Chapter 2202: Fleet Raid! (Part 3)

Chapter 2202 -883: Fleet Raid! (Part 3)

Morales tapped his fingers on the table. “General Korosov, if I retreat, what about Assad? If my fleet retreats, Assad will think he has no support. If he thinks he has no support, he’ll become afraid. Afraid, he’ll shoot. Shoot, people die. If people die, I’ve brewed my coffee for nothing.”

Korosov laughed softly. “General Morales, Assad hasn’t been firing anymore. Yesterday he went to your bridge, drank your coffee, and said, ‘I won’t kill anymore.’ He went again today. He’ll go again tomorrow. He goes every day, says every day he won’t kill anymore. Says he won’t kill, then he won’t kill. Won’t kill, won’t be any deaths. No deaths, and your coffee won’t be wasted. So, will you retreat?”

Morales was silent for a long time. “I’ll retreat fifty nautical miles. You retreat fifty nautical miles. The Americans are watching. Whoever goes back on their word is a coward.”

The call ended.

Morales put down the headset, looking out the porthole at the sea. The fleet of the Big Mao people was turning, heading north, retreating toward Tartus Port. The American aircraft carrier was still there, its F-35Cs on deck already retracted, only a few helicopters circling around.

“General, are we retreating?”

Morales turned around, looking at his aide. “Retreat. Head west fifty nautical miles. Tell all units to stay in combat readiness. If anyone tries to catch up while we’re retreating, fire.”

The aide turned and left. Morales stood at the porthole, watching the fleet of the Big Mao people grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared over the horizon. He picked up binoculars, looking in the direction of the American aircraft carrier. The ‘Ford’ was still there, motionless, like a gray giant beast floating on the sea.

“Americans,” he murmured, “what are you watching?”

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge. Evening.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind the folding table, the coffee in the thermos already cold. The two cups on the table were empty, one his own, the other Hassan’s. The sun began to set in the west, the golden lake surface slowly turning silver, and the distant outline of Tiberias City becoming blurred.

A vehicle came from the east end of the bridge. Not a black sedan, but an ambulance. White, with blue lights flashing on top, a red crescent emblem on the door. The vehicle stopped behind the tent, the door opened, and a person in a white coat, wearing a mask, carrying a stretcher, got out. On the stretcher lay a person, covered with a white cloth stained with blood.

Alvarez stood up and walked over. “Who?”

The stretcher bearers stopped and looked at him. “From Damascus. Not a protestor, a soldier. National Guard, 4th Armored Division. Assad ordered them back to the barracks; he refused. He said he would stand in front of the protestors to shield them from bullets. His officer shot him, hitting his leg.”

Alvarez lifted the white cloth.

Underneath was a young face in his early twenties, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, covered in sweat. The left pant leg was cut open, bandages wrapped around the thigh, soaked in blood, red turning black. He recognized that face.

He had seen this person.

On that bridge, in front of that folding table, opposite Assad. He was Assad’s guard, came yesterday with Assad, stood at the east end of the bridge, but didn’t cross. He came today too, but not standing, lying.

“Take him away. The Israeli hospital is to the west of Tiberias City. Ask for directions when you get there, someone will meet you.”

The stretcher was carried away. The ambulance turned around and headed west, the blue lights flashing in the twilight, going further and further.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the vehicle disappear into the alleys of Tiberias City.

He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down. The coffee in the thermos was cold, and he didn’t pour it out. He picked up Hassan’s cup, poured the cold coffee into the lake, then filled it again, placing it beside the table.

“General Hassan, Assad’s guard has arrived.”

No one answered.

He looked at the cup of coffee for a long time.

Then he picked up the radio. “Connect me to Mexico City.”

The phone rang once, then connected.

Victor’s voice came from the other end. “Lieutenant.”

“Leader, Assad’s guard was shot. Not by civilians, but by his officer. He shielded the protestors from bullets, and his officer shot him. He didn’t die, got sent over the bridge; the Israeli hospital is treating him.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Lieutenant, tell that guard, the bridge is for people to cross, not for bullets. If bullets cross the bridge, the bridge will break. If the bridge breaks, water can’t flow through. If water can’t flow through, people can’t drink water. If people can’t drink water, they’ll die. If he doesn’t want people to die, don’t let bullets cross the bridge.”

The call ended.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The wind on the lake had stopped, the water was calm, like a mirror reflecting the stars in the sky. The lights on the bridge came on, a string of small bulbs lined up along the railings, like two golden ribbons in the night.

He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. It was cold, bitter, and sharp like medicine.

He put down the cup, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. The wind blew across the lake, warm, carrying moisture and the scent of blood. It wafted from the direction of Damascus, where the protestors were.

He sat in the wind all night.