Page 8 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
Topal sighed. “Yes. And if the Serbs are threatened, the Russians will intervene on behalf of their Slavic brethren, to make up for their failure to protect Serbia from NATO during the Yugoslav wars.”
“NATO versus Russia again?” The president sighed. “We’re speaking of World War Three.”
“That would be a disaster, which is why my government stands ready to serve you and the Unity Referendum in any way possible.” Topal leaned forward, smiling. “Be encouraged, my friend. Bosnia isn’t dead yet. I have confidence that the forces of democracy will prevail. And who knows? Perhaps the Renewal service will lead to something positive. A renewal of faith can be a good thing.”
“Given the history of my country, I’m not as sanguine as you are. But I thank you for your assurances, and your friendship.”
The president stood, as did Topal. They shook hands. The Turkish ambassador caught a glimpse in the window of a flock of redwing birds circling the tall minaret in synchronous flight. He smiled to himself.
A good omen, indeed.
5
HAMA, SYRIA
Grechko’s heavy boot crushed the throttle of the tiny UAZ jeep, its poorly maintained suspension bouncing him around in his seat like a bean inside a Cuban maraca. The UAZ was throwing dust and granite chips in a rooster tail behind him, slewing around the snaking curves of the quarry road as fast as the straining four-cylinder engine would allow. He cursed violently, clutching gears in the sharp, spiraling turns, his headlights splashing across the twisting maze of steep quarry walls as he raced toward the bottom of the pit.
His boot smashed the brake and the jeep skidded to a tooth-rattling halt in front of the heavy steel doors of the ammo warehouse, cut deep into the thick walls of granite. It was a highly unusual location to store munitions and therefore not on American or Israeli aerial targeting lists, and well hidden from overhead surveillance. The steel-reinforced concrete wallswere doubly protected beneath several hundred tons of quarry stone, creating a virtually impenetrable shield for the explosive contents inside.
Grechko leaped out of the jeep in a cloud of dust and stormed past the big covered 6x6 Kamaz cargo truck parked to the side. The jeep’s headlights illumined dark blood spatter on one of the half-opened steel doors, confirming his worst fears. Walib’s phone call had interrupted his evening with his favorite talented contract whore, a redheaded Ukrainian girl with high cheekbones and low self-esteem. But the captain’s panicked voice quelled Grechko’s rage and convinced him that the Syrian was out of his depth, and a firm, Russian hand was needed to take charge.
Grechko’s eyes adjusted to the dim lights inside the warehouse. A long trail of blood and dust led from the doorway to Walib, who was kneeling down next to a body splayed out on the floor. Grechko knelt down beside the body as well, examining the young face. One of the Russian guards, a corporal. Grechko couldn’t recall his name. The slit across the dead boy’s throat was a wide, bloody smile beneath his clean-shaven chin.
“What the hell happened here, Captain?”
“This one dead, along with the other two, farther back.” Walib stood as Grechko laid a soft hand on the young corporal’s unblinking eyes and closed them.
Grechko sprang to his feet, his back to Walib. “We’ll get the bastards who did this!”
He suddenly noticed that dozens of crates of 122-millimeter missiles were gone from the far wall. He pointed at the empty spaces. The rest of the facility was stacked high with crates of220-millimeter thermobaric missiles needed for the TOS-1A Sunfire system still operating in country.
“Walib! The 122s!”
“Yes, I know. They’re gone. One of the Shmels, too,” Walib said, referring to the RPO-A Bumblebee, a thermobaric shoulder-fired rocket.
“Start an inventory immediately. I’ll call security—” Grechko spun back around, reaching for his cell phone.
Walib’s pistol was pointed at him.
“No need. I know exactly how many missiles were taken.”
Grechko’s eyes widened with fury. “You traitorous shit!”
Walib crashed the butt of his pistol in the center of Grechko’s wide forehead, breaking the skin. Blood gouted from the wound. The Russian staggered under the blow but didn’t fall. He wiped the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hairy hand, stunned and incredulous. His mind cleared, and he lunged with a shout at Walib’s throat with his thick fingers. But the Syrian was ready for him, hammering the top of the major’s skull again with the pistol’s steel butt. Grechko moaned as his knees buckled, and his head hit the concrete with a sickening thud, like a ripe melon dropped on a hot summer sidewalk.
Walib holstered his pistol.
“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Dzhabrailov asked from the doorway.
Walib called over his shoulder, still staring at Grechko. “In here? You want to meet your virgins with your manhood cooked and your face fried like a falafel?”
The Chechen grinned. “We need to move.”
Walib spat on the Russian. “One last thing, Lieutenant, then we can go.”
—
Dzhabrailov was driving the heavy truck west on a two-lane ribbon of asphalt when the moonless sky behind them erupted in a flash of blinding light.
