North Suburb of Homs, four o'clock in the morning.
Major General Akar hadn't slept all night.
He stood on the second floor of a bombed-out building, holding a telescope and looking south.
The silhouette of Homs City slowly emerged in the morning fog, the city lights sparse, like the eyes of someone not yet awake. His troops had been waiting all night in the north, waiting for dawn, for orders, for the Syrians to collapse on their own.
The adjutant climbed up, squatting beside him, clutching a military water bottle, covered in dust.
"General, the 1st Brigade is in attack position. The 2nd Brigade is on the right wing; the 3rd Brigade made contact, they're on the left wing, but there aren't many of them, less than five hundred."
Akar didn't lower the telescope.
"What about Syria's 3rd Division?"
"Still south of the city. Their defense line hasn't pushed north, stopping ten kilometers south of Homs. Maybe they're afraid to approach, or maybe they're waiting for orders."
