Chapter 2189 - 879: War Begins! (4)

It's almost dawn.

Alvarez crouched behind the bunker, looking south. In the night vision device, those Big Fur Soldiers were still in place. They dug trenches all night and are now lying in them, waiting for dawn. The drone took off and hummed in the northern sky.

"Major, the drone has sent back images. The position, number, and firepower configuration of the Big Fur Soldiers are all on it."

Alvarez took the tablet. On the screen, those Big Fur Soldiers lay in the trenches, holding guns, looking towards the airport. Their trenches were dug deep, with machine gun positions, mortar positions, and anti-aircraft missile positions. At least one company, more than eighty people.

"Can the mortars reach them?"

"Yes. Two kilometers away, within range."

"Fire."

The mortars roared again. Sixty shells landed in those trenches, exploding into bursts of orange-red sparks. The image on the tablet began to shake, smoke filled the air, and it became unclear.

"Keep firing. Don't stop."

When the sun rose from behind the eastern hills, Alvarez put down the binoculars. The south side of the open ground still had trenches, but the people inside were gone. Some died, some ran, and some were unaccounted for.

"Major, the Big Fur Soldiers have retreated."

The voice on the walkie-talkie belonged to the Major, sounding very tired. "Retreated? To where have they retreated?"

"North. They've run towards the city direction."

Alvarez stood up, looking at the northern sky. In the distance, in the direction of Damascus city, black smoke rose. Not from shelling, but tires. The civilians were burning tires, blocking roads, resisting the army. The Big Fur Soldiers ran in that direction, into the black smoke.

He put down the binoculars, crouched down, leaned against the sandbags.

He recalled the bridge on the Golan Heights, over Lake Tiberias. The bridge lights turned into a string of transparent beads in the morning light. He remembered Hassan standing at the bridge head, saying "The bridge stays, the water flows, the people, I've buried them." Now the bridge is still there, the water is still flowing, and people are dying again.

He closed his eyes.

Damascus city, seven in the morning.

The people holding photos hadn't dispersed yet. They held photos of the deceased, standing on the streets, standing in the square, standing in front of government buildings. The candles had extinguished, but the photos remained. The faces in the photos were clear in the morning light, every wrinkle, every smile, every pair of eyes.

Those eyes looked at Assad's Presidential Palace.

Assad stood at the window, looking at those photos. He thought of Rifat. Thought of that olive grove. Thought of those monuments. The names were inscribed on the stone. Below the names, it read: "He waited eleven years. Never stepped inside his home."

Now those people holding photos are also waiting. Waiting for what? An answer? An apology? The truth?

He couldn't give that.

He could only give bullets.

"Order the Third Division to open fire."

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

"Open fire."

7:15 A.M., Damascus city, Third Division Tank Column.

The tanks stopped at the intersection. The civilians stood in front of the tanks, holding photos, shouting names. The tank driver looked at those faces, his hand trembling on the steering wheel. The company commander poked his head out from the turret, looking at those photos. He recognized one of them. It was his neighbor, locked up for eleven years, released, died. Died at his doorstep.

"Commander, orders from above—"

"I know." The company commander interrupted him.

He retracted into the turret, closed the hatch.

"Open fire."

The tank's barrel turned towards those holding photos. The civilians didn't run. They stood there, holding photos, looking at the dark tank muzzle.

"Open fire." The company commander said again.

The gunner didn't move.

"I said open fire!"

The gunner turned his head, looking at the company commander. "Commander, those are civilians."

"Those are terrorists. Open fire."

The gunner turned back, aimed. His finger rested on the firing button, but didn't press it.

The company commander climbed out of the turret, jumped off the tank, walked to the gunner, opened the hatch, dragged the gunner off the seat, and sat in himself.

He aimed. His finger rested on the firing button.

The people holding photos were still looking at him. At the front stood an elderly man, over seventy, with completely white hair, holding a photo. The photo showed a young man, early twenties, wearing a gray tracksuit, bearing the logo of Damascus University.

The company commander recognized that person. It was his cousin. Locked up for eleven years, released, died. Died at his doorstep.

His finger moved away from the firing button.

He climbed out of the tank, stood in front of those holding photos.

"I can't do it." He said.

Behind him, the tank's barrel lowered.

The Third Division halted.

Damascus Airport, eastern part of the tarmac, eight in the morning.

Alvarez stood behind the bunker, looking at the northern sky. In the image sent back from the drone, on the streets of Damascus city, the tanks had stopped, and the civilians were still holding photos. Those Big Fur Soldiers were trapped on the edge of the city, unable to advance or retreat.

"Major, the Big Fur Soldiers have retreated. They've run north. Left Damascus."

The voice on the walkie-talkie seemed somewhat incredulous. "Run?"

"Yes, they ran. Their mission was to help Assad clear protesters. Now even Assad's own people are not firing; why would they stay? To be surrounded and beaten by civilians?"

Alvarez put down the binoculars, crouched down, leaned against the sandbags.

He took from his pocket that piece of stone. Abdul Karim Hassan's monument. Inscribed on it: "He waited eleven years. Never stepped inside his home."

He touched those words, touched the strokes etched with nails.