a floor that was buckled and broken.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think we’ve been spotted.”
“No shit.”
Before Court could move, another explosion hit, this time just above them. Part of the ceiling collapsed, and dust filled the air. Court assumed these were rockets from one of the Mi-24s, and he knew each helo would have dozens more where these came from.
“You have your radio?” he asked the Terp.
“It’s . . . I can’t find it.”
Court pulled his out of his chest rig and handed it over. “Tell Yusuf it’s up to them now. We can’t see the target any longer. Tell him the second vehicle has Azzam in it, but he needs to wait till the vehicle opens its hatch. If men in dark suits climb out, he needs to hit it with his rockets right then!”
The young man made the transmission, told the Carl Gustaf crew that he thought Azzam was in the rear vehicle, then grabbed his rifle.
Court climbed over the smaller man and back into the hall and put the sling of his AK over his head, and he had just started to reach for the McMillan when the dust cleared enough for him to look out into the sky near his sixth-floor room.
A single Mi-24 loomed there, and the rocket pods on its pylons emitted a blast of smoke and fire.
“Incoming!” Court screamed.
The explosion hit below them again, but the floor gave way fully now. They fell an entire story down and crashed into another apartment.
Court landed with the Syrian on top of him; his arm and face hurt, and his ears rang. He fought his way to his feet again and pulled the kid up. “You okay?”
The man was stunned, covered completely in dust, but he gave a weak thumbs-up. Court pushed him towards the exit of the apartment, mostly obscured with dust now. “Just go!” he said.
They made it to the stairwell just as another rocket salvo destroyed the apartment.
A minute later they were down at ground level. Civilians ran through the streets, a few cars raced out of the area, and a Syrian Arab Army patrol vehicle streaked down the street right next to them. Court hid his AK from the passing vehicle, then looked at the interpreter. The kid was covered head to toe in gray dust, and his weapon and backpack were missing.
He had his radio in his pocket, and both men still wore their ammunition on their chest. Court imagined the equipment had been covered by the dust, or else the passing patrol just hadn’t looked their way at all.
Court pulled the Terp back into the building and ripped off the man’s military equipment. He pulled his own chest rig and pistol holster off, but he drew his pistol and crammed it into the small of his back under his T-shirt.
The Terp began trying to raise Yusuf on the radio. After thirty seconds he said, “I think the radio is down.”
Court said, “We’ll have to read in the newspapers about what the hell happened at the Palmyra airfield.”
The Syrian stared at Court. “You . . . you are bleeding.”
Court knew blood was pouring from the cut over his ear and a new gash near his right eye. His legs were bruised from the fall. “I’m fine,” he said.
“What do we do?”
“We go.”
“Go where?”
“We’re going to the north.”
“The north?”
“There are FSA units to the north in the hills, right?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, we can’t make it back to the southeast where your base is. North is the fastest way out of here.”
* * *
• • •
Two blocks from the building, Court and the Terp walked as fast as they could, continuing north. The streets were surprisingly alive, even though every building Court saw was either partially or totally destroyed. It was clear civilians had been living among the rubble for some time.
Court began scanning for some sort of a vehicle, and within minutes he saw two Syrian National Defence Forces militiamen sitting on a pair of motorcycles just off the sidewalk. Court continued towards them, though the Terp grabbed him by the arm. Whispering, the Syrian said, “They are government militia.”
Court did not reply; he just pulled his arm away and continued towards them.
At fifteen feet one of the two men stepped off his bike and reached for his AK hanging from his shoulder.
Court pulled the M9 pistol from the small of his back and shot both men twice in the head. Civilians nearby raced away, disappearing back into ruined buildings.
The young man started to pick up one of the dead men’s rifles.
Court said, “Leave the AKs. We take one bike. Ride in tandem.”
The Syrian climbed on behind Court, and the American fired up the engine, racing off to the north.
* * *
• • •
The two men made it just two miles before Court decided the checkpoints and SAA patrols were too thick on the roads to chance, so they walked their motorcycle up a gravel driveway in a residential area on the northern side of the city. Court picked the lock of a gate to a small courtyard of a shuttered home, and they hid the bike in a shed. Here the two men waited, deciding against breaking into the house.
A bank of fog rolled into the city in the midafternoon, and Court and the Terp decided they’d attempt to take advantage of the weather. They walked the bike off the property and then rolled out of the residential neighborhood, skirting a single roadblock before leaving the city proper.
Court took the bike off-road to try to avoid further checkpoints, and no
rth of the city he began to hit the hills of the Mazar mountain range. These were rocky, dusty land formations with no trees, a desert formation just as the hills to the south of Palmyra had been. But the tight twists and bends of the road and the high hills and low passes made for good cover from the air.
They drove for over an hour, but the fog grew so thick Court began to worry about stumbling into a roadblock or enemy patrol, so he decided they’d start looking for a place to hide for the rest of the night. In the morning they would hunt for any FSA units in the area, but both Court and the Terp assumed they’d have to travel a lot farther north before leaving the security cordon. From what Court had learned from his time with the Desert Hawks, this entire area was under the security control of the Iranians, but so far he hadn’t seen any military up in these rugged hills.
Court’s motorcycle rounded a tight turn, cresting a rise in the fog that made it impossible to see what was just thirty yards ahead, and when they straightened out and began going down again, Court reached for the brakes.
A technical was in the middle of the road, blocking it off. In back of the vehicle was a .50 caliber machine gun, with a bearded man standing behind it.
And around the vehicle and the big gun, easily another dozen fighters stood with rifles on their shoulders. It was clear they’d heard the bike approaching for some time.
Court stopped the machine totally, just twenty meters from the truck.
Court said, “Tell me these guys are FSA.”
The Terp did not reply.
“Kid? Are they Iranian?”
After several seconds the Terp said, “They’re Daesh.”
Court felt his passenger reaching for the pistol in the small of Court’s back, but Court saw all the guns on him, and he knew the outcome of any resistance.