Chapter 2216: Peace Bridge? (Part 2)

Chapter 2216 -888: Peace Bridge? (Part 2)

It’s the 4th Division.

The 4th Armored Division. The division that defected. The division that put down their guns after Assad counted to ten. The division that the Minister of Defense said “wouldn’t move.”

The officer leading the team was in his forties, with a full beard, wearing a worn-out camouflage uniform. He popped his head out of the tank and looked at Assad.

“Mr. President! We’re late!”

Assad stood there, watching those tanks roll past him. The tracks crushed the corpses on the ground, the shell casings, the shattered fragments. He knew that officer. His name was Maher Assad. His nephew. Rifat’s son. The young man who studied finance in London. The young man who was locked up for three days in Mexico City. The young man who was interrogated for seven days in Moscow and then released.

He was back. He returned with the 4th Armored Division.

“You—” Assad’s tears fell.

Maher jumped out of the tank and stood in front of him.

“Uncle, I’m back.”

Assad hugged him. Maher hugged him too. They stood amidst the ruins, in the morning light, among the burning tank wreckage, embracing for a long time.

“How many men does the 4th Division have left?” Assad asked.

“Three thousand. Tanks—forty. Artillery—sixty pieces. Ammunition—enough for three days.”

Assad released him, looking into his eyes. “Three days are enough. What about after three days?”

Maher laughed. “After three days, the Turks should be begging for mercy.”

He turned and jumped back onto the tank.

“4th Division, attack! Target—the Turkish line of defense!”

Forty tanks lined up in an attack formation, their guns aimed north.

Assad stood there, watching those tanks charge into the dawn’s light. The sound of artillery, explosions, and shouts—all mixed together, making the earth tremble.

He lowered his head, looking at the AK-47 in his hand. There were seven bullets left in the magazine. He removed the magazine and put it in his pocket. Then he picked up an HK416 dropped on the ground, the magazine full with thirty bullets.

He held the gun, limping forward. Walked toward the north, toward the Turks, toward that still-burning battlefield.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge

Dawn.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind a folding table, in front of him three cups of coffee, all cold. Hassan’s, Assad’s, and those who died in Aleppo’s. Three cups, three directions.

The mist was thick on the east end of the bridge. The opposite shore was invisible.

From a distance, in the direction of Aleppo, came the muffled sound of explosions. Louder, denser, closer than yesterday. But today, amidst the explosions, another sound was added—the roar of tank engines. Not Turkish tanks, but Syrian tanks. Tanks of the 4th Armored Division.

He raised his cup of cold coffee and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

Footsteps came from the bridge’s east end, one after another, emerging from the fog.

They were not refugees. They were soldiers. Syrian soldiers, wearing worn-out camouflage. Some had their arms in slings, some were on crutches, some with faces covered in blood. They didn’t speak, shout, cry, or smile. They just walked, walking onto the bridge, crossing over, to the west bank.

The first to walk across was a veteran. In his fifties, full beard, his left eye covered with gauze, the gauze soaked with blood. He stopped in front of Alvarez.

“Lieutenant, do you have water?”

Alvarez poured a cup of plain water from the thermos liner and handed it to him. The water was warm, from Lake Tiberias, sweet. The veteran took the cup and drank a sip.

“Thank you. Are you Mexicans?”

“Yes.”

The veteran nodded. “From the First Division. Aleppo fought for three days, fought till the end. The division commander died, the regiment commander died, the battalion commander died. Even the company commander died. Platoon leader also died. Squad leader—also died. I’m still alive. Alive, so I came to cross the bridge. Crossing the bridge means going home. Going home means being alive. Alive, that’s good.”

Alvarez looked at him. “And Assad?”

The veteran was silent for three seconds. “Still alive. Still fighting. The 4th Division went up, led by Maher. He said they’d fight for three days. After three days, the Turks should be begging for mercy.”

He returned the empty cup to Alvarez, turned around, and walked off the bridge. When he reached the west bank, the old man Moses Levi stood there, holding a cup of water.

“Have a drink of water, it’s sweet.”

The veteran took the cup and drank a sip. Then he continued to walk, heading north. That’s towards Haifa.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching that silhouette vanish in the morning light. He turned around, looking at the soldiers still crossing the bridge. One after another, some faster, some slower, some helped along, some walking alone.

He returned to sit next to the folding table. The water in the thermos was still warm. He poured a cup, drank a sip. Sweet, very sweet, water from Lake Tiberias.

He picked up the three empty cups, placing them beside the table. Hassan’s, Assad’s, those who died in Aleppo’s. Three cups, three directions.

He picked up the radio. “Connect me to Mexico City.”

The phone rang once before it was picked up. It was Victor’s voice on the other end.

“Lieutenant.”

“Leader, the soldiers of the First Division have started crossing the bridge. They said Assad is still alive. The 4th Division went up, led by Maher. They said they’d fight for three days. After three days, the Turks should be begging for mercy.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Maher. Rifat’s son. The young man who studied finance in London. The young man who was locked up for three days in Mexico City. The young man who was interrogated for seven days in Moscow and then released. He returned. He returned with the 4th Armored Division.”