But now he was surrounded by over three hundred Russian soldiers, a half dozen Russian attack helicopters, and even more Syrian army and air force personnel and equipment. Beyond this cordon of protection, he’d been told, his militias had fanned out and pacified the towns and villages for twenty kilometers in all directions, solely for his ninety-minute visit.
This area was as safe as it could possibly be made, and, for the first time in a long time, Azzam finally felt comfortable in a location outside the capital other than the regime-held bastion of Latakia on the western coast.
Still, Azzam wore black body armor over his light blue button-down shirt, and his eight-man protection detail kept tight with him as he deplaned.
He wasn’t crazy. There was still a war going on, and this was still on the edge of contested territory.
But, Azzam thought, perhaps on his next trip out of Damascus he wouldn’t need the body armor. Russia had all but won this war for him, with help from the Iranians. A year from now the last pockets of resistance to his rule would be confined to somewhere out in the desert or up in the mountains, and the civil war would be over. His patrons in Russia and Iran would trade with him while other nations fretted over sanctions, and although his nation would not be as prosperous as it was before the war, Azzam himself would be even more prosperous from the under-the-table deals he fashioned with every Russian commercial opportunity that crossed his desk.
This Russian base would be the last nod to Russia’s power over him, because Azzam had worked out a secret agreement with the Iranians. In a few months, when the end of the war came, he would agree to allow the Iranians to create permanent bases in his country, just as he had done with the Russians. Moscow would be furious; they had forced him to agree to their patronage in a moment of weakness, but now that he had grown strong again—albeit in large part due to Russia’s help—he would dampen Russia’s hold over his nation by taking more support from the Shia regime in Tehran.
Azzam stepped down from the stairs, up to the welcoming committee of military men, and shook the hands of a Russian general and several colonels, who themselves had been ferried into this remote location for today’s photo op.
Within moments Azzam ducked his head and stepped into the back of a Kamaz Typhoon, a massive Russian armored transport vehicle, for the five-minute drive northeast to the Russian special forces base on the other side of the highway. This vehicle was followed by a second Typhoon, in case the first became disabled.
* * *
? ? ?
Almost two and a half miles away, two men lay on the cheap linoleum flooring of a bombed-out sixth-story apartment and looked through high-powered optics at the vehicle as it began rolling north.
The man on the right spoke English with both excitement and confusion in his voice. “That had to be him. That had to be Azzam.”
“It was him.” Court had confirmed through the higher-power optics of his rifle. He couldn’t make out the man’s face from this distance, even through the impressive scope, but the bearing of the figure, the treatment of the figure by those around him, and the fact that he was the one person who deplaned who earned the attention from the mass of Russian military officers arrayed at the bottom of the stairs told him he had acquired his target.
The Terp asked, “But . . . why didn’t you shoot?”
“Dude, it’s two and a half miles to the airfield. When he gets to the base, assuming he is somewhere around the main buildings, it will still be a one-point-seven-mile shot. A cold-bore shot from one point seven miles is not impossible, for the best snipers in the world, but long-range shooting is a perishable skill and . . . I’m a little out of practice.”
“You are telling me this now?”
“I can hit him, I just need him within one point five miles and a clean look at his entire head first. Don’t worry, kid. I’m patient.”
“But . . . shouldn’t we find out where Khadir and Yusuf are? What if they attack the base before you fire?”
“Why the fuck would they do that?”
The Syrian shrugged. “Maybe they think they can hit him.”
Court thought about this. “Break radio silence. Send a brief transmission telling them to stand fast. I will initiate any attack.”
* * *
? ? ?
Ahmed Azzam spent an hour touring the Russian camp, meeting with the Spetsnaz soldiers, getting photos and video of him asking questions, posing on weapons, and listening to stories of the men telling him about killing terrorists and rooting out resistance. They talked of Daesh, the SDF, and the FSA as if they were all the same unit, a group of foreign-led terrorists out to destroy the peaceful and prosperous way of life of the Syrian people.
Throughout the base he was shadowed by his eight-man security detail, his SAA translator, and a throng of officers from the Russian army and the SAA—more than two dozen men in all.
Azzam found himself enjoying his time out here with these men, but he’d already signaled to his entourage that he would be cutting his trip short. He wanted to get back on board the aircraft and back to the palace, where he could monitor the rescue of his mistress in Greece and the search for his son here in the capital.
Originally he’d planned to helicopter to a couple of Syrian bases to the west and then back to Damascus, but he’d already changed his mind. The aircraft would get him back to the capital faster, so he’d bypass the bases and return to the palace.
As soon as he shook hands with a dozen Russian soldiers at three 120-millimeter mortar emplacements, the general taking him on the tour spoke through his interpreter.
“Mr. President, we have prepared a meal in your honor. If you will follow me to the mess tent, I would like—”
Azzam smiled and held up a hand. “Thank you, General. I only wish I had time. But my duties force me to return to Damascus immediately.” He looked at the video crew following him on his trip. “Can we set up for my announcement here?”
The producer of the unit said, “Of course, Mr. President, but it would be good if we could get some more Russian equipment in the shot. Perhaps we could have them bring the armored transport carrier over here and park it behind you.”
The Russians obliged, and both big Typhoons lumbered across the small base and parked behind the mortar position. Azzam and the Russian general stood in front of the staged vehicles, and several Russian and SAA colonels were brought in close.
When the cameras were ready, Azzam’s bodyguards backed away a few feet.
* * *
? ? ?
In the wrecked sixth-floor apartment, 1.81 miles away from the mortar position, Court said, “I can see his head plainly now. But he’s still too damn far. Everywhere I’ve had a shot for the last hour has been on the far side of the compound, and every time he was on the near side, he was too wrapped up by the men around him.”
The Terp said, “But the armored vehicles are there. When he gets inside, you can’t hit him, and if he goes back to the airport, you can’t hit him. You might not get another chance.”
Court adjusted the scope for the distance, using a ballistic calculator and the range finder, and taking a wild-ass guess about the wind from the movement of the flags at the front gate of the base. But when he put his sights on the target, he saw that the point where the crosshairs met in his scope was wider in his field of view than Azzam’s head. He could approximate where he needed to position the rifle to fire, but it would take a miracle for the round to hit a head-sized target at such a distance.
Court closed his eyes and cussed. “I don’t have a shot,” he said.
* * *
? ? ?
When the camera was rolling, Azzam did not look at it. Instead he leaned an arm on the sand-colored Typhoon APC next to him and addressed the Russian and Syrian military forces standing around the armored vehicle. “I am very proud to reveal to my nation that this will not only be a small special forces base for our friends the Russians, but we are also constructing, with both Russian and Syrian input and assistance, a new, permanent airfield here in central Syria. In addition to our joint Syrian-Russian air base at Hmeymim, now Russia will have complete and total air superiority in the skies over the Syrian Arab Republic, bringing a new dawn of security and prosperity to all here in our nation.”
Ahmed Azzam shook the hand of the Russian general, and then the two men held their hands in the air as those around clapped and cheered.
* * *
? ? ?
Court blinked away sweat and peered through the thirty-five-power scope. “What the hell are they doing?”
On his right, the young Syrian resistance fighter looked through his binoculars. “I don’t know. I also don’t know why you are not shooting.” The young man was obviously frustrated. “You told me back at our base that if you could see him, then you could shoot him.”
Court did not move from his prone position behind the Tac-50. “I lied. He’s still effectively out of range. We’ll only get one chance at this. I don’t want to—”