Chapter 2185 - 878: The New World Police! (Part 3)

Alvarez looked at the soldiers. They spread out on the tarmac, occupying high ground, setting up machine guns, deploying anti-aircraft missiles. They moved quickly and skillfully, as if training in their own camp.

"Damascus Airport is already controlled by the Big Mao people," Alvarez said. "Their fighter jets are patrolling the skies, and their ships are on standby in the Mediterranean. Did they stop you from landing?"

The major laughed. "They did. A Su-27 led the way in front of us. The pilot said to follow him and keep a distance of five kilometers. We followed. Then—"

He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It was a satellite photo. The Mediterranean, the Big Mao Fleet. Two cruisers, three destroyers, and a nuclear submarine. The photo marked three positions with a red pen.

"Taken by our drone. Taken before takeoff. A resolution of 0.5 meters, you can see the faces on the deck. The Big Mao people knew we took it, but they didn't stop us. Because they know, if we took it, we wouldn't attack. If they attacked, the photo wouldn't be sent out."

Alvarez looked at the photo. The red-circled positions were marked with coordinates, ship models, and even the names of ship captains.

"Who took this?"

"Mr. Bennett's people. They arrived three days ago. Taken in Cyprus with a drone. Sent back to Mexico City. Mexico City sent it to Bramo. Bramo sent it to the major. The major brought it to me."

Alvarez folded the photo and put it in his pocket.

"Anything else?"

The major drew a pistol from his waist and handed it to him. An M9, Beretta, nine-millimeter. The barrel was polished bright, and the magazine was full.

"Mr. Bramo said, you stayed on the Golan Heights for so long, without even carrying a gun. In Syria, without a gun, it's as good as suicide."

Alvarez took the gun and holstered it.

"Thank you."

The major turned and walked toward the three C-130s. The soldiers had already built a makeshift position on the tarmac—a sandbag fortification, mounted machine guns, vertical anti-aircraft missile launchers.

Alvarez stood at the terminal entrance, watching those soldiers. He remembered what Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez said when he left the Golan Heights: "Once the bridge is built, someone needs to watch it. The person watching the bridge should have a cup of coffee."

Now the bridge is still there, the coffee stand is still there, but the person watching the bridge has changed.

He looked at the gun in his hand.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, "This is not fucking coffee."

12:15 PM, Damascus Presidential Palace, underground command center

Hafez Assad stood before a giant screen, watching real-time images transmitted from the satellite.

The images showed the eastern section of the tarmac at Damascus Airport, where Mexican soldiers were deploying anti-aircraft missiles. At least six "Stinger" portable anti-aircraft missile launchers were already upright, pointing to the sky. In the sky, Big Mao Air Force's Su-27s were circling, at an altitude of three thousand meters, speed six hundred kilometers per hour, their flight path passing right over the airport.

"Stinger" has a maximum range of four thousand meters. The altitude of the Su-27 is three thousand meters. If the Mexicans want to, they can shoot it down.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him, his voice trembling.

"Mr. President, the Mexicans have landed. A company, one hundred and twenty people, equipped with anti-tank missiles and anti-aircraft missiles. They said they came to evacuate nationals. But their people didn't go to the city to meet any nationals, they just started digging trenches, setting up machine guns, and deploying missiles on the tarmac."

Assad didn't turn his head. "What about the Big Mao people?"

"Still in the sky. Their pilots report that the Mexican missiles have locked onto them. Fire-control radar illuminated for at least ten seconds. This is an act of war."

Assad turned around to look at the Minister of Defense. "An act of war? The Mexicans are twelve thousand kilometers away from us. They landed at our airport, flew in our airspace, and locked their missiles onto our allies. This is an act of war. But who is declaring war? Is it them, or us?"

The Minister of Defense said nothing.

Assad walked back to his desk and sat down. On the desk lay fresh intelligence. In the city of Damascus, at least twenty thousand people have already taken to the streets. They held up photos of the dead, shouting Assad's name, not in support, but in curse.

"What about the First Division?"

"Still in the garrison. The commander of the First Division says his soldiers refuse to move. They say the people in those photos are their comrades, their neighbors, and their family. They don't want to shoot at Syrians."

Assad's fingers tapped the table. "What about the Third Division?"

"The Third Division has moved out. They're heading to the city. But the road is blocked by the people, the vehicles can't move. The people stand in front of the tanks, holding up those photos, shouting those names. The soldiers—the soldiers didn't shoot."

Assad stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky over Damascus was gray, with black smoke rising in the distance. It wasn't artillery fire, it was tires. People were burning tires, blocking roads, stopping the army.

"Tell the Big Mao people," he said, "I need them."

The Minister of Defense was stunned. "Mr. President—"

"Tell the Big Mao people, Syria needs them. Not their fleet, not their aircraft, but their soldiers. Let them land. Let them help us hold the streets. Let them help us—clear those who hold photos."

The Minister of Defense turned to leave.

"Wait," Assad called out to him. "Tell the Big Mao people, the Mexicans are at the airport. Their missiles are locked onto your aircraft. If you do nothing, they do nothing. If you move—"

He paused.

"If you move, they'll shoot."

The Minister of Defense left.

Assad stood by the window, looking at the black smoke. He thought of Hassan. The general who fought for seven days on the Golan Heights, dug for seven days in Hamah, carved forty plaques, and then died.

The bridge is still there, the water still flows, the dead are buried.

But new dead are falling on the streets of Damascus.

1:05 PM, Damascus Airport, eastern section of the tarmac

Alvarez crouched behind a sandbag fortification, holding a telescope, looking at that line of Big Mao Air Force Su-27s on the opposite runway. They were parked there, engines still running, canopies open, pilots sitting inside, helmets still on.

Distance of less than two hundred meters.

He put down the telescope and picked up the radio.

"Major, the Big Mao people are still parked there. Not moving."

The major's voice came through the radio, very calmly. "Let them stay there. Our missiles are pointed at them. They move, we'll shoot."

Alvarez said nothing.

He turned to look in the direction of the terminal. At the terminal entrance, the trapped passengers were watching this way through the glass doors. Their faces showed fear, curiosity, and anger. Some were filming, some were on the phone, some were crying.

An old man in a white robe stood at the very front of the glass door, holding a piece of cardboard with a few words written in Arabic. Alvarez didn't understand but guessed the meaning.

"Don't shoot."

He put down the telescope and took out the plaque from his pocket. Abdul Karim Hassan's plaque. It read: "He waited eleven years. Never entered his home."

He touched the engraved letters, traced the strokes made by the nail. He remembered Hassan kneeling by the pit, holding the white cloth bundle, crying uncontrollably. He remembered that olive grove, those plaques, those names.

The radio buzzed.

"Lieutenant, a call from Mr. Bramo."

He picked it up.

"Lieutenant." It was Bramo's voice, hoarse and weary.

"Mr. Bramo."

"Assad has asked Big Mao for support. Requested Big Mao ground troops to enter Damascus to help him remove the protesters. Moscow is considering."

Alvarez's fingers tightened on the phone.

"Lieutenant, do you know what this means?"

"It means the Big Mao people are going to shoot the people of Damascus."

"Yes. The Big Mao people will shoot. After the shooting, they will say that the Syrian Government Army shot. The Syrian Government Army will say it was the terrorists. The terrorists will say the United States instigated it. The Americans will say it was the Mexicans provoking. The Mexicans will say—"

"The final shitstorm will be thrown onto the Mexicans..."

"We cannot allow this to happen!"

"So, Syria will be the next battlefield!"

...