Chapter 2112 - 860: Total Chaos

Nasrullah nodded.

"Tell them, those who die, Allah will take. Those who live, keep pushing forward."

He pointed south.

"Today's target is Shatura. Tomorrow, it's Tiberias."

5:17 AM, Washington White House Oval Office

The President was woken by a call.

He grabbed the receiver, the voice on the other end was the Chief of Staff's, urgent as if his pants were on fire.

"Mr. President, the Middle East has exploded!"

The President rubbed his eyes.

"What do you mean by exploded?"

"Golan Heights is about to be lost, Sinai Peninsula is about to be lost, Gaza is about to be lost, Lebanon border is about to be lost. The Squid Men are attacking on four fronts at once, barely holding on!"

The President was silent for three seconds.

Then he asked:

"What does Congress say?"

The Chief of Staff paused.

"They... are still arguing."

The President hung up the phone.

He sat on the bed, looking at the dark night sky outside the window.

Impeachment vote in seven days.

If he orders troops to the Middle East now, those Republicans will tear him apart. If he doesn't, the Squid Men might truly lose their country.

He lay back on the pillow.

Closed his eyes.

The phone rang again.

He didn't answer.

5:30 AM, a villa outside Moscow

The Boss stood by the window, looking at the sky starting to lighten.

The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, but his back was still hot.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Boss, about the Middle East—"

"I know." The Boss interrupted him.

He turned, walked back to the large chair, sat down, and held up a glass of vodka.

"How many Chechens are left?"

The other end paused.

"About a company. Still on Golan Heights."

The Boss nodded.

"Tell the Syrians, don't hold back. Send them all in. Once they're used up, I'll send new people."

The other end was silent for two seconds.

"Boss, the Syrians ask, what exactly do you want?"

The Boss chuckled.

Laughed softly.

"What do I want?"

He stood up, walked to the window.

"I want everyone—the Americans, the Squid Men, the Arabs, the Persians—to all roll around in the quagmire. When they're all exhausted from fighting, I'll come out to clean up the situation."

The call ended.

He stood by the window, looking at the sky beginning to whiten outside.

This game of chess has just begun.

5:45 AM, Mexico City's Feathered Serpent Temple top floor

Victor hadn't slept all night.

He had changed the coffee cup five times, the ashtray was full three times, the TV on the wall had been on all along—CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, looping Middle East footage.

Tank battles on Golan Heights, armored advances in the Sinai Peninsula, street warfare in the Gaza Strip, rocket rain on the Lebanon border.

He turned off the TV.

Bramo pushed the door open and came in.

"The Squid Men can't hold on."

Victor nodded.

"I know."

"They're asking for help. The Americans haven't acted."

Victor nodded again.

"I know."

Bramo paused.

"What do we do?"

Victor stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was starting to jam. Someone was honking, someone was cursing, someone was leaning out of a car window, looking in the direction of the National Palace.

They didn't know, twelve thousand kilometers away, the Fourth Middle East War—no, the Fifth—is dragging the entire world into the abyss.

"Tell the fleet," Victor said, "to keep moving forward."

Bramo was stunned.

"Keep moving? That means—"

"Means what?" Victor turned, "Means telling the Squid Men they don't have only one enemy."

He walked back to the desk, picked up the latest report on the Mexican Expeditionary Force.

"Tell Morales to hold on. Tell him the fleet is on the way."

He put down the report.

"Tell Foad II, Egypt can fight, but not too hard. Fight too hard, the Americans will wake up."

He looked at Bramo.

"Tell Nasrullah to push his men north, not south. South is too deep, they'll hit the Syrians. North, the French won't interfere."

Bramo took note of each point.

"And," Victor said, "send a message to Moscow."

Bramo looked up.

Victor looked at him.

"Tell that 'Principal,' the Middle East he wanted is now here. Ask him what he plans to do next?"

6:00 AM, Golan Heights, Syrian Army 5th Division Headquarters

Division Commander Brigadier General Hassan stood on an armored command vehicle, looking at the battle reports from the front.

The remnants of the 7th Armored Brigade are retreating toward Lake Tiberias. The 188th Armored Brigade is still fighting, but is running low on ammunition. The Barak Armored Brigade is still on the road, at least four hours away.

Four hours.

Enough time for his tanks to reach Lake Tiberias.

He picked up the radio:

"All units, full speed ahead. Target—Lake Tiberias."

The tank group started up again.

Three hundred T-72s and T-62s, arranged in three columns, like three streams of steel, surging down the hillside of Golan Heights.

A Syrian flag was mounted on the turret of the leading tank. The wind blew the flag, making it flutter fiercely.

6:17 AM, East shore of Lake Tiberias, Barak Armored Brigade lead units

Brigade Commander Brigadier General Barak stood on his Merkava, looking at the line of dark shadows in the distance.

Syrian tanks.

At least a hundred of them.

Less than ten kilometers away.

He looked back at his own forces.

Seventeen Merkavas.

Seventeen against a hundred.

He jumped off the tank, walked up to the seventeen tank commanders.

All young men. The oldest not over twenty-five. The youngest just turned nineteen.

"Do you know what we're going to do?"

No one spoke.

He answered for them:

"We're going to stop them."

He paused.

"Stop them for four hours."