Chapter 2208: Husky? The Consequence! (Part 3)

Chapter 2208 -885: Husky? The Consequence! (Part 3)

“He went north. To Aleppo. Took the First Division. He said he was going to fight the Turks. If he lost, he’d die. If he won, he’d come back. When he came back, he’d go on listening to those people shouting ‘Assad step down.'”

Victor was silent for a long time. “He’s crazy.”

Bramo said nothing.

“A President whose own people are shouting ‘step down,’ taking an army that doesn’t want to fight, to go up against the second largest standing army in NATO. He’s crazy. But he knows he’ll lose, he knows he’ll die, and he still went. Why?”

Bramo thought for a moment. “Because he wants to die in Syria, not in exile in Moscow.”

Victor walked back to his desk and sat down.

A freshly delivered intelligence report was spread out on the desk.

Bennett’s people had sent it back from Damascus. Before Assad left, he locked the complete list of Case 317 in the Presidential Palace’s safe. He handed the key to the Minister of Defense. Said one sentence: “If I don’t come back, give this to Lieutenant Alvarez. Tell him, Syrians will not forget.”

“Tell Bennett,” Victor said, “to make that list public. Not now. Wait until Assad is dead. When he’s dead, the whole world will know how many people he killed. When he’s dead, those people holding up his photo won’t hold it up anymore. When he’s dead, Syria can live.”

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was still jammed as always. Horns blared one after another, someone stuck their head out the car window and looked toward the National Palace. They didn’t know there was a battle raging in Aleppo, didn’t know Turkish tanks were crushing Syrian villages, didn’t know a President about to be forced from office was sitting in an armored vehicle driving north.

“And,” he turned around, “tell Lieutenant Alvarez, don’t shut down the coffee stall on the bridge. Brew a pot of coffee every day and set it on the table. Whoever comes, drinks. If Syrians come, give it to Syrians; if Turks come, give it to Turks. If Mexicans come, pour a cup for ourselves too. The bridge can’t be left unwatched. The water can’t be left to stop flowing. People can’t be left without someone to remember them.”

He paused.

“Tell General Morales, don’t withdraw the fleet. Keep it off Haifa Port. Wait. Wait until Assad is dead, until Syria is in chaos, until the Turks are exhausted from fighting. When someone is needed to clean up the mess, that’s when we move.”

Aleppo, Northern Suburbs.

Dawn had not yet broken.

Assad stood on the second floor of a bombed-out building, holding a pair of binoculars and looking north. On the horizon, Turkish tanks were massing. At least fifty, lined up in assault formation, their barrels pointing toward Aleppo. Further out, pickup trucks of the Syrian National Army were pushing forward, heavy machine guns mounted on their beds, kicking up a storm of dust.

The commander of the First Division stood behind him, his voice shaking.

“Mr. President, we only have thirty tanks, two hundred artillery pieces, five thousand soldiers. The Turks have fifty tanks, a hundred aircraft, twenty thousand soldiers. We—we can’t win.”

Assad did not turn around. “Even if we can’t, we fight. If we can’t, we die. If we die, we die in Syria. We don’t die in Moscow, we don’t die in London, we don’t die in Paris. We die in Syria, we’re buried in Syria. Once we’re buried, it’s over. Once it’s over, it’s past. Once it’s past, it’s forgotten.”

He lowered the binoculars, turned, and looked at the division commander.

“Tell the brothers, they’re not fighting for me, they’re fighting for Syria. If Syria is gone, where do they go home to? Their homes are in those ruins that have been bombed to rubble. When they go back, where do they live?”

The commander’s eyes were red. “Mr. President—”

“Enough. Go get ready.”

The commander turned and left.

Assad stood by the window, watching those tanks drawing closer from the north. He thought of the cup of coffee he’d had on the bridge yesterday. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant. He thought of what Lieutenant Alvarez had said: “Mr. President, bridges aren’t for people to escape on. Bridges are for people passing through.” He hadn’t crossed the bridge; he was only passing through. He drank a cup of coffee, then came back. Since he’d come back, he was supposed to fight.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Put me through to the Golan Heights. Get me Lieutenant Alvarez.”

The phone rang once and was picked up.

“Lieutenant, I’m in Aleppo. The Turks are here. I’m about to fight.”

Alvarez was silent for three seconds. “Mr. President, have you killed people?”

Assad looked at the tanks outside the window. “I have. Many.”

“Are you afraid of dying?”

“No. A man who has killed people is not afraid of death. What he fears is that after he’s dead, no one remembers.”

Alvarez was silent for a long time. “Mr. President, someone remembers. Those people holding up the photos, they remember. Those buried beneath that olive grove, they remember. General Hassan, remembers. I remember. You crossed the bridge, drank coffee, I remember that. You go to war and die, I’ll remember that too.”

Assad’s tears fell.

“Lieutenant, thank you.”

The call ended. He stood there, gripping the handset, listening to the busy tone. Outside, the Turkish tanks began to advance. The earth was trembling.

He put down the phone and walked out of the building. Standing in front of the First Division’s line, he looked at those soldiers.

“Brothers of Syria,” he said, “the Turks are here. They’re here to fight us. They’re not here to liberate us; they’re here to occupy us. Once they come, they won’t leave. They’ll build bases in Syria, station troops, collect taxes, conscript soldiers, turn us into a Turkish colony. Do you want that?”

No one answered.

“You don’t. I don’t either. That’s why today, we stand here. Not for me, but for Syria. Not for Assad, but for those who died beneath the olive trees. Not for the past, but for the future. In the future, Syrians will decide for Syria. Not the Turks, not the United States, not the Russians. Syrians.”

He turned around and looked at those tanks getting closer and closer.

“Open fire.”

Eastern Mediterranean, flagship Independence of the Mexican Fleet.

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding his binoculars, gazing at the gray-blue sea in the distance. The Big Bear fleet had already pulled back into Tartus Port, the American carriers were still fifteen nautical miles away, and his fleet was in between, like a bone wedged between two stones.

“General, message from Damascus.” The adjutant came running. “Assad has reached Aleppo. The Turks are attacking. The First Division is fighting. Casualties—are heavy.”

Morales lowered his binoculars. “And Assad?”

“Still at the front. Hasn’t pulled back.”

Morales was silent for a long time. He thought of his Brother Hector, holding that blasted-out camp on the scorched earth of the Sinai Peninsula for five days, waiting for the fleet. When the fleet arrived, he was still alive. And Assad? Who was he waiting for? The Big Bear? The Big Bear had pulled back. The United States? The United States was watching. The Mexicans? The Mexicans were at sea, on the bridge, behind the coffee stall, holding a cup of coffee, watching him go to his death.

“Tell the Leader,” he said, “Assad is in Aleppo. The Turks are attacking. The First Division is dying. He’s dying too. He’s almost dead.”

Mexico City, top floor of the Feathered Serpent Temple.

Victor looked at the report just sent back from Aleppo.

The First Division had taken more than fifty percent casualties. Assad was still at the front. Turkish tanks had already advanced to the outskirts of Aleppo.

He set the report down.

Bramo stood in front of him.

“The Turks are demanding that Assad surrender within twenty-four hours. Otherwise, they’ll launch a general offensive.”

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was still jammed as always. Horns blared one after another, someone stuck their head out the car window and looked toward the National Palace.

“Tell Lieutenant Alvarez,” he said, “to brew a pot of coffee. Beans from the Chiapas Highlands, the kind Assad likes. Send it to the east end of the bridge, put it under the tent. Leave it for Assad. Whenever he comes back, that’s when he drinks it. If he doesn’t come back, just leave it there. Leave it there, and someone will come.”

He paused.

“Tell General Morales, bring the fleet to combat readiness. Missiles loaded, radar on, fire control locked on. Target—the Turkish Fleet. We’re not firing; we’re telling them the Mexicans are here. The Mexicans are watching. The Mexicans are not to be messed with.”