"Major, they've landed to the south. Three kilometers away. They're regrouping."
"Mortar team, target the open ground to the south. Cover fire."
The mortars fired. Six mortars, ten rounds each. Sixty shells fell on the open ground to the south, bursting into orange-red sparks. Alvarez watched the fire through the night vision. Within the flames, figures were running, some falling, some shouting—but the shouts were drowned out by the explosions, unheard.
"Keep firing. Don't stop."
The second wave of mortars fired again. Sixty more shells landed in the same spot. The flames grew brighter, the shadows fewer.
Alvarez put down the binoculars and squatted behind the cover. His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from the cold. The night wind in Damascus blew fiercely from the north, bone-chilling like a knife.
