Chapter 2105 - 858: Unfinished Projects Can Be Troublesome!

March 31, 1998, 4:00 AM, Eastern Mediterranean coast.

Fifty-three missiles simultaneously launched.

They weren't coming from one direction.

They were coming from four directions.

The F-15I pulled up from deep within the Negev Desert, the AGM-142 "Have Nap" missile trailing a blazing white tail, tearing through the last darkness before dawn. The Dolphin-class submarine opened its launch tube forty meters below the Mediterranean's surface, the cruise missile flying five meters above the sea surface, having a radar cross-section smaller than a seagull's. The Jericho-2 ballistic missile vertically lifted off from a mountain base, climbed to the edge of the atmosphere, and then plunged down—the targets were Egypt's air defense radar stations, Syria's command centers, Lebanon's "Milk Tea Shop" outposts, and that damned row of newly built Mexican barracks deep in the Sinai Peninsula.

4:07 AM, Sinai Peninsula, Mexican Expeditionary Force 1st Armored Battalion base.

When the alarm sounded, Battalion Commander Colonel Hector Morales was writing a letter home.

The last sentence he wrote to his wife was: "It's very quiet here, like the countryside of Chiapas. I'll be back when the bananas are ripe."

Then the window exploded.

The shockwave threw him, chair and all, to the ground; the letter hovered in the air, ignited by the heat wave, curling into ashes.

He got up, ran barefoot out of the prefab, and saw three ammunition depots on the west side of the camp simultaneously on fire, twenty meters high flames licking the night sky like the Devil's tongues. Soldiers were running in the firelight, some with guns not knowing where to fire, some hopelessly spraying water on the fire with hoses, some lying on the ground screaming, missing their lower bodies.

Another wave of airstrikes.

This time they were precision-guided bombs.

The command post prefab was directly hit, and the staff didn't even have time to shout before evaporating.

Two Black Hawk helicopters parked in the temporary hangar turned into two massive fireballs, the rotor blades flying over a hundred meters, crashing onto the communications tent, slicing three soldiers sending telegrams in half.

Morales picked up the satellite phone that had fallen at his feet and shouted the first command after the attack began:

"This is 'Cactus.' We are under airstrike. Repeat, we are under airstrike. This is not a drill. This is not friendly fire. This is war."

4:15 AM, Tel Aviv, Squid Defense Army Headquarters.

The underground command hall was brightly lit, with over two hundred screens flashing simultaneously.

Chief of Staff Moses stood in front of the main control console, staring at the live feed of the Sinai Peninsula. In the drone's infrared lens, the Mexican camp was a sea of fire, with a dozen white figures crawling in the rubble.

The Minister of Defense called from Jerusalem, his voice hoarse: 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

"Moses, did we really bomb the Mexicans over there?"

Moses didn't turn around.

"This camp was on the strategic target list. They're eighty kilometers from the Squid border. Their armored vehicles are the latest model sold by the Germans. Their soldiers were personally selected by Victor. If we don't act, they will."

The Minister of Defense was silent for three seconds.

"Do you know what this means?"

Moses finally turned around.

"I know. It means the Mexicans will go to war with us."

He paused.

"But they're twelve thousand kilometers away. And the "Milk Tea Shop," HMS, Syrians, and Iranians are right at our doorstep."

4:22 AM, Cairo, Egyptian Ministry of Defense.

Foad II was urgently woken from his Summer Palace when the air raid had already been going on for fifteen minutes.

He wasn't wearing the king's robe, just threw on a military coat, and rushed into the underground command center. The staff were yelling at the screens, three radar stations destroyed, two air force base runways bombed with over a dozen craters, and at least twenty MiG-29s burned to scrap before taking off.

"The Squid people are crazy." The Minister of Defense stood in front of him, face pale, "Your Majesty, what do we do?"

Foad II stared at the battle map on the screen. The red dots were densely packed, representing the bombed targets. The green dots were sparse, representing the forces still operational.

"Notify the navy, let all missile boats leave port. Block the north and south entrances of the Suez Canal. Notify the air force, have all aircraft that can still fly take to the air, don't engage unnecessarily, maintain air superiority. Notify the army—"

He paused.

"Notify the army to enter the highest state of readiness. If the Squid dares to attack from the Sinai Peninsula, we'll strike back into the Sinai Peninsula."

The Minister of Defense turned to leave.

"Wait."

Foad II stopped him.

"Call the Mexican embassy in Cairo. Tell them we received their intelligence. Tell them, from this moment on, Egypt and Mexico are allies."

4:31 AM, Damascus, Syrian Ministry of Defense.

Hafez Assad sat behind his desk, three freshly received reports spread out before him.

The first: Latakia's air defense position was bombed, with at least forty deaths. The second: Syrian positions on the Golan Heights were shelled, but it wasn't a large-scale attack. The third: those Chechens—the remnants of Ramzan—volunteered to fight.

He looked up at the Minister of Defense standing opposite him.

"Chechens? How many are left?"

"A company."

Assad was silent for three seconds.

"Tell them, the Golan Heights are theirs. Let them be at the forefront. Send them to their deaths."

4:47 AM, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor stood by the window, the phone in his hand still ringing.

It was Morales calling. The satellite signal was intermittent, but each word sounded like nails piercing his ear.

"Leader, we've been bombed. The barracks are gone, the ammo depot is gone, half the men are gone. I don't know how long we can hold out."