Page 2 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

Dr. Guzman didn’t have time to scream, let alone help. She stared wide-eyed at the man standing in front of her now. Six-one, one hundred and ninety pounds of lean muscle. Black hair, blue eyes.

Still in shock, all she could manage was, “Who are you?”

The man tucked the Ruger into his waistband.

“My sister Sally sent me. With those.” He pointed at a backpack on the floor a few feet away, where he had set it down. “Antibiotics. Said you were running short.”

“Dr. Sally Ryan?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you must be Jack Ryan.”

He shrugged and smiled.

“Junior.”

2

IDLIB, SYRIA

The Syrian fighter stood on the roof of the apartment building, shielding his aging eyes from the western sun as he watched the children playing in the street seven floors below. They sweated and laughed in the long shadows of the fading light, swarming after the ball like bees chasing a dog, ignoring the calls of their anxious mothers to come in and clean up. He smiled.

Kids everywhere, the same.

The truce was a mercy. “Thanks be to God,” he whispered to himself. He checked his watch, a nervous habit. By the fading light he knew the muezzin’s voice would ring out over the loudspeakers, calling for themaghrib.

He had raged when his battalion commander, an Iraqi, first announced the truce with that butcher Assad and his paymasters, the godless Russians. But the last nine weeks had given them time to rest and regroup with smuggled weapons, food,fuel, cash. Now they were ready for anything up close, and their Stinger missiles kept the dreaded Russian jets and helicopters out of the skies. The senior Al-Nusra commanders were all stationed here; even the emir was living in Idlib, just three blocks away. This was the safest place in Syria, as long as the truce lasted.

The war seemed far away now. A distant, painful memory. So much blood. And for what? Life was better than death, was it not?

He craved a cigarette, even after all these years, but cigarettes wereharam, and men in his unit had been executed for smoking them. But perhaps a strong coffee aftermaghrib, he thought, his eyes tracking the black-clad women scurrying into the street, clapping their hands and shouting, trying to herd the laughing children back to their homes.

Theadhanbegan, a strong voice calling the faithful. Its familiar words warmed his soul. The mosque would be full tonight.

He picked up his rifle and headed for the stairs. Perhaps the war was indeed over and these children would finally know peace.

Thanks be to God.

NINE MILES SOUTH OF IDLIB

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Captain Walib’s face despite the A/C unit blasting overhead. The Syrian captain stared at the monitor in front of him, his right hand poised near the master launch button.

The monitor verified the ready state of the fire-control computers on the six TOS-2 Starfire launch vehicles stationednearby, each composed of a seventy-tube box missile launcher fixed on a heavily armored T-14 Armata tank chassis, and all linked to his command console.

He and Major Grechko sat at their stations inside the cramped BMP-3K armored personnel fighting vehicle, Walib’s mobile command post. Technically, the Russian major was only an adviser on today’s operation. But in reality Grechko was evaluating Walib’s combat command capabilities along with the new TOS-2 Starfire system.

Walib stole a quick glance at Lieutenant Aslan Dzhabrailov sitting near the doorway. The young, broad-shouldered Chechen was the platoon leader of the commandos guarding his unit. There was a fierce intelligence in the man’s pale gray eyes and a well-used ten-millimeter Glock on his hip. The Chechens were savage, brutal fighters—a breed apart, the best in the war, at least on his side. Dzhabrailov was a man to be feared.

The major checked the GLONASS receiver—the Russian version of GPS—one last time, along with the laser guidance beam. “Targeting confirmed. Free to fire, Captain.”

Walib smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, hesitating.

“Something wrong, Captain?” Grechko asked.

Walib was a Syrian patriot. He had no problem killing terrorists, especially foreign ones. The Syrian “civil war” was fought by everyone but Syrians these days. But they were all just proxies for the Americans and Russians, who happily sacrificed the Syrian people on the altar of their superpower ambitions.

He hated them all, especially today.