Chapter 2204: Can a Rebellion Ever Stop? (2)

Chapter 2204 -884: Can a Rebellion Ever Stop? (2)

The phone hung up.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The wind over the lake stopped, the water was flat, 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 bridge railing in two lines, like two golden ribbons in the night.

He put down the cup, leaned against the back of the chair, closed his eyes.

The wind blew over the lake, warm and humid, carrying the scent of blood. It drifted over from the direction of Damascus, where the tanks were headed.

He sat in the wind all night.

Damascus, Presidential Palace

Early morning.

Assad was awakened by the sound of gunfire.

The door was pushed open.

The Minister of Defense rushed in, not properly dressed, his face covered in sweat.

“Mr. President! The 4th Armored Division has rebelled! The division commander says you’ve gone soft, you’re no longer capable, and he’s going to clear out those terrorists for you!”

Assad turned around and looked at the Minister of Defense. His face was expressionless, his eyes empty, like two dried-up wells.

“Clear out? Where to? To the underworld?”

He returned to the bedside, picked up his old military uniform, and put it on. Then he walked to the coat rack, took off the pistol hanging on the wall. Makarov, nine-millimeter, brought out the year the Soviet Union disintegrated. The barrel shone brightly, the magazine was full.

“Mr. President, what are you doing?”

Assad didn’t answer. He walked out of the bedroom, down the long corridor, pushed open the main door of the Presidential Palace, and stood on the steps.

Assad stood on the steps, looking at those tanks, at those gun barrels, at those soldiers peeking out from the turrets. They looked at him; he looked at them.

He raised the pistol towards the sky.

“Bang!”

The gun fired. It wasn’t aimed at people; it was aimed at the sky.

All the tank barrels simultaneously turned towards him.

Assad stood on the steps, holding the pistol, facing those dark muzzles.

“Brothers of the 4th Armored Division, I am Hafez Assad. Your President. Your division commander has betrayed me, and he has betrayed you.”

His voice carried far in the night wind.

“Now, I give you a choice. Lay down your arms, return to the barracks. I’ll pretend today’s events never happened. Or, you continue firing. Kill me first, then kill them. After they’re all dead, Syria is no more. With Syria gone, where will you go? Will you go home? Your homes are in those you kill. You go back, their families will kill you. Don’t go back, and you’re homeless. Homeless, you’ll wander. Wandering, leads to death. Death means dying in vain.”

He lowered the pistol.

“I’ll count to ten. If you don’t lay down your arms by then, I’ll lay down mine. Not as a surrender, but to let you kill me. Kill me, and you become Syria’s sinners. Sinners aren’t fit to be living.”

The night wind was cold, carrying the scent of blood and the fragrance of spring.

“Return to the barracks.” He said.

The soldiers started to walk. Some went north, some south, some didn’t know where to go. They walked slowly, like waking from a nightmare, unable to distinguish dream from reality.

The Minister of Defense stood behind Assad.

“Mr. President, the wounded—”

“Send them to the hospital. Damascus hospitals are full, send them to Tiberias City. The Israelis’ hospitals are accepting them.”

“Mr. President, that’s Israel—”

“What’s wrong with the Israelis? Israelis are people too. People helping people, what’s wrong with that?”

The Minister of Defense bowed his head, turned, and left.

He turned around, walked up the steps, and into the Presidential Palace. The door closed behind him.

Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet Flagship “Independence”

Admiral Morales hadn’t slept all night.

He stood on the bridge, holding a binoculars, looking at the distant dark sea. The fleet of the Big Mao People had retreated fifty nautical miles, the American aircraft carriers were still fifteen nautical miles away, his fleet was in the middle, like a patty sandwiched in a sandwich.

“General, news from Damascus.” The adjutant ran over, holding a freshly translated telegram, “The 4th Armored Division has rebelled, Assad personally intervened, soldiers laid down their arms and returned to barracks. Assad is still alive.”

Morales put down the binoculars. “Assad is still alive? Those rebelling soldiers didn’t kill him?”

“TMD rebellion can be half-hearted?”

“Didn’t kill him. He stood on the steps, holding a pistol, fired it towards the sky. Then counted to ten. When finished, the soldiers laid down their arms.”

Morales was silent for a long time. “He counted to ten. Ten is enough for those soldiers to have shot him dead a hundred times over. They didn’t shoot. Why?”

The adjutant shook his head.

Morales turned, gazing out the porthole at the sea. “Because they didn’t want to kill him. They’re Syrians; he’s the President of Syria. They hate him, but they don’t want to kill him. If they do, Syria would be gone. Gone, and they’re homeless. Homeless means wandering. Wandering leads to death. Death means dying in vain.”

He walked back to the command table, picked up the red phone.

“Connect me to Mexico City.”

The phone rang once, connected. Victor’s voice answered.

“General Morales.”

“Leader, have you heard about Damascus?”

“I have.”

Morales tapped his fingers on the table. “Leader, how much longer do we stay here?”

“Until the Big Mao People leave, the Americans leave, Assad isn’t being killed, the Syrians aren’t fleeing. Until the protesters are gone from Damascus’ streets, no travelers are on the bridges over Lake Tiberias, no more bodies buried under the olive grove. Until—”