Chapter 2201: Fleet Raid! (2)

Chapter 2201 -883: Fleet Raid! (2)

“Prepare the car.”

Golan Heights, floating bridge on Lake Tiberias.

Early morning.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind the folding table; the coffee in the thermos had just been brewed. He poured two cups, one set in front of himself, one beside the table. Side by side with Hassan’s cup. Two cups, both steaming.

A car came up at the eastern end of the bridge. A black sedan, its body spattered with mud. The door opened; the man who got out was wearing an old uniform, two stars on his shoulder boards, medals on his chest. Assad. He walked onto the bridge, walking very slowly, but steadier than yesterday. He came to the folding table and stood before the two cups of coffee.

“Lieutenant, which one is mine?”

Alvarez pointed to the cup beside him. “This one is General Hassan’s. This one is yours.”

Assad sat down, picked up his cup of coffee, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

“Lieutenant, do you know why I’ve come again?”

Alvarez shook his head.

Assad looked out at the lake. The sun had just risen from behind the hills in the east, dyeing the surface of the water gold. In the distance, Tiberias City gleamed white in the morning light, like a city built on the water.

“Because I have nowhere else to go. The Presidential Palace is my home, but my home is full of dead people. Those protesters stand at the gate, holding photos of the dead, looking at me. I look at them the way I look at those dead. Those dead—some I know, some I don’t. The ones I know are the ones I killed. The ones I don’t know are also the ones I killed. The people I killed live in my home. My home is a home for the dead.”

He took another sip of coffee.

“So I came out. But once I’m out, there’s nowhere to go. Damascus is my city, but the city is full of protesters. Syria is my country, but the country is full of people who hate me. The whole world is full of people who hate me. Only on this bridge, no one hates me. Only on this bridge, someone pours me a cup of coffee.”

Alvarez looked at him.

“Mr. President, this bridge doesn’t hate anyone. On this bridge there is only coffee, only water, only people passing through. You pass through, you drink a cup of coffee. When you’ve finished, you go back. Once you’re back, you do what you must do. If you must open fire, you open fire. If you must kill, you kill. That’s your fate. Fate doesn’t change.”

Assad set down his cup. “Lieutenant, what if I go back today and don’t open fire?”

Alvarez was silent for three seconds. “Then tomorrow you’ll have to come again. When you come tomorrow, you’ll have to say you won’t open fire. The day after tomorrow you’ll have to say it again. Say it until they believe you. Once they believe you, they won’t protest anymore. Once they stop protesting, they’ll go home. Once they go home, they’ll live. Once they live, it’s good.”

Assad stood up and looked at the lake. The sun was already high, casting glittering ripples across the water like a layer of scattered gold.

“Lieutenant, I’ll come again tomorrow. Keep the coffee brewing.”

He turned, walked off the bridge, and got into the car. The door closed, the car turned around and headed south. That was the direction of Damascus.

Alvarez sat behind the folding table, watching the car disappear into the dust. He picked up his own coffee and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant. He looked at the cup beside him, Hassan’s cup. The coffee was still steaming.

“General Hassan, Assad came again. He drank your coffee, sat in your chair, looked at your lake. He said he’ll come again tomorrow. Do you believe that?”

No one answered. He set down his cup, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes. The wind swept over the lake, warm, heavy with moisture and with the smell of coffee.

Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet flagship Independence. Eight a.m.

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding his binoculars, looking at the gray-blue sea in the distance. The Big Mao People’s fleet was still there, but its formation had changed. Three destroyers were lined up in a straight line, bows pointing north, toward the United States carrier. Two cruisers fanned out, bows pointing west, toward the Mexican Fleet. The nuclear submarine was gone; no one knew where it had submerged.

“General, radar confirms: the Big Mao People’s nuclear submarine is fifteen nautical miles to the southeast, depth one hundred and fifty meters, slowly moving north.”

Morales lowered his binoculars. “They’re closing in on the Americans.”

The aide stood behind him. “Should we warn them?”

“No warning. Tell the Americans. Let them handle it themselves.”

The aide turned and left. Morales stood by the porthole, looking toward the United States carrier. The Ford had already stopped, fifteen nautical miles away, bow pointing east toward the Big Mao People’s fleet. On the deck, several F-35Cs were being catapulted into the air; the roar of their engines could be heard even across fifteen nautical miles, muffled, like thunder.

“General, the Big Mao People have sent a signal.”

Morales took the headset. On the other end was Korosov’s voice, hoarse, exhausted, but very steady.

“General Morales, your United States friends are launching aircraft. That’s a provocation.”

Morales pressed the transmit key. “General Korosov, your nuclear submarine is closing in on the United States carrier. That’s the real provocation.”

Korosov was silent for three seconds.

“General Morales, neither of us wants a war. But your Mexican friends are at Damascus Airport, and my Big Mao People friends are at Tartus Port. Your Mexican friends are on the bridge pouring coffee for Assad; my Big Mao People friends are at sea watching your Mexican friends. This is a stalemate. A stalemate always needs someone to break it.”

“How do you want to break it?”

“You step back, I step back. Your fleet withdraws fifty nautical miles to the west, my fleet withdraws fifty nautical miles to the north. The United States sits in the middle and watches. Whoever refuses to step back is the one who doesn’t want peace talks.”