Chapter 2104 - 857: Men Must Fight

Shamir continued:

"Mexico is twelve thousand kilometers away from us. They have no tanks pressuring our borders, no planes bombing our cities, no missiles hitting our civilians. All they can do is sever diplomatic ties, freeze relations, and curse us."

He paused.

"But if we start a fight with Mexico, those who really want to attack us—Iran, Syria, ZZD, HMS—will laugh."

The audience fell silent.

"They will say, 'Look, the Squid Men have gone mad.' They will say, 'Let them fight Mexico, and we'll watch from the sidelines.' They will say—"

He hadn't finished when a voice from the back row broke in.

"Shamir, you're scared."

Everyone turned around.

Netanyahu stood up, walked from the back row into the aisle, and step by step approached the platform.

He looked up at Shamir.

"You're afraid of Victor. You're afraid of Mexico. You're afraid of war."

Shamir looked at him, saying nothing.

Netanyahu turned around to face all the legislators.

"I tell you, what Shamir is afraid of, I am not. What Shamir dares not do, I will do."

He took a deep breath.

"I announce—"

Shamir interrupted him.

"You have no authority to announce. You are not the Prime Minister."

Netanyahu laughed.

It was a cold laugh.

"Shamir, do you know what those hundreds of thousands outside are shouting?"

Shamir said nothing.

Netanyahu answered for him:

"They're shouting my name."

He turned to the legislators.

"The parliament should re-elect. Let the people decide who is more fit to lead this country."

3 PM, Gaza, European Hospital.

Arafat lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling.

The door opened.

The Mexican doctor came in.

"Chairman Arafat, Mr. Victor has a message."

Arafat's eyes moved slightly.

"What did he say?"

The doctor took a step closer.

"He said, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'"

Arafat was silent for three seconds.

Then he smiled.

A light, bitter smile.

"Tell Mr. Victor," he said, "I am willing to be his friend."

4 PM, on the outskirts of Moscow, in that villa.

The boss sat in the broad chair, holding a glass of vodka.

The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, warming his back.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Boss, the Middle East has exploded."

The boss nodded.

"I know."

The voice on the other side brimmed with barely suppressed excitement.

"The Squid Parliament nearly broke into a fight. Netanyahu announced a re-election. Shamir can hardly hold on. The Mexicans and Arafat have begun contact."

The boss laughed.

It was a light laugh.

"Victor is smarter than I thought."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the snow in Moscow had melted, and the sunlight on the muddy ground was blindingly bright.

"Tell Chechnya," he said, "hide Anna well. Tell London, let Andrei keep waiting. Tell our people in Tel Aviv—"

He paused.

"Have them get ready. This play has just begun."

5 PM, Mexico City, top floor of the 'Feathered Serpent Temple.'

Victor stood in front of the window, looking out at Paseo de la Reforma.

Bramo stood behind him.

"Victor, Arafat agreed."

Victor nodded.

"Tell him my people will arrive tomorrow."

Bramo was stunned for a moment.

"Your people?"

Victor turned around.

"The best doctors, the best security, the best liaison officers. Let him live. Let him speak. Let him tell the whole world—"

He paused.

"Tell him, from today onward, Mexico's friends are his friends."

7 PM, Tel Aviv, Rabin Square.

It was dark, but the people hadn't left.

The ones holding signs were still there, the ones shouting slogans were still there, the ones waiting for Netanyahu to come out were still there.

On the giant screen in the center of the square, a live broadcast of the Parliament Building's press room was ongoing.

Netanyahu stood at the platform, facing dozens of reporters.

"I announce," he said, "the Likud Group will initiate a motion of no confidence against the government. We demand early elections. Let the people decide—"

He hadn't finished speaking when the screen suddenly flashed.

The image switched.

Switched to another press room.

Shamir stood there, facing the same group of reporters.

"Legislators," he said, "I have just signed an order."

He raised the document in his hand.

"Effective immediately, the Squid Defense Army will enter the highest state of readiness. All reserve personnel, report back immediately. All border forces, strengthen alertness immediately. All missile defense systems, activate immediately."

He paused.

"We will not go to war with Mexico. But we will protect ourselves."

The screen switched back to Netanyahu.

His face was ashen.

"Shamir is diverting attention! He's using the threat of war to cover up his incompetence! He's—"

The screen flashed again.

This time, it wasn't a press room, but battlefield footage.

Golan Heights. The border line. On the Syrian side, tanks were assembling.

A line of text appeared at the bottom of the screen:

"Breaking News: Syrian Army amassing on the Golan Heights, possibly preparing for an offensive."

The square fell silent for three seconds.

Then someone screamed.

Then the crowd began to disperse.

Those holding signs ran. Those shouting slogans ran. Those waiting for Netanyahu to come out ran.

Ten minutes later, only a ground full of garbage was left on the square.

Empty bottles. Broken signs. Trampled flyers.

9 PM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir stood at the window, looking at the outline of Temple Mount in the distance.

The door was pushed open.

Moses rushed in.

"Shamir, the Syrians really moved!"

Shamir didn't turn around.

"I know."

"Our intelligence says they have at least three divisions! Tanks, artillery, and those Chechens!"

Shamir nodded.

"I know."

Moses was stunned.

"You know? Then what are you—"

Shamir turned around.

"Moses, why do you think the Syrians chose today to move?"

Moses said nothing.

Shamir answered for him:

"Because they saw an opportunity. They saw us arguing with Mexico, saw our parliament nearly fighting, saw our people in the square chanting for war—"

He paused.

"They think their chance has come."

He returned to the desk and picked up the report on the Syrian military buildup.

"They're wrong."

He put the report down.

"Notify the air force. Have them get ready."

Moses was stunned.

"Get ready for what?"

Shamir looked at him.

"Get ready, so that when the Syrians enter the Golan Heights, we can act."

Moses's face changed.

"That means—"

"What does it mean?" Shamir interrupted him, "Does it mean letting them strike first? Does it mean letting the whole world see who's provoking?"

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Moses, do you know why, when the Mexicans severed ties, I didn't order retaliation?"

Moses shook his head.

Shamir looked out the window.

"Because I was waiting."

Moses was stunned for a moment.

"Waiting for what?"

Shamir didn't answer.

He just looked at the dark night sky outside.

Why is the world in such chaos?

God...

When will you descend?!