Chapter 2207: Husky? The Consequence! (Part 2)

Chapter 2207 -885: Husky? The Consequence! (Part 2)

“Tell the First Division,” he said, “move north. Go to Aleppo. Block the Turks.”

The Minister of Defense was stunned. “Mr. President, the First Division—”

“What’s wrong with the First Division? The First Division is Syrian troops. Syrian troops must defend Syrian territory. The Turks are coming, if they don’t block them, who will?”

The Minister of Defense lowered his head. “The soldiers of the First Division—they say they don’t want to fight. They say that in all the fighting, it’s Syrians who die. The Turks come, the Turks go, they are still here. They don’t want to fight for Assad anymore.”

Assad placed his hand on the window frame, his knuckles white. He thought of Hassan, of that olive grove, of those monuments. The monuments bore names, and beneath the names were etched: “He waited eleven years. Never entered home.” Now those soldiers are waiting too, waiting for what? Waiting for a president who doesn’t kill? Waiting for a country that doesn’t go to war? Waiting for orders that might let them return home alive?

“Tell the First Division,” he said, “they are not fighting for me. They are fighting for Syria. If Syria is gone, can they go home? Their homes are in those destroyed ruins. Where would they live if they return?”

The Minister of Defense turned and walked away.

Assad stood at the window, watching the people holding up photos. He remembered what Lieutenant Alvarez said yesterday: “Mr. President, you shouldn’t be here. The bridge is for people to cross, not for murderers.” He didn’t cross the bridge; he sat there for a while and drank a cup of coffee. The coffee was bitter but aromatic. Syrian coffee is also bitter but lacks aroma, because Syrian coffee has the taste of blood.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Connect me to the Golan Heights. Find Lieutenant Alvarez.”

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

“Mr. President.”

“Lieutenant, the Turks are coming. They want to overthrow me.”

There was silence for three seconds on the other end. “Mr. President, what do you want to do?”

“I want to cross the bridge.”

Alvarez was silent again. “Mr. President, the bridge is not for escaping. It’s for passing through. You pass through, have a cup of coffee, and then go back. Go back, do what needs to be done. Fight a war if necessary, kill if necessary. That is your fate. Fate can’t be changed.”

Assad’s hand gripped the phone. “Lieutenant, what if I don’t fight? What if I don’t kill? What if I lay down my gun, walk out of the Presidential Palace, and stand before the Turks and say, ‘I surrender’?”

Alvarez was silent for a long time. “Then you’ll lose. Losing means stepping down. Stepping down leads to exile. Exile leads to living. Living is good.”

Assad laughed softly, bitterly. “Living is good. Lieutenant, do you believe that?”

“Mr. President, I don’t know. But I know one thing—the bridge remains, the water continues to flow. Coffee keeps brewing. If you come by the bridge, have a cup. When you’re done, go back. Go back, do what needs to be done.”

The phone clicked off.

Assad sat there, holding the receiver, listening to the busy signal. Outside the window, those holding photos remained. He watched them for a long time.

Then he stood up, walked to the coat rack, and took down the old military uniform and put it on. He then walked to the desk, picked up the Makarov Pistol, and tucked it into his waistband.

He walked out of his office, down the long corridor, pushed open the doors of the Presidential Palace, and stood on the steps.

The protesters looked at him, holding up photos.

He looked at the photos, looked at the faces, looked at the eyes.

“Fellow Syrians,”

he spoke, his voice echoing across the square, “the Turks have come. They want to fight us. They haven’t come to liberate us; they’ve come to occupy us. If they come, they won’t leave. They’ll build bases in Syria, station troops, levy taxes, conscript soldiers, turning us into a Turkish colony. Do you want that?”

No one answered.

“You don’t want that. Neither do I. So, I must move north. Go to Aleppo, go to the front, and fight the Turks. If I lose, I die. If I win, I’ll return. When I return, you’ll continue holding up photos, and I’ll continue standing here, listening to you chant ‘Assad step down.’ It’s your right. But before I die, before I come back, let me be president for one more day. One day is enough.”

He walked down the steps towards the armored vehicle parked at the entrance. The protesters watched him but did not stop him. He got into the vehicle, the door closed, the engine started. The armored vehicle turned around and drove north.

That was the direction of Aleppo. The direction of war. The direction from which he might not return.

In Mexico City, at the top of the “Feathered Serpent Temple.”

Victor watched CNN’s live broadcast.

On the screen, Turkish troops were crossing the Syrian border, tanks lined up like dragons, raising a cloud of dust. F-16s flew overhead, the roar of the engines audible even through the screen. The CNN reporter stood in a small Turkish border town, saying to the camera, “This is the largest military operation in the Middle East.”

He turned off the TV.

Bramo stood behind him.

“The Turks have sent in their troops. The goal is to overthrow Assad. The Syrian National Army has already taken several villages east of Afrin and is advancing towards Aleppo. The Turkish Regular Army is following behind, at least one armored brigade. The United States is watching, Europe is condemning, and Great Russia is cursing. But no one is sending troops. No one is helping Assad.”

Victor turned around. “And Assad?”