Clearly the area had been augmented with additional forces, and this meant to Court that something special was going on.
Next both men worked on their hide. Court pulled out the TAC-50 and set it up on its bipod, and he put his AK-47 within reach on the floor next to him. Now that he had his thirty-five-power scope on his rifle to use to sight on the base, he gave the Terp his twenty-power binoculars, along with a security sector to keep an eye on, and then he went back to work on ranging in his rifle for the approximate distance he’d be firing from later.
The young man asked, “Should we check in with Khadir and Yusuf to make sure they are in place?”
“Not yet.” The Motorola military-grade handheld radios the men carried were encrypted, and their range was over thirty miles. Still, Court had ordered the other team to stay off them until he transmitted, except in extreme cases. He was less worried about the transmissions themselves being picked up, but he knew it was always possible the transmissions could create an electronic signal that could be identified as an unknown force in the area on UHF, and the Russians could thereby determine they weren’t alone.
He looked at his watch. “It’s almost seven a.m. No idea what time Azzam is coming, but you can be damn sure we will see him when he comes.”
Court didn’t say it, but he was worried that seeing the Syrian president was all he would be able to do. He was just too damn far to feel confident in his ability to hit a man-sized target.
Court opened up an MRE packet of red beans and rice, which was full of the sodium he needed since he’d been sweating away salt for the past twelve hours. While he ate he drank an entire bottle of water, and he made sure the young Syrian did the same next to him.
While the Terp ate rations, he looked at Court a long time. Finally Court said, “I’d rather you didn’t stare at me.”
“Sorry. You don’t look like the other soldiers I’ve seen.”
“No?”
“No. What is your unit?”
Court spooned some rice into his mouth. “I’m with a unit that doesn’t feel the need to tell everyone about what unit we are.”
The Syrian seemed to think this over. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from that unit.”
Court smiled a worn-out smile at this. “Tell me about you, kid. How did you end up here?”
“I’m the idiot who agreed to come with you.”
Court smiled again. “You’ve been hanging around smartass Americans too long.”
The Terp chugged water, then said, “As I told you, I was in the university in Homs. I started going to the protests when they were peaceful, just singing songs and stuff. But the protests got rougher, people started throwing rocks at the police, and the police started shooting back. Some of the students managed to get guns. I was against that, but what could I do? Soon enough the protests turned to battles, but I refused to fight. The Mukhabarat picked up my brother, said he was a ringleader, but I don’t believe it.
“He never came home.”
The young man looked off into the distance as he recalled those days.
“I had done a year in the army when I was eighteen, but by then I was twenty-one, and I’d driven a tractor when I was in SAA, so I didn’t know much about fighting. Still . . . when Mohammed didn’t return and my mother’s and sister’s hearts were broken, I decided to join the resistance. I wasn’t special, just another rebel fighting in Homs and Palmyra, but when the Americans came, they needed someone to translate.”
“What will you do when the war is over?”
The young man gave Court a strange look. “When the war is over I will be dead.”
Court glanced at him a moment, then crawled back to his rifle’s scope to scan the Russian base. “You don’t think you’ll live through this?”
“No. I will die Shahid. You call it . . . a martyr.”
Court just sighed, and the Terp heard the noise.
“You don’t want to be Shahid?”
“I’ll let some dumb son of a bitch on the other side be a Shahid.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Patton,” Court said. “General Patton. That was his line. Well . . . sort of.”
This did nothing to rectify the young Syrian’s confusion. “Who is that?”
“I’m just saying . . . that if you go into a war ready to die, then you’re probably going to die. And if you die, then the other side wins.”
“Of course, but I know that Allah can take me at any time.”
Court took his eye out of the scope and looked at the Syrian. “You think you could ask him to wait till I’m done with you?”
The young man smiled. “It . . . it does not work that way.”
“You guys talk five times a day and you don’t get to ask him for stuff?”
The Terp laughed. “You are a Kuffar. A nonbeliever.”
Court shrugged. “A nonbeliever thinks they have all the answers. That’s not me. I don’t know what’s out there beyond my ability to see. All I know is that I don’t know, and I do know that a hell of a lot of people in this world are dead set on killing each other over stuff they seem so damn sure of.”
“Yes, my country has been crying blood for a long time. My friend, we share the same destiny. You and I are going to die like everyone else.”
Court scanned to the south again, at the airport. There were no fixed-wing aircraft in sight, which he found interesting. He said, “I don’t plan on dying till I kill at least one more asshole.”
“Azzam?”
“Can you think of a bigger asshole around here?”
“No . . . He is definitely the biggest asshole around here.”
As he finished saying this, Court took his eye out of his scope and looked out at the blue sky in front of him. Off his right shoulder an airplane came into view, flying low, its gear down. Court recognized it as a Russian Yakovlev Yak-40, an old but trusty transport jet.
The Terp said, “The airport is open!”
In the sky above it both men saw a pair of MiG-29 fighter planes circling. These were not preparing to land, but they were clearly protecting the transport.
Court said, “And a VIP has arrived.”
“Do you think it’s Azzam?”
“We’ve come a long way, so I’m shooting whoever gets off.”
The Terp said, “I like this plan.”
Court reached into his backpack and took out three liters of water. It was all he had left. “Kid, I need you to pour this all around the floor and on the walls, three meters in every direction.”
“But . . . why?”
“When I shoot this gun, it’s going to kick up a lot of dust. If we don’t wet the area, I’ll have to wait for follow-on shots.” Court added, “We won’t have time for that.”
The young man opened the first bottle and began pouring it on the floor, sprinkling it on the walls around him.
CHAPTER 73
Just before seven a.m. Bianca stood with the three Syrian GIS men, their leader Malik, Drexler, and Henri Sauvage inside the door to the office building. The ship from Syria was just offshore, and a skiff would be arriving in the marina shortly to pick everyone up. Malik was on his phone, talking to a man on the skiff, and she could hear him coordinate the exact location for the pickup.
Malik slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to the group. “We want to arrive at the dock at exactly the same time the launch does. It’s still dark. We do this right and no one sees us.”
Drexler looked out the window, then back to Malik. “Let’s go. What are we waiting for?”
The Syrian Mukhabarat operative shook his head. “We have a minute to wait so it is timed properly.”
“What the hell does it matter if we get to the water a few seconds before they do?”
Malik just shook his head. “My operation, Drexler. My rules.”
Drexler wiped sweat off his brow.
* * *
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