Then he said:
"Give me an hour."
The phone hung up.
2:30 PM, Golan Heights.
The first United States bombs fell when the Syrians were crossing the Blue Line.
Those tanks, those infantry, those Chechens—all were blown to the sky.
The explosions lasted a full twenty minutes.
When the dust settled, the Blue Line was covered with scrap metal and corpses.
The Israelis poked their heads out from the trenches, looking at the hellish scene.
The Golan Brigade commander stood by the tank, looking at those burning wrecks, muttering:
"Damn it..."
3:00 PM, outskirts of Moscow, that villa.
The Boss stood by the window, looking at the white snowy landscape outside.
The phone rang.
He picked it up.
"Boss, the Americans have entered."
The Boss nodded.
"I know."
The voice on the other end paused.
"What do we do?"
The Boss was silent for three seconds.
Then he said:
"Make Grisha talk."
The other end froze.
"Make him talk? He knows nothing—"
