Chapter4
1798 Words
Syrian Desert, 0500 hours, three days after the Hmeimim breach.
The sun was still below the horizon, but the sky had already turned a bruised purple. Elias Kane
lay prone on a sandstone ridge, 800 meters from the dirt track that cut north through the empty
quarter. Russian AN/PVS-14 equivalent night-vision monocular pressed to his eye. Wind cold
enough to bite through the shemagh wrapped around his face.
Below him: the convoy.
Four vehicles.
Lead: BTR-82A armored personnel carrier, 30mm cannon turret traversing slowly, thermal sight
active.
Second and third: KamAZ-63968 Typhoon MRAP trucks, canvas-covered beds, Russian
Aerospace Forces markings hastily painted over with civilian logos. Those beds held the real
cargo—disassembled Kinzhal hypersonic missile guidance sections and warhead mating rings.
Enough to arm six air-launched missiles. Game-changers if they reached the Houthis.
Trailing: another BTR-82A, this one with a Spetsnaz call sign stenciled on the hull—black wolf
head.
Total personnel count: twenty-four. Twelve dismounts riding in the APCs, plus drivers and
gunners.
And riding in the second truck’s cab: General Sergei Volkov and Viktor Dragov.
Kane had watched them climb in at a roadside checkpoint two hours earlier, after the convoy
rolled out of a hidden depot near Palmyra. Falcon’s coordinates had been dead-on.
Twelve hours to intercept. Kane had used ten of them to get ahead—stealing a dirt bike from a
Bedouin camp, pushing it flat-out across wadis and salt flats until the engine seized. Then on
foot, ten kilometers with full kit, arriving just as the convoy refueled.
Now the clock was ticking again.
The buyer’s handoff was scheduled for 2000 hours tonight at a port in Tartus. From there, a
roll-onoll-off freighter to Yemen. Once the cargo was at sea, it was gone forever.
Kane had one shot.
He glassed the convoy again. Route was predictable—only one viable track north without hitting
ISIS remnants or U.S.
-backed SDF patrols. They’d stop for prayers at dawn, then push hard.
He keyed the shortwave burst transmitter—three clicks. Prearranged signal to Falcon.
Static.
Then a single click back. Acknowledged.
Falcon’s final gift: at kilometer marker 87, the road narrowed through a rocky defile. Perfect
ambush site. Convoy would have to slow to 20 kph.
Kane checked his gear one last time.
AK-104, suppressor fitted, four 30-round mags loaded with subsonic 7.62x39—quiet enough for
the first phase.
Tokarev with spare mags.
Four F1 fragmentation grenades.
Two RGD-5.
One TM-83 side-attack mine—Soviet-era monstrosity he’d pulled from a derelict Syrian Army
depot two nights ago. 10kg Misznay-Schardin charge. Vehicle-killer.
Det cord, clacker initiator.
And a captured RPG-30—one shot, tandem warhead, good against reactive armor.
Everything carried on his back for the last 40 kilometers.
He broke down the observation point, erased sign, and started the move.
Four hours to set the kill zone.
Kilometer 87.
The defile was a natural choke point—steep rock walls 30 meters high, road barely wide enough
for two vehicles. Loose boulders on the slopes. Perfect.
Kane worked fast.
First: the TM-83. He buried it shallow on the left side of the road, infrared sensor aimed across
the track. Armed it, ran the command wire 200 meters back up the slope to a firing position
behind a boulder cluster.
Next: climbing spikes and rope. He scaled the right wall, placed two directional claymores
overlooking the road—tripwired to a pressure plate he’d embed in the dirt.
Then the RPG-30—pre-sighted on the lead BTR’s likely path, cached under rocks 50 meters
from the choke.
Finally, personal hide 150 meters back, elevated, with good lines of fire and two escape routes.
By 0930, he was set.
He ate an Iranian energy bar, drank the last of his water, and waited.
Convoy appeared on schedule at 1120.
Lead BTR engine growling, dust plume rising.
Kane’s pulse stayed flat. Breathe in four, hold four, out four.
Range 600 meters.
500.
400.
The lead BTR hit the pressure plate.
Claymores detonated first—BOOM-BOOM—steel balls scything sideways into the convoy.
Lead BTR’s right tires shredded, it slewed hard left—straight into the TM-83’s sensor cone.
The mine fired.
A shaped-charge jet punched through the armor like paper, detonating inside. Secondary
explosions—fuel and ammo—ripped the vehicle apart. Turret launched ten meters into the air.
Convoy braked hard.
Dismounts spilled out, seeking cover.
Kane was already moving—down the slope, AK up.
He engaged from the flank.
Suppressed bursts—three-round groups.
Two Spetsnaz went down before they located him.
Return fire—30mm cannon on the trailing BTR opened up, chewing rock around his position.
Kane rolled, lobbed an RGD-5—blast suppressed the gunner long enough for him to close.
He reached the RPG cache, shouldered the tube.
Aimed at the second truck—the cargo.
Fired.
Rocket streaked, tandem warhead defeated ERA tiles, main charge detonated inside the bed.
Massive secondary—guidance sections cooked off in a chain of fireballs. Truck lifted, came
down burning.
Spetsnaz converged on his position—ten men, moving tactically.
Kane dropped the empty tube, transitioned to AK.
Full auto now—suppressor off for volume.
He backed up the slope, firing controlled bursts, dropping two more.
But they were good. Flanking him.
Grenades cooked and thrown.
Kane dove behind a boulder as blasts showered him with shrapnel—hot pain in his left calf.
He grenaded back—bought seconds.
Reached his final firing point.
Trailing BTR pushing forward, trying to extract Volkov and Dragov from the burning truck.
Kane saw them—Volkov dragging Dragov clear, both armed now.
Kane raised the AK, aimed at Volkov.
But the general spotted him, shoved Dragov down, returned fire with a captured rifle.
Rounds sparked off rock inches away.
Spetsnaz closed to 50 meters.
Kane pulled his last F1, cooked it three seconds, lobbed it overhand.
Blast bought him ten seconds.
He broke cover, limping hard now, blood soaking his trouser leg.
Down the back slope—pre-planned escape.
But the Spetsnaz commander was smart—had sent a fire team around.
They cut him off at the wadi bottom.
Four rifles on him.
Kane raised his hands slowly, AK hanging muzzle down.
The team leader—sergeant’s stripes, scarred face—approached cautiously.
In Russian: “Weapon down. On knees.
”
Kane complied.
Behind the team, Volkov and Dragov approached, Dragov limping from the earlier shoulder
wound, Volkov untouched.
Volkov’s gray eyes bored into Kane.
“Captain Kane. Persistent.
”
Kane met his gaze.
“You’re losing, General. Cargo destroyed. Trail ends here.
”
Volkov smiled coldly.
“You think this was the only convoy? Distractions within distractions. The
real components left by air yesterday. This was bait.
”
Kane’s stomach dropped.
Volkov stepped closer.
“But you… you are a bonus. We will have a long conversation.
”
He nodded to the sergeant.
The buttstock came fast—cracked against Kane’s temple.
Darkness.
He woke to the smell of diesel and blood.
Hands zip-tied behind back, ankles bound, hood over head.
Lying in the bed of a moving truck—Typhoon, by the engine note.
Voices in Russian.
Dragov: “He’s awake.
”
Hood yanked off.
Volkov sitting across from him, pistol in lap.
They were alone in the cargo bay—two guards up front.
Volkov: “You cost me twelve men and a decoy shipment. That is expensive.
”
Kane tested the zip ties—tight, professional.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quiet. An old Assad prison near Damascus. Soundproof cells. Experts who know
how to ask questions.
”
Kane’s mind raced. No beacon active—he’d never triggered the final exfil burst.
He was deep black now.
Truck hit a pothole—Kane rolled with it.
Volkov watched him like a specimen.
“You Americans always think you can win alone. But this is not your battlefield.
”
Kane spat blood.
“It’s nobody’s battlefield. You’re selling doomsday weapons to terrorists. That
makes you the enemy of everyone.
”
Volkov shrugged.
control—than chaos.
”
“War is business. Someone will always sell. Better it be me—with
The truck slowed—checkpoint?
Voices outside—Arabic, then Russian.
Syrian Army, waving them through.
Kane felt the minutes ticking.
He needed a move.
He tested the zip ties again—flexed wrists, felt slight give. Old ties, maybe weakened.
Volkov noticed.
“Don’t bother. Plasticuffs rated for 300kg.
”
Kane met his eyes.
“You need me alive for questions.
”
“For now.
”
Dragov leaned in from the corner.
“Let me start early. One finger at a time.
”
Volkov raised a hand.
“Patience.
”
Sudden explosion—close.
The truck lurched, brakes slamming.
Secondary blast—RPG?
Shouts outside.
Gunfire erupted—full auto, grenades.
The guards up front screaming.
Volkov grabbed his rifle, Dragov too.
Kane rolled hard against the bulkhead as rounds punched through the canvas.
The truck reversed fast, then forward—trying to escape.
Another explosion—front axle?
Vehicle slewed, tipped.
Crash.
Kane slammed into the side, world spinning.
When it stopped, he was half-buried in gear.
Volkov groaning, Dragov cursing.
Rear door ripped open.
Figures in black—balaclavas, no patches.
One pointed an AK at Volkov—pop pop.
General dropped, chest blooming red.
Dragov tried to raise his weapon—three rounds center mass.
Both dead.
The figures turned to Kane.
One pulled off the balaclava.
Olena Kovalenko.
She cut his ties with a knife.
“Move. We have three minutes.
”
Kane staggered out—leg wound bleeding again.
Outside: burning Typhoon, Syrian checkpoint in flames.
Four Ukrainian operators providing cover fire.
Olena supported him toward a waiting technical—Toyota with DShK mount.
“How?” Kane gasped.
“Falcon,
” she said.
border.
”
“Real-time track on Volkov’s sat phone. We’ve been shadowing since the
They piled into the technical, roared away into the desert.
Behind them, secondary explosions consumed the wreckage.
Olena pressed a field dressing to Kane’s leg.
“Volkov’s dead. Dragov’s dead. Cargo destroyed. Network disrupted—for now.
”
Kane leaned back, exhaustion crashing.
“But the real shipment?”
“Intercepted by U.S. Navy in the Med. Tipped off anonymously. It’s over.
”
He looked at her.
She met his gaze.
“Not over,
” he said quietly.
“Just this chapter.
”
She nodded.
The technical sped north, toward Lebanon, toward extraction.
Sun rising red over the desert.
Kane closed his eyes.
For the first time in weeks, he slept.
But even in sleep, he knew.
Men like Volkov always had successors.
And the weapons would keep moving.
Until someone stopped them all.
- Writer
