Chapter 2198 - 882: War!

Eastern Mediterranean, flagship Independence of the Mexican Fleet

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding the order that had just come from Mexico City. The paper was thin, but every word on it felt like a red‑hot branding iron.

"Go to combat readiness."

He folded the order, stuffed it into his pocket, and picked up the intercom.

"All units, this is Morales. Target: the Big Mao Fleet outside Tartus Port. Two cruisers, three destroyers, one nuclear submarine. Our mission is not to fight a war, it's to make them too afraid to fight. All missiles loaded, all radars active, all fire control locked on. Whoever fires first loses. But we need them to believe we're not afraid to lose."

The bridge was silent for two seconds. Then confirmations came from each ship over the intercom—short, crisp, no unnecessary words.

Morales raised his head and looked out through the porthole at the gray‑blue sea. In the distance, the masts of the Big Mao Fleet were already appearing over the horizon, like a row of gray needle points piercing the skyline.

"Ahead flank."

Off Tartus Port, flagship Moscow of the Big Mao Fleet

Vice Admiral Korosov stood on the bridge, a pair of binoculars in his hand. The Mexican fleet was closing in, five warships in battle formation, their bows cleaving the waves, white wakes drawing five parallel lines across the sea.

"General, they're within range."

Korosov didn't turn his head. "I know."

"Their fire‑control radars are painting us. Lock signal has been continuous for thirty seconds."

Korosov lowered the binoculars and turned to look at the young staff officer. On that face there was fear, excitement, and confusion.

"The Mexicans want us to fire first. We fire, they'll shoot. They shoot, we'll return fire. We return fire, the war begins. Once the war begins, who wins and who loses doesn't matter. What matters is who pulled the first trigger."

He walked back to the command console and picked up the red phone.

"Get me the flagship of the Mexican Fleet."

The phone rang once and was picked up. On the other end was Morales's voice, very calm.

"General Korosov."

"General Morales, your missiles have locked onto my vessels. That is an act of war."

"General, my missiles haven't been launched. Your ships haven't been hit. This isn't an act of war, it's deterrence."

Korosov's fingers tapped the table. "What do you want?"

"I want you to leave the Syrian coast. With your fleet here, Assad feels he has backing. He feels he has backing, he keeps shooting. He keeps shooting, people keep dying. People keep dying, we'll keep staying here. We keep staying here, your fleet can't leave. Your fleet can't leave, Moscow will ask you why. You won't be able to answer, and you'll be relieved of command. Relieved, you go back to Moscow. Back in Moscow, you won't have to care about anything."

Korosov was silent for a long time. "General Morales, are you threatening me?"

"General, I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you the facts. The fact is, your fleet is in the Mediterranean, my fleet is in the Mediterranean. Your missiles are aimed at me, my missiles are aimed at you. Whoever fires first loses. You don't want to lose, and I don't want to lose. So neither of us fires. If we don't fire, we're stuck. Stuck, we wait. We wait to see who cracks first."

The call ended.

Korosov sat there, gripping the receiver, listening to the busy tone. Outside the porthole, the Mexican fleet was getting closer and closer, the bow waves glittering white in the sunlight, like a row of advancing white fangs.

"General, they're still closing. Distance ten nautical miles."

"Let them close. Do not open fire."

"General—"

"I said, do not open fire."

The young staff officer turned and left.

Korosov stood at the porthole, watching those Mexican warships drawing nearer and nearer. He thought of that olive grove in Hamah, of those white‑wrapped bundles, those gravestones, those names carved into stone. He thought of Hassan kneeling by the pit, clutching that white bundle, shaking with sobs. He thought of Lieutenant Alvarez crouching behind the sandbag revetment, binoculars in his hands, staring at the northern sky.

Now those people were at sea, across from him, pointing missiles at his chest.

He raised the binoculars and looked at the flagship. A man was standing on the bridge, binoculars in hand as well, looking this way. The distance was too great to see the face clearly, but Korosov knew who it was.

Morales. Rear Admiral of the Mexican Navy. His brother was blown to pieces by Squid Men in the Sinai Peninsula, his nephew was wounded in Damascus by Assad's men. Now he stood on the bridge, missiles trained on the Big Mao Fleet.

Korosov put down the binoculars.

"Tell all units: maintain course, maintain speed, do not open fire. Whoever opens fire will be a sinner to the Big Bear."

Damascus, Presidential Palace

Assad stood at the window, looking at the sunlight outside.

The people holding up photos were still there. Three hundred thousand people, three hundred thousand pairs of eyes, three hundred thousand photographs. They stood in the streets, at the intersections, at the gates of the Presidential Palace. No shouting, no chanting, no crying, no laughing. Just standing there, staring at his windows.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible.

"Mr. President, the Big Mao Fleet has been blocked in by the Mexicans. They can't get in, and they can't get out. The Mexicans' missiles have locked onto them, and their missiles have locked onto the Mexicans. No one dares fire first. Whoever fires first loses."