AFRIN DISTRICT, SYRIA
Captain Akar studied his map in the lamplight inside the cab of his Kobra command vehicle, the Turkish version of the Humvee. The “Maroon Berets” Special Forces commander never could sleep before a fight, even one this lopsided.
He kept the motor running for heat against the night chill. He took another long drag of his cigarette and checked his watch. Just after three a.m. The assault on the sleeping village wouldn’t begin for another two hours, covered by Italian-engineered T129A ATAK helicopter close-air support. A platoon of his best commandos was leading a group of a hundred fifty Chechen fanatics—former ISIS fighters now converted to the Turkish cause against the Syrian regime.
For the past two weeks, his combined unit had raided regime-friendly villages behind the lines, gunning down any resistance they encountered, burning down houses and farms, and leaving the women to the tender mercies of the Chechen savages. He was tasked with neutralizing armed opposition and terrorizing the countryside along the northern border to erode the morale of the obstinate Syrian Army. With any luck, this part of the border would be absorbed by his own country within the next few months.
His battle-weary troops were still bedded down in the barn and outbuildings around the small, vacated farm they would burn down later in the day. Better to let them sleep for a few more minutes, he decided. Their bellies were full after yesterday’s air drop by a Lockheed C-130 Hercules cargo plane based at Incirlik. Resupplied with food, water, and ammo, they were well equipped to resume their terror campaign.
The captain yawned and stretched. Time to check with the sentries and fetch another cup of strong black coffee. He stepped out of the cab into the cool night air and crushed the last of his cigarette into the dry dust. The velvet black sky was strewn with a thick blanket of shimmering stars. It nearly took his breath away. It seemed a shame so much ugliness should thrive beneath such quiet beauty.
But such was the will of Allah, was it not?
EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN SEA
Captain (2nd rank) Nikulin studied the drone’s live FLIR feed on the LCD display in the low blue light of the humming CIC. The Project 21631 missile corvette Vyshny Volochyok was one of the Russian Federation’s latest Buyan-M-class vessels, specially dispatched from duties with the Black Sea fleet for this particular mission.
The high-altitude black-and-white FLIR imagery displayed the heat differentials of the ground targets below. Chimneys glowed with heat on two of the buildings. Four sentries—or at least the parts of them not covered by uniforms—stood like white ghosts against the dark, cold ground. One figure stood off in a dark patch away from the others, a widening white puddle forming at his feet. Pissing like a cow, Nikulin thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.
What caught the captain’s eye was the brightest image on his screen: a vehicle with a warm motor glowing white hot.
The FLIR imagery was a clear visual confirmation of the bandit column the FSB report had promised.
Better still, the GLONASS tracking device implanted by an FSB agent into the air-dropped ammunition supply was operating perfectly, according to his electronic warfare officer.
Two confirmations were more than enough in his mind. It was time.
Nikulin gave the order to his weapons-control officer. Alarms rang.
The first of eight vertical launch tubes burst with a fiery flash of blinding light as the booster engine of the SS-N-30 Kalibr cruise missile fired in a deafening roar, leaving a trailing plume of white exhaust as it leaped into the dark morning sky thick with stars. Seven more missiles followed in rapid sequence.
Seconds later, the boosters fell away and the solid rocket motors of the turbojet engines engaged. Capable of reaching speeds in excess of half a mile per second, the supersonic cruise missiles would strike the objective in northern Syria in less than four minutes, delivering each of their 450-kilo high-explosive warheads on target by GLONASS satellite navigation.
AFRIN DISTRICT, SYRIA
Captain Akar stood at the back of the 4x4 Mercedes Axor truck, finishing off a cup of steaming black coffee as his bleary-eyed first sergeant lit a cigarette. He lifted up the pot. “More, sir?”
“No. I’ll just have to piss,” the captain said. He slapped the sergeant on the shoulder with a grin. “Time to wake the men!”
The sergeant nodded eagerly, the cherry tip of his cigarette bobbing in the dark.
The two men turned to leave but froze in place. The unmistakable sound of turbojet engines roared in the distance.
“Captain—”
The first missile struck, vaporizing both men in a ground-shaking explosion that lit the sky in a fiery dawn. Seven more followed in as many seconds.
The last explosions of the burning ammo truck echoed in the low hills minutes later. Amid the flames, the screams of the few surviving wounded pierced the night.
Proof of concept number three.