It's the 4th Division.
The 4th Armored Division. The division that defected. The division that put down their guns after Assad counted to ten. The division that the Minister of Defense said "wouldn't move."
The officer leading the team was in his forties, with a full beard, wearing a worn-out camouflage uniform. He popped his head out of the tank and looked at Assad.
"Mr. President! We're late!"
Assad stood there, watching those tanks roll past him. The tracks crushed the corpses on the ground, the shell casings, the shattered fragments. He knew that officer. His name was Maher Assad. His nephew. Rifat's son. The young man who studied finance in London. The young man who was locked up for three days in Mexico City. The young man who was interrogated for seven days in Moscow and then released.
He was back. He returned with the 4th Armored Division.
"You—" Assad's tears fell.
Maher jumped out of the tank and stood in front of him.
"Uncle, I'm back."
