Chapter 2113 - 860: Everything’s a Mess

A young tank commander raised his hand.

"Brigade Commander, what do we do after we hold them off?"

Barak looked at him.

"After we hold them off, reinforcements will come."

Another tank commander asked:

"When will the reinforcements arrive?"

Barak didn't answer.

He turned around and got on the tank.

"Let's go."

7 a.m. Jabaliya Refugee Camp, Gaza Strip

The urban battle had already lasted for two hours.

Soldiers of the Squid 84th Infantry Brigade moved through the rubble, holding their guns, watching every window, every door, every alley.

Hamas fighters were mixed in with the refugees; it was impossible to distinguish who was a civilian and who was a warrior.

A young soldier turned a corner and ran into a man in his forties. The man was wearing a tattered robe and holding a child.

The soldier breathed a sigh of relief.

The man pulled an AK-47 from the child's swaddle.

The gun fired.

The soldier fell.

The man disappeared into the alley.

Brigade Commander Barak stood in a half-collapsed building, watching this scene.

His troops had already lost a quarter of their forces.

Yet Hamas fighters kept coming, like endless waves of ants.

He picked up the radio:

"Requesting air support. Coordinates—Jabaliya Refugee Camp. I need every building flattened."

The radio was silent for three seconds.

Then a voice came through:

"Brigade Commander, the air force is busy on the northern front. There are no planes available."

Barak closed his eyes.

Three seconds later, he opened them.

"Tell the brothers, fight on your own."

8 a.m. Kantara Suburb, Sinai Peninsula

Egypt's Third Army armored brigade had advanced to the outskirts of Kantara City.

The Squid defenders in the city had not retreated.

They were fighting.

The bunkers of the Barlev Line, the machine gun positions, the anti-tank missile launch sites—all were still operational.

Egyptian tanks were hit one by one, turrets flying, crashing to the ground, exploding into fireballs.

But more tanks continued pushing forward.

Major General Shafeek stood on the command vehicle, watching the battle unfold ahead.

"Tell them, don't stop. Push through."

The staff officer was stunned.

"Brigade Commander, that's suicidal—"

"Push through." Shafeek repeated, "The Squid have no reserves. They only have these bunkers. Once these bunkers are gone, they're finished."

The staff officer turned and went to deliver the message.

Shafeek watched the burning tanks, his expression unchanged.

9 a.m. Squid Defense Army Headquarters, Tel Aviv

Moses stood in front of the command console, watching the fluctuating numbers.

Golan Heights: Eighty-nine tanks left in combat. Ammunition enough for two hours.

Gaza Strip: 84th Infantry Brigade over fifty percent casualties. Jabaliya Refugee Camp still engaged.

Sinai Peninsula: Kantara City suburbs have fallen. Egyptians have entered the city.

Lebanon Border: Hezbollah has taken Shatura. Pushing southward.

Four fronts, all collapsing.

The communications officer ran over.

"Chief, the Americans are on the line."

Moses took the call.

The voice of the U.S. Central Command chief was calm.

"Moses, how much longer can you hold?"

Moses was silent for three seconds.

"I don't know."

The other end was also silent.

Three seconds later, the voice said:

"We have... some trouble over here."

Moses was taken aback.

"What trouble?"

The other end paused for a moment.

"Over at the House of Representatives, someone is impeaching the President. The whole of Washington is in chaos. No one dares to authorize military deployment."

Moses closed his eyes.

He remembered back in 1973. That time, the Americans said the same.

Then the Yom Kippur War lasted eighteen days, with three thousand Jews perishing.

"I understand."

He hung up the phone.

Turning to the Minister of Operations, he said:

"Tell all units, no reinforcements. Fight on your own."

10 a.m. East Bank of Lake Tiberias, Golan Heights

The last seven tanks of the Barak Armored Brigade lined up, blocking the Syrian tank formations.

Brigade Commander Barak stood next to his Merkava, watching the approaching T-72s.

Three shells left.

He climbed onto the tank, into the turret.

The gunner turned to look at him.

"Brigade Commander, which one do we shoot?"

Barak looked at the leading tank with the Syrian flag.

"That one."

The gunner took aim.

The shell fired.

The turret of the T-72 flew off, crashing to the ground, rolled twice, and stopped.

The remaining Syrian tanks began to retaliate.

At least fifty shells flew over at once.

Barak closed his eyes.

As the explosions rang out, he heard someone shout:

"For Israel—"

Then everything went silent.

10:17 a.m. Capitol Hill, Washington

The impeachment vote began.

Four hundred and thirty-five representatives sat in their seats, the three-hundred-page impeachment document in front of them.

The Speaker tapped the gavel.

"Voting begins now. Those in favor of impeachment, press green. Those against, press red."

Numbers began to jump on the screen.

One hundred twenty-three votes in favor.

Two hundred one votes in favor.

Three hundred twelve votes in favor.

Three hundred eighty-seven votes in favor.

Four hundred five votes in favor.

The Speaker froze.

He watched as the numbers kept jumping, unsure what to say.

Four hundred thirty-five votes.

All votes in favor.

Impeachment successful.

The President watched television in the Oval Office.

On the screen, the Speaker was announcing the result, with applause from the representatives in the background.

He turned off the TV.

The phone rang.

He answered.

The voice of the Chief of Staff was hoarse, like sandpaper.

"Mr. President, we're finished."

The President said nothing.

He got up and walked to the window.

Outside, the sky over Washington was gray. In the distance, the dome of Capitol Hill loomed in the fog.

"Tell the Squids," he said, "I can't deploy troops."

11 a.m. A villa on the outskirts of Moscow

The Boss watched CNN's live broadcast.

On screen, the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives was announcing the impeachment result.

All votes in favor.

He chuckled softly.

The phone rang.

He answered.

"Boss, about the Squid—"

"I know." The Boss interrupted.

He got up and walked to the window.

Outside, the snow in Moscow had melted. The sunlight was glaring off the muddy ground.

"Tell the Syrians, keep fighting. Tell the Egyptians, keep fighting. Tell Hezbollah, keep fighting. Tell Hamas, keep fighting."

He paused.

"The Americans are gone. The Squids are finished."

Noon, East Bank of Lake Tiberias, Golan Heights

When the last Merkava was destroyed, the Syrian tanks had already reached the shore.

A young soldier crawled out of the burning tank, his body aflame. He rolled on the ground; after several turns, the fire went out, leaving his face with no skin.

He struggled to stand, watching the T-72s pass by.

The tanks ignored him.

Their target was farther south—Tiberias City.

He dragged his charred leg, step by step, toward the lake.

The water was very blue.

He walked into the water.

When it reached his waist, he stopped, looking back.

The hillside on the east bank was covered with Syrian tanks. Turrets flew Syrian flags, red flags flapping in the wind.

He bowed his head.

Then slowly sank into the water.