Chapter 2209: Tough Guy

Chapter 2209 -886: Tough Guy

Aleppo, North Suburb Position

The First Division’s line has already fallen back three times.

The first time was at seven in the morning, when the Turks’ tanks burst through the first trench line.

The second time was at eleven at noon, when the Syrian National Army’s pickups swung around to outflank them.

The third time was at three in the afternoon, when the Turkish Air Force’s F-16s blew up the divisional command post.

Assad crawled out of the ruined command bunker, his face caked in dust, blood running down his left arm.

The shrapnel had torn the wound open, flesh folded back, a stark, ghastly white.

The division commander lay beside him, already dead. Shrapnel bored into his temple and out the other side, blood and brain matter mixed together, smeared all over the ground.

Assad knelt on the ground, staring at that face. He had known this man for thirty years.

In 1970, when he launched the “Corrective Movement,” this man was only nineteen, shouldering an RPG and following right behind him, storming the Presidential Palace in Damascus. Now he was dead, dead in Aleppo, killed by Turkish bombs, dead at Assad’s side.

“Mr. President!” A soldier ran over, his face covered in blood, his left arm hanging in a sling, “The Turks have broken through the third defensive line! They’re pushing into the city! We—we can’t hold them!”

Assad stood up and looked north. The Turks’ tanks were rolling through the village that had been flattened by bombing, guns pointed toward Aleppo. At least thirty vehicles, infantry trailing behind, and behind them the Syrian National Army’s pickups.

He lowered his head, looking at the division commander’s face, already gone cold.

“How many men do we have left?”

“Less than two thousand. Ammunition—under twenty rounds per man. Anti-tank missiles—gone. Mortar shells—gone too.”

Assad was silent for three seconds.

“Do we still have artillery?”

“Three guns left. Shells—less than ten rounds per gun.”

Assad nodded. He walked to the three guns. The crews were loading rounds. Very young, the oldest no more than twenty-five, the youngest just nineteen. They looked at him, their eyes holding fear, exhaustion, and a trace of—he didn’t know what it was.

“Load. Target—the Turks’ tank column. When you’ve fired everything, you run. If you can’t run, you die. And if you die, you die on the gun line.”

When the first shell left the barrel, Assad stood beside the gun position, watching the arc cut across the sky and fall into the middle of the Turkish tank column. One tank was hit, its turret blown off, slamming into the ground, rolling twice, then stopping.

Second round. Third. Fourth.

By the seventh round, the Turks’ counterfire came. Shells crashed down around him, blooming into orange-red bursts of flame. Shrapnel screamed over his head, whistling like summer mosquitoes. One gunner was hit and collapsed on the gun position, a hole in his chest, blood surging out like a faucet suddenly turned on.

Assad crouched, looking at that face. Nineteen, the same age as his son. The boy’s eyes were still open, staring at the sky. The sky was very blue, very clean, no planes, no shells, nothing at all.

He closed the boy’s eyes with his hand and stood up.

“Keep firing.”

Eighth round. Ninth. Tenth.

The shells were gone. The three guns went silent. The gun crews stood beside their positions, looking at him.

“Mr. President, we’re out of shells.”

Assad nodded.

“Then get ready to die for your country.”

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

Victor read the battle report that had just arrived.

The First Division’s casualties were over eighty percent.

Assad was still at the front.

The Turks’ tanks had already advanced to the outskirts of Aleppo. A CNN reporter stood inside the city, facing the camera: “This is the bloodiest day in modern Syrian history.”

He turned the TV off.

Bramo stood behind him, his face pale.

“Assad is almost at his limit. The Turks have given him twenty-four hours to surrender. Otherwise, they’ll launch a general offensive. The United States is watching, Europe is condemning, Russia is cursing. But no one is sending troops. No one is helping him.”

Victor got up and walked to the window.

Outside, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma had thinned out. The sun was about to set, gilding the whole avenue in gold.

“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 there for Assad. Whenever he comes back, that’s when he drinks it. If he doesn’t come back, just leave it. If it’s left there, someone will come.”

He turned around and looked at Bramo.

“Tell General Morales to bring the fleet to combat readiness. Missiles loaded, radar online, fire-control systems locked. Target—the Turkish Fleet. We’re not firing; we’re letting them know Mexico is here. Mexico is watching. Mexicans are not to be messed with.”

Bramo turned and left.

Victor stood at the window, looking at the sunset outside.

“Assad,” he murmured, “before you die, have a cup of coffee.”

Aleppo, outskirts

Darkness was closing in.

Assad leaned against a half-collapsed wall, gasping for breath. His left arm had stopped bleeding; the wound had scabbed over, dark brown, like a centipede clinging to his arm. His old uniform was unrecognizable, nothing but dust, dirt, blood—his own, others’, impossible to tell apart.

There were fewer than a thousand men left around him.

They were scattered among the ruins, some digging positions, some cleaning their rifles, some resting with their eyes shut. No one spoke. The gunfire in the distance still crackled, but more and more sporadically. The Turks were resting too, waiting for dawn.

A young soldier crawled up beside him. Nineteen, still with half-shaved stubble on his face, eyes glinting in the dark.