Chapter 2187 - 879: War Begins! (Part 2)

It's very dark, nothing can be seen.

But he knows that someone is flying in that darkness.

On the northern outskirts of Damascus, Da Mao Air Force's Il-76 transport plane, at six thousand meters altitude.

The cabin is quite dark, with only a flickering red emergency light overhead. Eighty fully-armed paratroopers sit in their seats, wearing blue marine shirts and maroon beret caps, gripping AK-74M assault rifles in their hands. They belong to the 104th Regiment of the 76th Airborne Division, the most elite unit of Da Mao. They've fought in Chechnya, Georgia, and Crimea. Today, they have come to Damascus.

Captain Sergei Ivanovich Korolev, the company commander, sits at the front, eyes closed.

He's thinking about things. Not about the mission, but about his daughter. Six years old, named Natasha, in Saint Petersburg, staying with his wife. When he left, Natasha was asleep, he didn't wake her up. He doesn't know if he can return.

"Captain." The deputy company commander walks over, speaking in a lowered voice, "Twenty more minutes."

Korolev opens his eyes. He stands up, walks to the cabin window, looking at the night sky outside. Below is the dark ground, with occasional lights, unsure whether it's Damascus or somewhere else.

"Mexicans," he speaks, "They are at the airport. With missiles. Stingers, they can hit six thousand meters. Our drop altitude is three thousand meters. If they fire, we'll be blown to pieces before landing."

The deputy company commander doesn't speak.

Korolev turns around, looking at the soldiers sitting in the red lighting. They are very young, the oldest twenty-five, the youngest just nineteen. Some are smoking, some cleaning their guns, others resting with eyes closed. No one talks.

"Tell the pilots to raise the drop height to five thousand meters. Parachute drop. After landing, don't engage with the Mexicans. Our mission isn't them. It's the city center. It's those holding up photos."

The deputy company commander nods and turns to walk towards the cockpit.

Korolev sits back down and closes his eyes. He thinks of Natasha's face. Six years old, a front tooth missing, creating a black gap when she smiles.

The plane begins descending.

Damascus Airport, eastern apron.

In Alvarez's night vision goggles, several bright dots appear in the northern sky. Not stars, but planes. Transport planes, at least three, flying very high, beyond the maximum range of Stingers.

"Major, they are coming. Altitude above five thousand meters. Stingers can't reach them."

The voice of the major comes through the intercom, very calm. "Even if you can't hit them, still fire. Force them higher. The higher they go, the more scattered the air drop. The more scattered, the slower the assembly. The slower, the more time we have."

"Anti-air group, target locked, fire at will. Fire and move, don't wait to die at the same spot."

Alvarez squats behind the barrier, watching the northern sky. Those bright dots grow closer, the sound of engines starts to roll over, low and muffled, like thunder.

The Stinger missiles from the anti-air group fire.

The first missile ascends with a tail of flame, drawing a bright arc in the darkness. It climbs to four thousand meters, exhausts its fuel, and self-destructs. The second, third, fourth — all six Stingers are fired. None hit the target, but the transport planes start climbing. The altitude rises from five thousand meters to six thousand meters, and from six thousand meters to seven thousand meters.

The paratroopers start jumping.

In the night vision goggles, those black parachute flowers are barely visible in the darkness, but Alvarez knows they're there. Hundreds of them, floating down from seven thousand meters altitude, in the minus forty-degree cold wind.

"Major, they jumped. Altitude seven thousand meters. At least fifteen minutes to land."

"Fifteen minutes is enough." The major's voice is calm, "Machine gun team, target the runway. Mortar team, target the apron. Don't let them stand up when they land."

Alvarez peeks out from behind the barrier, looking at the row of Su-27s on the opposite side of the runway. Their engines are still turning, but the pilots have already left the cockpit. He doesn't know when they jumped out, but now they are squatting behind the aircraft, holding guns, watching this side.

Two hundred meters distance. In the night vision goggles, their faces are pale, eyes bright.

Alvarez ignores them. He looks at the northern sky. Those parachute flowers are slowly growing larger.

On the northern outskirts of Damascus, Il-76 transport plane, at seven thousand meters altitude.

When Korolev jumps out the cabin door, the minus forty degree wind cuts his face like knives. He squints, looking at the dark ground below, at the distant lights of Damascus's city, at the further faint flashes on the airport runway.

That's the Mexicans firing.

Bullets shoot up from the ground, drawing dark red trails in the darkness. The distance is great, can't hit, but those trajectories are dense, as if telling him: we are here. You come down, we'll shoot.

He pulls the parachute's control strap, adjusting direction. Target is an open space south of the airport, at least two kilometers from the runway. At least three kilometers from the Mexican positions.

The soldiers behind him are also adjusting direction. Hundreds of parachute flowers, slowly dispersing in the darkness like dandelions blown apart by the wind.

Damascus Airport, eastern apron.

Alvarez squats behind the barrier, watching those parachute flowers land on the open ground south of the airport. One after another, like dumplings dropping. After landing, they quickly cut parachute cords, pack up parachutes, and gather in the dark. Movements are quick, skilled, no one shouts, no one shoots.