Chapter 2114 - 861: Encirclement

Tel Aviv, Squid Defense Army Headquarters

The air in the underground command hall was as heavy as lead.

Moses stood before the main control panel, staring at the giant screen. Four battlefronts, four directions, four colors—red arrows representing the enemy's advance had pierced through every defense line of the Squid Defense Army.

Golan Heights: Syrian 5th Division, 7th Division, and the Republican Guard Armored Brigade, totaling over six hundred tanks, were advancing toward Lake Tiberias. The 7th Armored Brigade was completely destroyed, the remnants of the 188th Armored Brigade retreated to Hasspin, and the Barak Armored Brigade—only a name etched on the casualty list remains.

Sinai Peninsula: Egypt's Third Army had captured Kantara, and the 4th Division was advancing towards Arish. The three brigades in Sinai were encircled and communications were completely cut off.

Gaza Strip: Hamas had captured four settlements, the 84th Infantry Brigade was besieged in the ruins of Jabaliya, and Brigade Commander Barak's last communication was six hours ago.

Lebanon Border: The Milk Tea Shop "Radwan" Special Forces had captured Shatura and were penetrating south, target—Tiberias.

Moses' hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white.

The communications officer rushed over, voice hoarse like sandpaper against metal:

"Chief, urgent message from Golan Heights. The leading Syrian forces are less than fifteen kilometers from Lake Tiberias. The Hasspin garrison is requesting reinforcements, they say... they say they only have enough ammunition for two more hours of fighting."

Moses didn't turn his head.

"Tell them, there are no reinforcements."

The officer was stunned.

"Chief—"

"No reinforcements," Moses repeated, his voice unwavering, "Tell the soldiers at Hasspin that they are not holding a position, they are holding time. Every minute they hold out, the civilians in Tiberias City have an extra minute to evacuate. Every minute they hold out, the southern front gets an extra minute to breathe. Every minute they hold out—"

He paused.

"Every minute they hold out, we prove that the Squid Men are not that easy to kill."

The officer turned and ran.

Moses looked up at the screen, at those ever-closer red arrows.

He recalled Ben Abraham. The brigade commander who fought to the last shell, the last man, the last breath on Golan Heights.

The last words received from Ben Abraham before he died were:

"Tell them, we did not surrender."

Moses' mouth twitched.

It wasn't a smile.

It was something more complex than a smile.

"Relay the order," he spoke, his voice echoing through the command hall, "From now on, no troops, no positions, no one—surrender is not allowed. Retreat is not allowed. Capture is not allowed."

He turned around, looking at those stationed at their posts: officers, soldiers, technicians.

"We are surrounded. The Americans have abandoned us. The Europeans are watching. The Arabs are coming from all directions to kill us. The Mexicans are bringing their navy to join the fray."

He paused.

"But the Squid Men have never lived on their knees."

9:17 AM, Golan Heights, Hasspin Line.

188th Armored Brigade Commander Yossi Klein stood beside a battered Merkava, staring at the dense shadows to the north.

Syrian tanks.

At least three hundred.

His brigade had twenty-three tanks left, over three hundred soldiers. Ammunition—each crew had five to eight shells left. Each infantryman had less than two magazines.

The deputy commander rushed over.

"Commander, General Staff orders—"

Klein took the orders, glanced at them.

"To hold to the death. No reinforcements."

He folded the orders, stuffed them into his pocket.

"Tell the brothers," he said, "Today, we will show the Syrians what it means to be Jewish."

He climbed onto the tank, crawled into the turret.

The gunner turned to look at him.

"Commander, which one do we shoot?"

Klein looked at the lead T-72. Its turret was adorned with the Syrian flag, the red flag fluttering fiercely in the wind.

"That one."

The gunner took aim.

The shell was fired.

The T-72's turret flew up, crashed to the ground, rolled twice, and stopped by the roadside.

The Syrians counterattacked.

At least a hundred shells flew simultaneously. The Merkava was hit, violently shaking, Klein's head banged against the hatch, and stars exploded in his vision.

"Commander! Are you okay?"

He shook his head, wiped the blood from his face.

"I'm fine. Keep loading."

Second shot. Third shot. Fourth shot.

When the fifth shot was fired, his tank was hit three times in succession. A large gash was torn in the side armor, the gunner screamed, and then there was silence.

Klein climbed out of the turret, dragging a leg cut by shrapnel, and crawled to another tank.

The tank commander was already dead, the driver was still alive.

"Any shells left?"

The driver nodded.

"Three."

Klein crawled into the tank.

"Load."

The driver looked at him.

"Commander, we—"

"Load."

When the three shells were fired, the highland was surrounded with Syrian tanks.

Klein leaned against the damaged tank, staring at the approaching cannon muzzles.

He pulled a photo from his pocket.

It was a family portrait. Wife, son, daughter, and himself. In the photo, he was in uniform, smiling happily.

He placed the photo against his chest.

The Syrian tanks stopped.

The muzzles were aimed at him.

A Syrian officer popped his head out of the turret, shouting in heavily accented Hebrew:

"Surrender! Surrender and you won't be killed!"

Klein didn't move.

He looked at the officer, his mouth twitching slightly.

"Fuck you."

The Syrian officer's face twisted.

He retreated back into the turret.

The cannon spewed flames.

Brigade Commander Yossi Klein and the Merkava exploded into pieces together.