<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #8080FF">031300May15Z Damascus, Syria</span></span></span></span><br/>The dry climate made it actually quite comfortable. The thermometer reached 79 degrees (F) by mid day with hardly a cloud in the sky. This is the perfect weather for the attack and for Air Operations. The Government troops were putting both to work.<br/><br/>A lone American MQ-9 Reaper patrolled the skies over Damascus. It remained unarmed, but gathered video images of damage to infrastructure and movement of forces both Syrian Government and Syrian Arab Republic, the opposition. A large enclave of SAR troops held portions to the north of the City, while an even larger group of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syrian forces held regions just east of the City. President Al-Assad intended to push his troops into a two pronged attack north and east of the city in order to regain control over these regions. His plan called for the combined use of Chlorine and Thermobaric weapons attacks on these regions. Following the use of these high casualty producing weapons, Syrian armor, mechanized and light infantry forces would penetrate deep into the regions in order to eliminate opposition near the capital city.<br/><br/>"Have the Americans begun harassing Da'ish to the East?" President Al-Assad asked his chief of staff.<br/><br/>"No sir, not yet," The 58-year old general addressed his commander in chief.<br/><br/>"When do you believe they will start?"<br/><br/>"No idea, sir," the old general wanted to avoid this conversation. "There is no telling when the Americans will attack Da'ish. They have been attacking them with vigor north and east, but have left this southern pocket for the most part, untouched."<br/><br/>"Have there been any signs of their presence?" The President was looking for any glimmer of hope. More than a hundred countries had already recognized the Syrian Arab Republican government as the legitimate government in Syria. The amount of support he had to fight this war was slowly becoming negligent. He would not give up.<br/><br/>"Sir, there is an American Drone flying over the city as we speak. It is unarmed and undoubtedly video-taping both our troops and the SAR troops. Will this be enough for them to focus on the enclave to the East?"<br/><br/>"Yes! Allah demands it so!" President Al-Assad was vehement. "They will attack in the next forty eight hours! I feel it." The president's staff all looked at one another knowing there was no evidence to support such a claim. "The  infidels must. They have been tracking Da'ish since they forced the opposition out of Iraq." The President stared at the map. "We must weight either our forces in the  north or in the east. We cannot place emphasis on both. We will be weak to do otherwise."<br/><br/>President Al-Assad looked over the maps. He looked over his force dispositions around the city. "This is what we will do. We will use the 4th Armor Division and the 7th Mechanized Division to spearhead operations to the north. Send in Aviation units to drop casualty producing weapons on known and suspected enemy locations. The Armor and Mech forces should follow as close behind the aviation in order to catch the opposition before they have a chance to re-establish themselves. Send the Republican Guard east to observe and establish contact with Da'ish. Instruct them not to get too close. I wouldn't want the infidels to drop bombs on our troops. If Da'ish chooses to fight, they may defend themselves, but do not push for a fight. Elements of the 9th Armor Division will be prepared to support either the corps advancing north from the city or the Republican Guards Division in the East." President Al-Assad looked at the map and his recent instructions. He looked up at his staff. "Are their any questions?"<br/><br/>"What would you call this operations, sir?" His chief of staff asked.<br/><br/>President Al-Assad looked at the man pensively and then uttered, "Operation Syrian Pride." The staff all nodded in approval. It would be another half hour before the President left his command bunker located in down town Damascus. He needed to head back home for dinner. He would not eat at the dining facility near the bunker down town. His driver prepared his truck. Four additional armed vehicles provided an escort; two in front and two to the rear. The President's black armored Chevrolet Suburban contained an M134 minigun mounted in a cupola above the rear seat of the suburban. A soldier manned the weapon providing additional firepower to the escort.<br/><br/>"Lion is preparing to move from eye doctor's, over." The voice spoke calmly from its hide spot in some abandoned ware house in the middle of the city.<span style="font-style: italic">Eye doctor's</span>was the name they gave to the bunker in Damascus. The MQ-9 Reaper buzzed overhead, but their blind was concealed with precision. The Americans would not detect the Solders of Christ hiding in down town Damascus.<br/><br/>"Roger that, Blackjack four," Farid Al Hammasa responded over the radio. He made a notation in his log. This was the same time every day for the past two months. He noted that Lion left his Army's Operations Center or<span style="font-style: italic">Bunker</span>every afternoon at 1300 hours, undoubtedly to return home for a meal. There were three locations that would provide an excellent field of fire and opportunity for the shooter. The problem was, the vehicle was armored and his escort chose a different route every day. There were three routes the surveillance teams had picked up on. It appeared the best places to hit him were either when he arrived at home or when he was in and out of his vehicle at the Bunker. A few other locations and times were appearing in the early morning and later in the evening. President Al-Assad remained close to the action except for meals and evening hours for sleep.<br/><br/>Farid Al Hammasa let the surveillance teams know he was stepping out of his operations center for a few minutes. The 28-year old intelligence officer was short of special comfort items and wanted to gather more. He wore the Syrian Army Battle Dress Uniform, which was the standard mottled green, brown, and black woodland camouflage pattern, similar to the one worn by American forces over ten years ago. The Syrians established a contract with a middle eastern producer who had used this same pattern to manufacture military uniforms. No one considered that maybe they should use desert camouflage with sand and brown colors.<br/><br/>Farid Al Hammasa wore the rank insignia of a Captain in the Syrian Army. On his left shoulder he wore a brassard that displayed the Syrian Army insignia as well as the words,<span style="font-style: italic"> مسؤول العلاقات الإعلامية</span>[tr.: Media Relations Officer]. His beard was a tad darker than brown, with a few barely noticeable blonde hairs scattered about his face. His eyes were brown, thank Allah, but he wore a pair of aviator sunglasses regardless. Along the right side of his face, the beard was interrupted by a scar ending near a cut-away portion of his right ear. The scar, a trophy from some previous SoC operation.<br/><br/>Farid wore filthy black combat boots, years beyond broken-in with no possibility of ever being shined again. He picked up his cell phone and walked outside the building. He looked around. There was barely any signs of life in his immediate vicinity. He could hear the staccato of machine gun fire off in the distance; difficult to discern the direction at street level. Pock marks from bullets and shell holes marred the neighborhood. The civilians had long gone, from this area.<br/><br/>After locking the door, Farid removed a cigarette from his blouse pocket and stuck the filtered end between his lips. He fumbled for the lighter in his right hip pocket. Retrieved the silver Zippo and flicked the flint, creating a flame. He drew in a breath with the tip of the cigarette in the flame, lighting the tobacco. He inhaled the smoke into his lungs and exhaled accordingly. It felt good. The store at the corner would provide him with a fresh pack.<br/><br/>After lighting his cigarette and beginning his walk down the street, his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of a blouse pocket. He recognized the number as belonging to the Turkish reporter, Malik Topçu. He clicked the line open and simply stated, "Hello?"<br/><br/>A voice on the other end spoke,<span style="font-style: italic">“I… apologize for not answering your call earlier. I am still on the road. I was told there was a package for me, and I am on my way to retrieve it.”</span>the voice must have been Mr. Topçu. Farid looked forward to meeting the man. He had been posted to this hell hole for the past six  months and was ready to leave. He had come close to being discovered or killed at least a half a dozen times. He was ready to leave.<br/><br/>"Yes, yes, your photographic equipment is there. I had some of my people stage it there for you.  Please, go get it," Farid had a light almost joy-filled sound to his voice.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">“I will meet you near Mount Qasioun as soon as I have done so.”</span><br/><br/>"If you make it 1500 hours, I will be there then," Farid clicked off the line. An explosion erupted more than 800 meters from where he stood. It was off to the east and could have been just about anything. Even with the buildings buffeting the waves, he could still feel the heat as if someone turned on a hair dryer and pointed it in his general direction for a fraction of a second. This was life at ground zero in Damascus. Farid was ready to go home. Seeing his wife and daughter were all he could think of. Maybe there was a better way of life, but he didn't know what it could be.<br/><br/>After hanging up with Malik Topcu, Farid didn't give it a thought that this was the same location where the Syrian Armored Corps was about to attack the SAR soldiers north of the city. It would be a surprise for both men.