Chapter 2122 - 863: The Final Choice

2:17 PM, Eastern Mediterranean, twelve nautical miles off Squid Territory.

In the bridge of the "Independence," the communications officer's headset suddenly burst with a piercing static noise. He frowned as he tuned the frequency, the noise gradually becoming clearer and transforming into a rhythmic pulse signal, not Morse code, but a more complex encrypted format.

Admiral Morales stared out the port window at the barely visible line, twelve nautical miles, Squid Territory, push two miles further, and it's an act of war.

The communications officer took off his headset, his face changed: "General, we've intercepted Squid military internal communications, they... they're discussing a preemptive strike."

Everyone's gaze in the bridge was focused on Morales. He showed no change of expression, simply walked to the chart table and looked at the blue area marked with dense routes and depth data.

"Which unit?"

"Naval 914 Patrol Squadron. Six 'Saar 4.5' class missile boats, departed Haifa Port ten minutes ago, heading due west, speed twenty-five knots. Estimated to contact with our fleet in forty minutes."

Morales tapped his fingers on the chart table. Six missile boats against five destroyers and frigates, Mexico holds the advantage in tonnage, but in coastal operations, Squid's small vessels are more agile, and they have the cover of land-based missiles.

"Signal Squid Navy Headquarters," he raised his head, "Say Mexico Fleet is conducting routine patrol in international waters, with no intent to enter Squid Territory. But should Squid vessels attempt any hostile actions against us, we will exercise the right of self-defense."

The communications officer turned to send the message, Morales stopped him: "Wait. Use plaintext."

The communications officer was startled. Plaintext means the whole world would receive this message. Morales looked at him: "Make sure everyone sees who fires first."

2:45 PM, Jerusalem underground command center.

Shamir watched the six moving westward green dots on the screen, fingers tapping on the tabletop. Moses stood beside him, his face sullen.

"Prime Minister, recall the patrol boats. Mexicans haven't entered territorial waters, we have no reason—"

"No reason?" Shamir interrupted him, his voice raspy like sandpaper, "Five warships parked at our doorstep, you say no reason?"

"But they haven't crossed the line."

Shamir fell silent.

He knew Moses was right. He knew the whole world was watching. He knew if Squid fires first, Victor has an excuse to expand the war into the Mediterranean. But he also knew another thing—Lake Tiberias's water level is dropping, Tel Aviv's taps have started gasping intermittently, Haifa Port's desalination plant reserves can only last three days.

"Moses," he finally spoke, "If the Mexico Fleet cuts our sea supply line, how long can we last?"

Moses didn't answer. They both knew the answer: Not for many days.

Shamir closed his eyes. Three seconds later, he opened them: "Order the 914 Squadron, close surveillance, no firing. But if Mexico vessels cross the twelve nautical mile line—"

He paused.

"Then fire."

3:00 PM sharp, Eastern Mediterranean, Squid Territorial Waters.

Six 'Saar 4.5' class missile boats lined up ten nautical miles from the Mexico Fleet, like six sharks eyeing a whale. They hadn't activated fire control radar, but the missile launch covers were open.

Morales stood on the bridge, watching those gray small boats through binoculars. The Squid sailors aboard could also see him—five Mexico warships gleaming coldly under the sun, with the main gun barrels pointing at the sky, not aiming at any target.

The communications officer took off his headset again: "General, Squid Navy Headquarters sent a message — 'Warning your fleet not to enter Squid Territorial Waters, or face the consequences'."

Morales didn't respond. He glanced at the clock on the chart table. 3:01 PM. It had been exactly an hour since Victor ordered him to "show presence."

"Signal," he said, "Say Mexico Fleet respects international law, will not enter Squid Territorial Waters. But simultaneously declare, freedom of navigation in international waters must not be violated, any attempts to interfere with our normal navigation will be considered hostile actions."

He paused and added another statement: "Use plaintext."

3:15 PM, outside Moscow in a villa.

The boss sat in the large chair, holding a glass of vodka, watching the old-fashioned TV on the wall showing CNN's live broadcast. The screen divided into three parts — left is the Mexico Fleet, middle is Squid missile boats, right is the burning tank wreckage on the Golan Heights.

The phone rang. He picked it up.

"Boss, the Squid didn't fire."

The boss nodded. "I know."

"They were afraid."

"Not afraid." The boss took a sip of vodka, "Waiting. Waiting for Victor to act first. Waiting for the Americans to react. Waiting for the whole world to stand with them."

He got up and walked to the window. Outside, Moscow's spring arrived later than usual, branches were still bare.

"Tell the Iranians," he said, "Do not wait any longer. Squid is now at its weakest. Syrians tied up half their forces on the Golan Heights, Egyptians stalled their reserves on the Sinai Peninsula, Hezbollah blocked their northern line at the Lebanon Border. Iranians pressing from the east, Squid will be truly finished."

The other end was silent for a second: "Boss, the Iranians need you to speak directly with Khamenei."

The boss put down the glass, picked up another phone, and dialed a secure number.