Chapter 2205: Can a Rebellion Just Stop? (Part 3)

Chapter 2205 -884: Can a Rebellion Just Stop? (Part 3)

He paused.

“When someone finally drinks Hassan’s coffee.”

The call ended.

Morales sat there, holding the receiver, listening to the busy tone. Outside the porthole, dawn was near. A pale fish-belly white was spreading along the eastern horizon, very faint, like a thin layer of ash.

He stood up and walked to the porthole.

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

Morales put on the headset. On the other end was Korosov’s voice, raspier and more exhausted than yesterday.

“General Morales, Assad is not dead. His own people betrayed him, and then he pulled them back. He’s still President. He’s still alive. Alive, that’s good. Alive, we can talk. Talk, we can stop. Stop, we can withdraw. Withdraw, we can go home.”

Morales said nothing.

“General Morales, I want to go home. I’ve been drifting at sea for forty days. My wife called and said the pipes at home are leaking and nobody’s fixing them. My daughter said she got into university, asked if I’ll come to her graduation. I said, I will. She asked, when are you coming back? I said, soon. She asked, how long is ‘soon’? I said, I don’t know. Now I know.”

He paused.

“Once your fleet pulls back, I’ll go home.”

Morales was silent for a long time. “General Korosov, if my fleet pulls back, your fleet will pull back too. After we all pull out, what happens to Assad?”

“Assad is a Syrian. Syrians’ affairs should be handled by Syrians themselves. We’re done. We’ve been meddling for thirty years. That’s enough. Enough, and we stop. Stop, and we go home. Go home, and things are better.”

The line cut.

Morales put down the headset and looked at the sky outside the porthole, now beginning to pale.

“All units, this is Morales. Prepare to withdraw. Destination—Haifa Port. Not going home, we’re waiting. Waiting for whom? Waiting for those who cross the bridge. Once we’ve waited enough, we go home.”

Mexico City, top floor of the “Feathered Serpent Temple”

Victor stood at the window, looking at the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. It was already late morning. The traffic was heavy, jammed into a clump, horns blaring one after another. He watched the cars, watched for a long time.

Bramo stood behind him.

“Assad is still alive. The 4th Armored Division has returned to camp. The wounded have been sent to Tiberias City. The Israelis are taking them in. The Big Mao People’s fleet has pulled back. The United States’ carriers are still there. Our fleet is withdrawing toward Haifa Port.”

Victor didn’t turn around. “Tell Morales not to withdraw too far. Stay off Haifa Port.”

Bramo nodded.

“One more thing. Bennett’s people sent back intelligence from Damascus. The hand behind the 4th Armored Division’s mutiny wasn’t the division commander, it was—the Big Mao People. They turned the commander. Their goal wasn’t to help Assad kill people, it was to push Assad out. Once Syria is in chaos, they can stay garrisoned in the name of ‘maintaining stability’ for the long term.”

“Tell Bennett to send the intelligence about turning the 4th Armored Division to Assad. Let him know who’s stabbing him in the back. Let him know the Big Mao People are not his friends, they’re the ones feeding on him. Let him know his only friends are those protesters. Are those people he has killed. Are the families of those he has killed.”

He looked at Bramo.

“Let him know the only road on which he can live is to put down the gun, walk out of the Presidential Palace, stand before those protesters, and say one sentence: ‘I was wrong.’ After he says it, they may still kill him. But when they kill him, they won’t hate him. Without hate, they won’t go on killing. Without killing, people won’t go on dying. Without dying, Syria will live. When Syria lives, he will die. He dies, Syria lives. This is his only road.”

Bramo turned and left.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Get me the Golan Heights. Find Lieutenant Alvarez.”

The phone rang many times before it was picked up. On the other end was Alvarez’s voice, hoarse, exhausted, but steady.

“Leader.”

“Lieutenant, how many people are still on the bridge?”

“A bit more than a hundred. Waiting for dawn. At dawn they’ll cross.”

Victor was silent for three seconds. “Tell them, the Israelis on the other side of the bridge are not enemies. They’re the ones taking them in. They take them in not because they pity Syrians, but because they know that if today a Syrian needs to be taken in, tomorrow an Israeli may need to be taken in by Syrians. This is cause and effect. Cause and effect can’t be escaped.”

He paused.

“Tell them, Mexico’s bridge is forever open to them. Mexico’s coffee is forever brewing for them. Mexico’s white flag is forever raised for them. When they cross the bridge, they’re going home. When they don’t cross, they’re waiting for home. Where is home? Home is where there is peace. Where is peace? Peace is on the other side of the bridge.”