Chapter 2213: Sacrifice for the Nation? (2)

Chapter 2213 -887: Sacrifice for the Nation? (2)

The adjutant was stunned. “General—”

“Do it.”

Missiles were loaded, radar activated.

Fire control locked on, thirty seconds.

The Turkish Fleet didn’t move.

Thirty seconds passed.

Still no movement.

Morales picked up the binoculars, looking in the direction of the Turkish Fleet. The ‘Sakarya’ was still there, its bow facing west, its gun aimed at the Mexican Fleet. But their planes were still taking off, still heading towards Aleppo.

“General, the Turks have signaled.”

Morales took the headset. The voice on the other end was that of a Turkish Navy Major General, less hard but still very cold.

“General Morales, you’ve locked your missiles on my ships. My people are very scared. I’m scared too. But I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid that my country will lose Syria if I retreat. Without Syria, Turkey loses its southern barrier. Without a southern barrier, there are enemies in the north. Enemies in the north mean enemies in the east too. Surrounded by enemies on all sides. You want me to retreat? I can’t.”

Morales was silent for a long time. “General, I won’t retreat either. My fleet can’t retreat. Assad is still in Aleppo. He’s waiting for dawn. When dawn comes, he will die. If he dies, my coffee is wasted. If the coffee’s wasted, my coming here is wasted. If I came for nothing, my life is wasted.”

He paused. “We both don’t retreat, so we’ll just stay here. Stay, and wait. Wait to see who dies first.”

Golan Heights, the floating bridge at Lake Tiberias. Early morning.

Lieutenant Alvarez hadn’t slept all night. He sat behind a folding table, the three cups of coffee in front of him had all gone cold. Hassan’s, Assad’s, and those who died in Aleppo’s. Three cups, three directions. At the eastern end of the bridge, the fog was thick. The other shore was not visible.

From afar, in the direction of Aleppo, came the sound of muffled explosions. More frequent, louder, closer than yesterday.

Even over a hundred kilometers away, it was audible, like the rumbling of thunder. He picked up his own cup of cold coffee and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

Footsteps came from the eastern end of the bridge.

One by one, they emerged from the fog. The first was an old man, over seventy, leaning on a cane, wearing a faded old military uniform. Without epaulettes, without medals.

The second was a middle-aged woman, over fifty, dressed in a black robe, holding a photograph.

The third was a child, about ten, thin as a bamboo pole, holding a piece of cardboard.

They did not speak, did not shout, did not cry, did not laugh. They just walked, walked onto the bridge, walked across the bridge, walked to the west bank.

By the time they reached the west bank, Moses Levi the old man stood there, a cup of water in his hand. He poured a cup for each and said, “Have a drink, it’s sweet.”

The one hundred seventh person to walk over was stopped by Alvarez. The man was in his forties, with a stubbled face, wearing a worn leather jacket, holding no photograph, no cardboard, nothing. He was empty-handed, head lowered, walking quickly.

“Who are you?” Alvarez asked. The man raised his head, his eyes very red, as if he had cried for a long time, or perhaps hadn’t slept in a while.

“My name is Muhammad Abdullah. I’m from Aleppo. I’m here to escape for my life.”

Alvarez looked into his eyes. “What are you escaping from?”

“The Turks. They came and won’t leave. They took our homes, killed our men, raped our women. They said they came to liberate us. Once they liberated us, they didn’t leave. They stayed, became our new masters. New masters worse than the old ones. The old ones killed us because we opposed them. The new masters kill us because we’re not Turks. Not being Turks means we deserve to die.”

Alvarez turned around, walked to the middle of the bridge, and raised that white flag. The wind was strong, the flag flapped loudly in the wind.

“Cross the bridge. The coffee is on the table, help yourself.”

Those people continued walking. The one hundred eighth, the two hundredth, the three hundredth. By the time the sun leaned west, the last one emerged from the fog. A young woman, in her early twenties, holding a baby. The baby was crying, a soft sound, like a kitten. She walked up to Alvarez and stopped.

“Do you have any water? The baby is thirsty.” Alvarez picked up a cup of cold coffee from the table and handed it to her. “Coffee, cold. The baby can’t drink it.” She looked at the black liquid and shook her head. “Any plain water?”

Alvarez turned around, poured a cup of plain water from the thermos’s partition. The water was warm, from Lake Tiberias, sweet. She took the cup and fed it to the baby. The baby stopped crying, eyes closed, sucking on the rim, little mouth sipping.

“Thank you. Cross the bridge. When you reach the west bank, someone will meet you. The Israeli hospital is on the west of Tiberias City, ask for directions when you arrive, someone will attend to you.”

She held the baby and walked onto the bridge. She walked very slowly, each step light, as if afraid of waking the baby in her arms. When she reached the middle of the bridge, she stopped, looking at the lake surface. The water was deep, dark, the bottom unseen. She stood there for a long time before continuing on. By the time she reached the west bank, Moses Levi stood there, a cup of water in his hand.

“Have a drink, it’s sweet.” She took the cup, took a sip. The water was very sweet, the water of Lake Tiberias. She returned the empty cup to the old man and turned to walk north. That was the direction of Haifa.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching her silhouette disappear into the twilight. He turned around, looked at those still walking on the bridge. Some were already close to the west bank, others were still on the east bank, some stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the lake surface, unsure which way to go.