When the first shell fell, Fahed was in the command center looking at the map. He heard the explosion, raised his head, and looked at the northern sky. The flames flickered, the sound of explosions rolled in, muffled.
"General!" The adjutant rushed in, "North! Iranian tanks! At least two brigades! They're breaking through our defense lines!"
Fahed was stunned.
Iranians? Weren't the Iranians allies? Weren't they here to help Syria fight?
He dashed out, stood at the edge of the trench, and raised his binoculars.
On the northern horizon, the tank exhaust pipes glowed a dark red in the night, like the eyes of a row of crouching giant beasts. They were breaking through the First Division's defense lines, the tracks crushing the trenches, machine guns mowing down the Syrian soldiers who hadn't time to react. People were shouting, people were calling, people were crying.
Fahed lowered the binoculars.
"Send a telegram to Damascus. The Iranians are attacking us."
