Chapter 2200 - 883: Fleet Raid!

Off the coast of Haifa Port, Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet flagship 'Independence'.

4 AM.

Admiral Morales hasn't closed his eyes for forty-eight hours. The lights on the ship's bridge are dimmed; only the radar screens and fire control system indicators are blinking in the darkness, like a cluster of sleepless eyes. He stands by the porthole, holding night-vision binoculars, gazing at the dark, distant expanse of the sea.

The Big Mao Fleet is still there.

Two cruisers, three destroyers, one nuclear submarine. They are arrayed in a defensive formation outside Tartus Port, bows facing west, gun barrels pointed toward the Mexican Fleet.

Twelve nautical miles away.

At this distance, missiles can reach in thirty seconds. Thirty seconds aren't enough to finish a cup of coffee.

"General, radar has detected new contact. Southeast direction, speed thirty-five knots, rapidly approaching."

Morales sets down the binoculars and walks to the radar screen. A new green dot flashes at the screen's edge, moving toward the standoff area at an incredible speed. He squints at the data — over three hundred meters long, at least a hundred thousand tons displacement, not a destroyer, not a cruiser; it's a carrier.

"Identification signal."

The communications officer is already at work, fingers flying over the keyboard, sweat beading on his forehead. Ten seconds later, he raises his head, his face pale.

"General, it's 'Ford'. Flagship of the US Navy Sixth Fleet."

Morales taps his fingers on the table edge twice. The Americans have arrived. Not from the Suez Canal but from Gibraltar. They've navigated half the Mediterranean, bypassing everyone's radars, appearing at this position at this moment.

"They've sent a signal."

The communications officer's voice trembles.

Morales picks up the headphones, a steady Texas-accented voice speaking in English fills the earpiece.

"Mexican Fleet, this is the US Navy 'Ford'. We are conducting routine patrols. Please maintain current heading to avoid misjudgments. Over."

Morales presses the communication button. "'Ford', this is the Mexican Fleet flagship 'Independence'. We are performing lawful tasks in international waters. Please keep a safe distance. Over."

The other side was silent for three seconds. "'Independence', you are twelve nautical miles from the Big Mao Fleet. This distance does not seem like a 'lawful task'. More like 'on the verge of war'."

Morales did not speak.

The voice continued: "General Morales, we are not here to help the Big Mao People, nor are we here to help you. We are here to observe. If you fight, we observe. If you don't, we still observe. Whoever fires first, we'll fire at. This is an order from Washington. Whoever fires first becomes an enemy of the United States. Do you want to be an enemy of the United States?"

The call terminated.

Morales set down the headphones and looked out at the dark sea through the porthole. Southeast, the mast lights of the American carrier appeared on the horizon, red, green, and white, like a Christmas tree floating on the sea.

"General, the Big Mao People have detected the Americans too. Their fleet is turning."

He walked to the radar screen. The green dots representing the Big Mao Fleet were moving slowly, no longer facing west toward the Mexican Fleet, but northwest, toward the American carrier. Three destroyers formed a fan shape, like three wolves sniffing the scent of prey.

"They are afraid," Morales whispered.

The adjutant standing behind him asked, "Afraid of what?"

"Afraid the Americans will really fight. Americans say, whoever fires first will be fired upon. The Big Mao People don't want to fire first, nor do they want the Americans to attack them. So they turn to face the Americans. It's not to fight, it's to tell the Americans: We aren't afraid of you."

He turned and looked at the adjutant. "Tell all units, maintain heading, maintain speed. Do not fire, do not retreat. Wait for daylight."

Damascus, Presidential Palace.

5 AM.

Assad stands by the window, gazing at the gray sky outside.

The protestors are still there.

The Minister of Defense stands behind him, his voice so hoarse it's almost inaudible.

"Mr. President, Big Mao's fleet is caught between the Americans and Mexicans. They cannot enter, nor can they exit. They say they can hold out for a maximum of forty-eight more hours. If no change occurs after forty-eight hours, they'll withdraw."

Assad does not turn around. "Withdraw? Withdraw to where?"

"To Tartus Port. Their base."

Assad smiles lightly and bitterly. "Base. They built a base in Syria and now want to shrink back into it. Shrinking back into the base means shrinking into a shell."

Shrinking into the shell means not caring about me anymore. Not caring about me means I'll have to take care of myself. Taking care of myself means facing those protestors myself. Facing them alone means deciding myself — to open fire or not open fire."

He turns around, looking at the Minister of Defense. "You say, should I open fire?"

The Minister of Defense lowers his head. "Mr. President, I don't know."

Assad returns to his desk and sits down.

On the desk lies freshly delivered intelligence.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias pontoon bridge, Lieutenant Alvarez is still setting up his coffee stand on the bridge. Every day, he brews a pot of Chiapas coffee, pours two cups, drinks one himself, and places another beside the table. Next to Hassan's cup. Both cups are empty.

"Tell that Mexican bridge-constructor, I want another cup of coffee."

The Minister of Defense raises his head. "Mr. President, you went just yesterday —"

He stands up, walks to the coat rack, takes down that old uniform, and puts it on.