Chapter 2186 - 879: War Begins!

Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor put down the phone.

Outside the windows, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was already blocked. Someone was honking, someone was cursing, someone was sticking their head out the car window, looking towards the National Palace.

They didn't know what was happening at Damascus Airport, didn't know Big Mao People's fighter jets were circling the skies over Syria, didn't know Mexico's hundred and twenty soldiers were crouching behind sandbag bunkers, aiming missiles at Big Mao People's planes.

Bramo stood behind him, holding a report that had just been delivered.

"Moscow replied. Jingpu said, Big Mao has military bases, fleets, planes, and soldiers in Syria. Big Mao won't abandon Syria. If Mexico wants to start a war with Big Mao in Damascus, Big Mao will accompany."

Victor turned around.

"Accompany?"

He repeated the word, pulling a cold smile at the corner of his mouth, "Does he think I'm Assad? Does he think a few harsh words can scare me back?"

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"Tell Bennett to place the piece out."

Bramo's fingers paused for a moment. "Now?"

"Now."

Victor looked at him.

"Did Assad not ask Big Mao for help? Let Big Mao People come. Let them land. When their planes touch down, when their soldiers exit the cabin, when their boots step on Syrian soil—place that piece out. Let the whole world see what Big Mao People have done in Syria."

Bramo turned and left.

Victor sat there, looking out the window. The sun had started to set, the golden hue slowly turning to silver, with the distant outline of Paseo de la Reforma becoming blurred. He picked up the list on the desk, forty names, twenty-three already buried, seventeen still living. He looked at those names, looked for a long time.

Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Get me Damascus Airport. Find Lieutenant Alvarez."

The phone rang many times, then was answered. On the other end was Alvarez's voice, hoarse, tired, but very steady.

"Leader."

"Lieutenant, Big Mao People are coming. Not planes, ground troops. Paratroopers, VDV. At least a battalion. Their task isn't evacuation, it's to help Assad clear out those holding up photos. Your task—"

He paused.

"Your task is to make sure they don't come down."

There was silence on the other end for five seconds.

"Leader, we are evacuation troops. We haven't declared war."

"You haven't declared war. You are protecting the evacuation passage for the nationals. If Big Mao People's planes land at Damascus Airport, it will threaten the safety of the nationals. You have the right to take all necessary measures to protect the evacuation passage you are responsible for."

Alvarez remained silent.

"Lieutenant, are you listening?"

"Listening."

"Your missiles are locked onto Big Mao People's planes. If they land, you fire. Say it's a misfire. A misfire isn't a declaration of war. A misfire is an accident. Accidents can be apologized for, compensated, resigned due to dereliction. But the planes cannot come down. Planes that can't come down can't help Assad kill."

Alvarez's voice was very low. "Leader, that's war."

Victor's voice was also low. "The war has already begun. It's not our doing. It's Assad. It's Big Mao People. It's those who buried forty people under the olive trees. We are only retaliating."

The phone was hung up.

Victor sat there, holding the receiver, listening to the busy tone. Outside the window, the sky was completely dark, the street lights on Paseo de la Reforma lit up, dim and like sleepy eyes.

He put down the phone, stood up, walked to the window.

"Retaliate," he said softly.

Damascus Airport, east side of the apron. Night.

Alvarez crouched behind the sandbag bunker, holding the satellite phone. The busy tone still rang in his ears, and he hung up.

He looked at the row of Big Mao Air Force Su-27s across the runway. Their engines were still on, tail nozzles glowing dark red in the night, like the eyes of a row of crouching giant beasts. The pilots were still sitting in the cabins, helmets on, but Alvarez knew they were watching him. Two hundred-meter distance, with night vision, faces could be seen clearly.

Major ran over from another bunker, crouching beside him.

"Lieutenant, what did the top say?"

Alvarez stuffed the satellite phone into his pocket. "Big Mao People are coming. Paratroopers, VDV. At least a battalion. Mission—to help Assad clear out those holding up photos."

Major's expression didn't change. "What about our mission?"

Alvarez looked at him. "Make sure they don't come down."

Major was silent for two seconds. Then he smiled, not a happy smile, but a "I knew it" smile.

"I said, this damn sure isn't evacuation."

He turned, crouched, and ran back to his bunker, picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Attention all units, I am Major. Big Mao People's paratroopers are coming. Their mission is to help Assad kill. Our mission is to make sure they don't come down. Air defense group, set up all your missiles. Machine gun group, target the runway. Mortar group, target the apron. Drones, take off, monitor the northern airspace. Big Mao People are coming from the north."

The confirmation from various groups came through the walkie-talkie, short, decisive, without extra nonsense.

Alvarez crouched behind the bunker, drew the M9 pistol from his waist, checked the magazine. The magazine was full, fifteen rounds, brass bullets glowing dark gold in the moonlight. He holstered the pistol, picked up the binoculars, and looked at the northern sky.