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—”
“Sir . . . this is your chance. What if he gets back inside one of those vehicles and leaves for the airport as soon as he finishes talking?”
Court shook his head and took his eye out of the scope. “I need you to contact the Carl Gustaf unit. Tell Khadir and Yusuf that wherever they are, they have to find a way to the airfield. Tell them to keep low, keep out of sight, but try to move to within six hundred meters.”
The Terp made the call, then listened to the reply. “They are nine hundred meters east, southeast of the airport, but an Mi-14 is almost directly overhead their position, so they are moving very slowly. They think they will be spotted in moments.”
Court scanned over with his scope. He saw the Russian helo hovering a thousand feet over the desert, and the gullies and low rises below it that were apparently hiding the FSA rocket crew.
“Shit,” Court said. “They can’t let themselves get compromised. They are going to have to try to take out the Typhoon when it returns to the plane. We can spot for them from here to see which vehicle he gets into. Tell them they have to get closer, but to hold their fire until we tell them, no matter what else happens.”
The Terp did this, then turned to Court. “You aren’t going to shoot at all?”
Azzam was still 1.81 miles away. Court recognized that he wasn’t going to get the shot he wanted today.
“No. Sorry. I can’t reach him.”
The Terp made the transmission, then turned to Court. “It will take them an hour to cover the open desert, and they will probably be spotted. You are still the best chance to kill Azzam. You must try.”