Chapter 2217: The Peace Bridge? (3)

Chapter 2217 -888: The Peace Bridge? (3)

Alvarez said nothing.

“Lieutenant, tell those soldiers crossing the bridge that Mexico’s bridge will always be open for them. Mexico’s water will always be ready for them. Mexico’s white flag will always be raised for them. Crossing the bridge means going home. Not crossing the bridge means waiting for home. Where is home? Home is in a place of peace. Where is peace? Peace is on the other side of the bridge.”

The call ended.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The fog on the lake began to dissipate. The sun peered from behind the eastern hills, reflecting on the water, shattering into a golden starry display.

He picked up the cup of coffee next to him and poured it into the lake. Then he poured a new cup, placing it beside the table.

“President Assad, the coffee is still warm. Come back and drink it.”

Aleppo, Northern Suburbs Battlefield

Maher’s tank charged at the forefront.

His T-72 wasn’t the latest model, but the gunner was someone he had brought back from London. That young man studied finance in London but learned how to aim in a prison in Mexico City. He learned endurance in the interrogation rooms in Moscow. Now, he’s applying his aiming and endurance skills on the Turks’ tanks.

The first shell knocked out the tracks of the leading Leopard 2A4. The tank was paralyzed in place, its turret spinning, unable to find a target.

The second shell took out the turret of the second Leopard 2A4. The turret flew off, crashed to the ground, rolled a couple of times, and landed in a shell crater.

The third shell hit the ammo compartment of the third tank. The explosion tore the tank in half, and the ammunition inside began detonating, crackling like firecrackers.

Maher poked his head out from the turret, watching the burning tank wrecks.

“Keep charging! Target—the Turks’ command center!”

Forty tanks formed into a wedge formation, charging into the Turks’ defense line. Infantry followed behind, holding rifles, weaving through shell craters and rubble.

The Turks didn’t expect the Syrians to counterattack. Their air force was supporting other directions, their artillery was adjusting ranges, and their infantry was waiting for the tanks to clear the field. Now, the tanks were hit, and the infantry panicked.

Maher’s tank crushed the Turks’ trenches. Beneath the tracks came the screams, sounds of bones breaking, metal deforming. He didn’t stop.

“Gunner, anti-tank missile position, five hundred meters ahead.”

The gunner took aim. The shell was fired. The position exploded into a fireball, missiles detonating within the flames, trailing exhaust like a swarm of startled fireflies.

“Keep charging.”

Assad followed behind the tank, dragging that injured leg, limping forward.

In his hands, the HK416 still held a dozen bullets. He saw a Turkish officer crawling out of a command vehicle, holding a map, shouting into a walkie-talkie. He raised his gun, aimed.

The gunshot rang out. That officer fell, the map was carried off by the wind, flipping several times in the air, landing on a burning tank, turning to ash.

He kept walking forward.

The infantry of the 4th Division was clearing the trenches of the Turks. They used bayonets, entrenching tools, rifle butts. There were no prisoners, no wounded, only dead. Assad looked at the Turkish soldiers lying in the trenches, some very young, some very old, some with unshaven stubble on their faces.

He thought of Khalid. That nineteen-year-old soldier, calling him “Mr. President” while holding him. Where did he die? Among the ruins, among the corpses, in Assad’s arms.

Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood on his face, dripping to the ground.

He continued forward.

Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet Flagship “Independence”

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

The Turkish Fleet was still there. Four destroyers, two frigates, arranged in a defensive formation, bows to the west, guns pointed toward the Mexican Fleet. But their planes weren’t taking off anymore. The F-16s on the deck still sat there, cockpit canopies open, pilots seated inside, helmets on.

“General, the Turks have sent a signal.”

Morales took the headset. On the other end was the voice of the Turkish Navy’s admiral, hoarse, exhausted, yet steady.

“General Morales, the Syrians counterattacked. The 4th Armored Division, forty tanks, are pushing north. Our front-line command center has been taken, the first line of defense breached. We—we are retreating.”

Morales said nothing.

“General Morales, I want to go home. My fleet wants to go home. But the Syrians are still fighting, we can’t leave. If we leave, they win. If they win, we lose. Losing means we can’t go home. Not going home means drifting forever at sea. Drifting at sea means dying. I don’t want to die at sea. I want to die in Istanbul.”

Morales was silent for a long time.

“General, your fleet can’t leave, my fleet can’t leave. Neither of us can leave, so we stay here. Stay, wait. Wait until the Syrians finish their fight. Wait until the Turks finish their retreat. Wait until Assad dies, or lives.”

He paused. “Wait until someone drinks the coffee on the bridge.”

The communication ended.

Morales put down the headset, looking at the sea through the port window. The formation of the Turkish Fleet had changed, no longer a defensive configuration, but a retreat formation. Bows pointing north, toward Turkey.

“General, they’re retreating.”

Morales nodded. “Let them retreat. Don’t pursue. Pursuit means war. War means deaths. Deaths mean living wastefully.”