North Suburb of Homs, four o'clock in the morning.
When Major General Akar's tent was opened by the adjutant, he was lying on a camp bed, eyes closed but not asleep.
The sound of shells had been silent for nearly two hours, as quiet as a grave.
"General, the order from Ankara." The adjutant's voice was trembling.
Akar sat up and took the paper. The tent was dark, only the moonlight squeezed in through the gaps in the curtain, shining on those few lines. He looked for a long time, folded the paper, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Push south after dawn. Push to south of Homs City. Push until the Syrians have no strength to run."
The adjutant was stunned.
"General, the 1st Brigade is crippled, the 2nd Brigade is also crippled, the 3rd Brigade is gone, we—"
"What about us? We have planes, we have artillery, we have tanks. What do the Syrians have? They're almost out of bullets."
Akar lay back on the camp bed, closed his eyes.
"Get out."
The adjutant left.
