Chapter 2188 - 879: War Begins! (Part 3)

"Major, they've landed to the south. Three kilometers away. They're regrouping."

"Mortar team, target the open ground to the south. Cover fire."

The mortars fired. Six mortars, ten rounds each. Sixty shells fell on the open ground to the south, bursting into orange-red sparks. Alvarez watched the fire through the night vision. Within the flames, figures were running, some falling, some shouting—but the shouts were drowned out by the explosions, unheard.

"Keep firing. Don't stop."

The second wave of mortars fired again. Sixty more shells landed in the same spot. The flames grew brighter, the shadows fewer.

Alvarez put down the binoculars and squatted behind the cover. His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from the cold. The night wind in Damascus blew fiercely from the north, bone-chilling like a knife.

He recalled the elderly Syrians crossing the bridge at the Golan Heights, by the shores of Lake Tiberias. They leaned on canes, walking slowly, stopping in the middle of the bridge to gaze at the lake. The water was a deep blue, the sky equally azure, and the distant city of Tiberias gleamed white. He remembered Hassan standing by the lake, saying, "The bridge remains, the water flows, the people—I buried them." Now, the bridge still stood, the water still flowed, but people were dying again.

He picked up the binoculars and continued watching.

On the open ground to the south, a third wave of mortars was landing.

Damascus Airport, open ground to the south.

Kolomiov lay in a crater, ears buzzing.

Mortar shells detonated around him, erupting into sparks. Shrapnel zipped overhead, like summer mosquitoes. His soldiers were crouched in craters, hiding in ditches, anywhere with cover, heads down.

"Captain!" the Deputy Company Commander poked his head from another crater, face smeared with blood, "We're suppressed! Can't lift our heads!"

Kolomiov didn't answer. He lay there, listening to the whistling descent of the shells, waiting.

When the third wave of shells finished, there was a pause.

"Charge." He leapt from the crater, raised his rifle, and ran towards the airport.

The soldiers followed him, sprinting in the darkness, footsteps frantic, breathing heavy. After a few hundred meters, machine guns began to fire. Not mortars, heavy machine guns. 12.7 mm bullets rained in from the airport, kicking up columns of dirt. A soldier hit the ground, not making a sound.

Kolomiov dove to the ground, lying in the dirt, listening to the bullets whizzing overhead.

He lifted his head, gazing towards the airport. There were lights, fortifications, sandbags, positions of the Mexicans. Less than two kilometers away, within the range of machine guns. They couldn't cross.

"Captain, we can't make it across!" the Deputy Company Commander lay beside him, panting, "They have machine guns, mortars, missiles. We only have rifles!"

Kolomiov said nothing. He looked at the lights, the fortifications, the sandbags. He recalled a similar situation in Chechnya. Then he charged, losing half a company. Today, he didn't want to charge.

"Defend in place. Wait for dawn."

Damascus Airport, eastern tarmac.

Alvarez crouched behind cover, staring southward. Through the night vision, he saw the Big Fur Soldiers not advancing. They were lying on the ground, digging in, setting up machine guns, positioning mortars. They were waiting for dawn.

"Major, they've stopped. They're digging in."

The major's voice came over the radio, slightly breathless. "They're waiting for dawn, so are we. When it's light, drones will ascend, pinpoint their positions, then fire."

Alvarez put down the binoculars, leaning against the sandbags. He gazed at the sky. The night was dark, the stars bright. He recalled the bridge at the Golan Heights, lights draped like golden ribbons in the night. Now the bridge remained, the lights endured, but he was in Damascus, among one hundred and twenty Mexican soldiers, behind sandbag cover, in the night wind, waiting for dawn.

He closed his eyes, but didn't sleep.

Damascus city, three in the morning.

The people holding photos hadn't dispersed. They held images of the dead, stood in the streets, on the squares, outside government buildings. Candles flickered in the night wind, causing the faces in the photos to waver to and fro.

Assad stood by the window of the Presidential Palace, looking out at the flames. Not artillery fire, but candles. Thousands of candles, illuminating the streets of Damascus like a river of light.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him. "Mr. President, the Big Fur People have landed. But they've been blocked by the Mexicans and can't enter the city."

Assad didn't turn. "What about the Third Division?"

"Still en route. Blocked by civilians. The tanks can't move."

Assad was silent for a long time. "Tell the Big Fur People, use planes. Bomb. Bomb those people holding photos."

The Minister of Defense was startled. "Mr. President, those are—"

"What are they? They're terrorists. Terrorists holding photos are inciting rebellion. Rebellion must be suppressed by force. This is international practice."

The Minister of Defense turned and left.

Assad stood at the window, looking at the candles. He thought of Hassan. Thought of that olive grove. Thought of those monuments. The names carved on them. Below the names, it read: "He waited eleven years. Never entered the family home."

Now those holding photos were also waiting. Waiting for what? An answer? An apology? The truth? He couldn't give them that. He could only give them bombs.

Damascus Airport, eastern tarmac, five in the morning.