Chapter 2212: Martyrdom for the Nation?

Chapter 2212 -887: Martyrdom for the Nation?

Aleppo, northern suburbs. Night.

Assad leaned on the hood of the armored car, holding the cup of cold coffee.

Lieutenant Alvarez poured it for him from a thermos, beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, now cold, bitter like medicine.

He took a sip, didn’t spit it out, swallowed it. In the distance, the Turks’ tanks had stopped.

Not retreating, but waiting for dawn.

At dawn, they will launch their assault.

At dawn, his army will be wiped out. At dawn, Syria will be erased from the map, piece by piece.

He remembered what Alvarez said on the bridge in the afternoon, “Mr. President, the bridge is not for escape. Bridges are meant for crossing.”

He crossed the bridge, drank coffee, came back. He returned, so it was time to fight. Fight and then die. Dying is good. He put the empty cup on the hood, stood up, and looked at the soldiers scattered among the ruins. Less than eight hundred remaining, some digging trenches, some cleaning guns, some resting with closed eyes. No one spoke.

“Brothers,” he began, his voice carrying far in the night wind, “Before dawn, let me say a few words.” The soldiers lifted their heads, looking at him. It was dark among the ruins, faces indistinct, but he knew they were watching him.

“First sentence, I am not a good president. Those buried under the olive trees were killed by my brother. The ones my brother killed were also killed by me, because I am his brother. A brother must take responsibility for his brother. This is the tradition of Syria. Tradition cannot be lost.”

He paused.

“Second sentence, I am not a good general. I have lost battles, many battles. The Golan Heights were lost, Lake Tiberias was lost, Aleppo is almost lost. But I did not surrender. My people did not surrender. We fight until the last man, the last bullet, the last breath. When it’s all gone, we die. Once dead, we don’t fight anymore.”

He paused, lowered his head.

“Brothers, before dawn, you have the opportunity to leave. Go south, to Damascus, to Lake Tiberias, to that bridge. On the bridge, there are Mexicans, coffee, and white flags. They won’t stop you. Crossing the bridge means going home. Going home means living. Living is good.”

A young soldier named Khalid stood up, holding his gun, looking at him. “Mr. President, are you leaving?”

Assad looked at him. “I’m not leaving. I’ve been walking all my life, and I can’t anymore.”

Khalid nodded. “Then I won’t leave either. If you don’t leave, I won’t leave. If you die, I die. Dying together means not being lonely.”

Tears came down Assad’s face. He walked over and hugged Khalid. Khalid hugged him back. The two stood in the ruins, in the night wind, under the eyes of the soldiers, hugging for a long time.

He let go, turned around, looking at the soldiers.

“Brothers, it’s almost dawn. Prepare for battle.”

4:00 a.m.

The Turks’ assault began.

Not two brigades, but four brigades.

The first wave of artillery lasted forty minutes. Shells fell on the Syrian positions like raindrops, bursting into fiery orange blooms. Assad lay in a crater, his ears ringing, hearing nothing. Shrapnel flew overhead, whizzing past like summer mosquitoes.

Khalid lay beside him, mouth moving, but Assad couldn’t hear what he was saying. Assad pointed at his ears, shook his head. Khalid stopped speaking, just reached out and held his hand.

Their hands clasped together, both dirty, rough, trembling.

The artillery stopped.

The Turks’ tanks began advancing.

Assad peered out from the crater, watching the approaching silhouettes. At least eighty tanks, in an assault formation, guns aimed in his direction. He turned to look at his positions. No more than five hundred soldiers able to fight. Anti-tank missiles, gone. Mortar shells, gone. Bullets, less than ten per person.

He stood up, holding his AK-47. The magazine was full, thirty rounds.

“Brothers, charge.”

He rushed out. Behind him, less than five hundred soldiers followed, charging into the fire.

Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet flagship “Independence.”

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding binoculars, watching the distant gray-blue sea.

The Turkish Fleet had entered Syrian territorial waters, four destroyers, two frigates, approaching Tartus Port. Their target is not the Big Bear People, but the Syrian coastline. Their planes launched from the ships, heading toward Aleppo. Each carries bombs. Each bomb will fall on the heads of the Syrians.

“General, the Turks signaled.”

Morales took the headset. The voice on the other end was the Turkish Navy Admiral, harder, colder than yesterday.

“Mexican Fleet, this is the Turkish Navy ‘Sakarya’. We are carrying out a NATO-authorized military operation. Please leave this area immediately. Repeat, leave immediately.”

Morales pressed the communication button.

“‘Sakarya’, this is the Mexican Fleet flagship ‘Independence’. We are conducting legal operations in international waters. Please maintain a safe distance. Over.”

“General Morales, this is the final warning. If you do not leave within thirty seconds, we will take all necessary measures.”

Morales didn’t speak. He put down the headset, turned, and looked at the lieutenant. “All units, missiles ready. Fire control radar, lock on the Turkish Fleet. Target—’Sakarya’.”