It hadn’t been Court’s intended second shot that wounded Azzam, but rather the first shot. The big 647-grain bullet fired from the McMillan sniper rifle had exploded upon striking the steel APC, sending lead and brass fragments in all directions. Three men in the group were wounded with the shot, but none as much as Azzam. A hot, sharp, twisted fingernail of brass had ripped into his right cheek next to his lip at a speed of nearly six hundred feet per second, and it tore its way into his mouth, where it chipped two teeth and then exited out below his lip just above his chin.
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 forearm. “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