Chapter 2211: Tough Guy

Chapter 2211 -886: Tough Guy

Assad stopped and turned around.

In the city of Aleppo, at least twenty tanks were rolling out. The turrets bore the Syrian flag, green, white, black, with two stars on it.

The last reserves of the First Division.

The commander is dead, they command themselves. When the shells run out, they move them from the warehouse. When that’s done, they load themselves. After loading, they fire themselves.

The officer leading them, in his thirties, with a face full of stubble, wearing a worn-out camouflage uniform. He stuck his head out from the tank, looking at Assad.

“Mr. President! We are late!”

Assad stood there, watching those tanks pass by him. The tracks crushed the bodies on the ground, crushed those shell casings, crushed those broken photographs.

He crouched down and picked up a photograph.

In the photo was a young woman in her early twenties, wearing a wedding dress, smiling.

Did he know her? No. But whose daughter is she, whose wife, whose mother? He didn’t know. He only knew, she was dead. Dead in this ruin, dead under the Turkish shells, dead in—he didn’t know whom to blame.

He folded the photo and put it in his pocket.

Stood up, continued walking.

Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet flagship “Independence”

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding a telescope, looking at the distant gray-blue sea.

The Turkish fleet had already entered Syrian territorial waters. Two frigates, three destroyers, approaching Tartus Port. Their target was not the Big Mao people, but Syria’s coastline.

“General, the Turks have sent a signal.”

Morales took the headset. On the other end was the voice of a Turkish Navy rear admiral, very rigid, as if reciting a textbook.

“Mexican Fleet, this is Turkish Navy vessel ‘Sakarya.’ We are conducting a NATO-authorized maritime patrol mission. Please maintain a safe distance. Over.”

Morales pressed the communication button. “‘Sakarya,’ this is Mexican Fleet flagship ‘Independence.’ We are conducting a legal mission in international waters. Please maintain your current course to avoid misjudgment. Over.”

The other side was silent for three seconds.

“General Morales, your missiles are locking onto our vessels. This is an act of war.”

“General, my missiles have not been fired. Your vessels have not been hit. This is not an act of war, this is deterrence. You are fighting in Syria, we are watching at sea. You do your fighting, we do our watching. You don’t touch us, we don’t touch you. You touch us, we will touch you. It’s fair.”

The communication was cut.

Morales put down the headset, looking at the sea through the porthole. The Turkish fleet was still approaching, twelve nautical miles away. At this distance, missiles could reach in thirty seconds.

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

Morales picked up the headset. On the other end was the voice of General Korosov, hoarser, more tired than yesterday.

“General Morales, the Turks are here. They’re not here to help us, they’re here to take land. Assad is nearly done in Aleppo, his army is almost gone, Syria is almost gone. We—we are also almost gone.”

Morales said nothing.

“General Morales, I want to go home. My fleet wants to go home. But the Turks are here, we can’t leave. If we leave, they will take our base. If the base is taken, we can’t come back. If we can’t come back, we’ll be adrift at sea forever. Adrift at sea, we’re dead. I don’t want to die at sea. I want to die in Moscow.”

Morales was silent for a long time.

“General Korosov, your fleet can’t leave, my fleet can’t leave either. If neither of us can leave, we’ll both stay here. Stay, and wait. Wait to see who gives in first.”

Golan Heights, Floating bridge of Lake Tiberias

Lieutenant Alvarez didn’t sleep all night.

He sat behind the folding table, in front of him the three cups of coffee were all cold. Hassan’s, Assad’s, and one more—he thought for a moment, picked it up, and placed it on the other side. Three cups, three directions.

The fog at the eastern end of the bridge dissipated.

A person walked out of the fog.

Wearing an old military uniform, two stars on the shoulder straps, medals pinned on the chest. Hair was white, back was bent, left arm wrapped with a bandage, the bandage soaked with blood, red turning black.

Assad.

He walked onto the bridge, very slowly, each step heavy. He walked to the front of the folding table, standing in front of those three cups of coffee.

“Lieutenant, which cup is mine?”

Alvarez pointed to the cup beside. “This cup is General Hassan’s. This cup is yours. This cup is—”

He stopped.

Assad looked at him. “Whose is this cup?”

Alvarez was silent for three seconds. “This cup belongs to those who died in Aleppo. They can’t drink it anymore. The cup stays empty either way.”

Assad sat down, picked up that cup of coffee, and took a sip.

Cold. Bitter, very bitter, no fragrance anymore.

“Lieutenant, I’ve lost.”

Alvarez said nothing.

“The Turks are still fighting. My army is almost gone. Aleppo is almost lost. Syria is almost gone. I’ve lost. Lost, I should step down. Step down, I should go into exile. Exile, I should die. Die, and it would be good.”

He put the cup down.

“But I’m still alive. Being alive, it means I haven’t lost. Haven’t lost, I can’t step down. Can’t step down, I can’t go into exile. Can’t go into exile, I can’t die. Can’t die, I have to keep fighting. Keep fighting, people will continue to die. As people continue to die, there will still be those holding photos standing at the gates of the Presidential Palace. It’s a circle, a dead circle. I’ve been going around for thirty-one years, and I can’t move anymore.”

He looked at Alvarez.

“Lieutenant, tell me, what should I do?”

Alvarez looked at him, looked for a long time.

“Mr. President, the bridge is not for escaping. The bridge is for passing. You, pass by, have a coffee, then go back. Go back, do whatever needs doing. Fight if there’s a war, kill if there’s killing. That’s your fate. Fate can’t be changed.”

Assad stood up, looking at the lake surface.

The lake water was very blue, the sky was very blue, and the distant Tiberias City was very white.

“Lieutenant, what if I don’t go back?”

Alvarez looked at him. “Then you stay here. Stay on the bridge, have coffee, watch the lake, wait for people to cross the bridge. Once you’ve waited enough, go back. Go back, do whatever needs doing. That’s your fate. Fate can’t be changed.”

Assad was silent for a long time.

Then he turned, walked off the bridge.

Took a few steps, stopped, did not turn around.

“Lieutenant, is the coffee still brewing?”

“Brewing.”

“I’ll come again tomorrow. Coffee, keep it brewing.”

He got into the car.

The car door closed, the car turned around, heading north. That was toward Aleppo.

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

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the car disappear into the dust.

He turned around, walked back to the side of the folding table, and sat down.

The coffee in the thermal flask was still hot, he poured a cup, picked it up, and took a sip.

Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

He looked at the three empty cups.

“General Hassan, President Assad, those who died in Aleppo. The coffee got cold, it can be reheated. When people die, they can’t come back to life. But when a cup is empty, someone fills it. It’s filled, so someone drinks. Once someone drinks, someone remembers. Remembering means living.”

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

The wind blew across the lake, warm, carrying moisture, and also carrying the scent of blood.

Drifting from the direction of Aleppo.

The direction of those tanks.