Chapter 2124 - 863: The Final Choice! (Part 3)

Morales didn't put down the binoculars. He watched as the gray boats drifted farther away, getting smaller and smaller, until they turned into indistinct dots on the horizon.

He turned around and picked up the satellite phone.

"Connect me to the 'Feathered Serpent Temple.'

The phone rang twice, and the call was answered. It wasn't Victor, it was Bramo.

"Fleet Commander, the Leader is waiting for your update."

Morales took a deep breath.

"Tell the Leader, the Squid Man has withdrawn. The Iranians have bombed Jerusalem. The Americans are coming in."

Bramo paused for a second.

"The Leader says—let the bullets fly for a while."

The call ended.

Morales stood there, looking at the sea, which was starting to darken. The sun was setting in the west, turning the Mediterranean into a crimson sea. In the distance, on the Squid coastline, the flicker of explosions was still visible.

He remembered Victor's last words.

Let the bullets fly for a while.

6 PM, Golan Heights, confrontation line between the 5th Division of the Syrian Army and the Iranian 7th 'Valadi' Missile Brigade.

Brigadier General Hassan stood on his T-72, watching the moving lights to the north. The Iranians were withdrawing too. It wasn't a retreat, but a redeployment—their missile brigade was moving east, heading deep into the Golan Heights.

A staff officer climbed up the vehicle and handed over a telegram.

"Commander, urgent telegram from Damascus—order us to cease conflict with the Iranians, concentrate our forces to push south. The Americans are coming. We must secure Tiberias before the Americans land."

Hassan looked at the telegram, and his mouth twitched slightly. Push south. With what? His troops had been fighting for four days, losing over three thousand men, fewer than two hundred tanks left, and enough ammunition for just one more day.

He raised his head, looking south into the heavy night. In the direction of Lake Tiberias, the beams of Squid's searchlights were still visible in the sky.

"Tell Damascus," he said, "I need reinforcements. Ammunition, tanks, soldiers. If not within three days, I can't hold the Golan Heights."

The staff officer turned to transmit the message.

Hassan jumped down from the tank and walked into the makeshift command tent. Inside, several staff officers were marking the latest battle lines on the map. To the south, Squid's remnants were still resisting in the suburbs of Tiberias City. To the east, the Iranians were regrouping. To the north, in the direction of Damascus, there was no news of reinforcements.

He sat on a folding chair, looking at a newly arrived casualty report. 5th Division, 1,723 killed, 2,144 wounded, 431 missing. 7th Division, 987 killed, 1,562 wounded. Republican Guard Armored Brigade, 321 killed, 413 wounded.

He set the report aside and closed his eyes.

Outside the tent, artillery fire continued to rage. Far away, nearby, it was indistinguishable whether it was from the Syrians, the Iranians, or the Squid.

7 PM, Jerusalem, underground command center.

Shamir stood in front of the surveillance screens, looking at the residential area in the western suburbs reduced to rubble by bombings. Rescue teams were still digging through the debris, having already uncovered over forty bodies, with more buried underneath.

Moses came over and handed him freshly received intelligence.

"Prime Minister, the Americans have deployed forces. The Sixth Fleet has entered the Eastern Mediterranean. The 101st Airborne Division is gathering in Southern Italy."

Shamir took the intelligence and scanned it. His facial expression didn't change, but his hands trembled slightly.

"How soon can they arrive?"

"The fastest, forty-eight hours."

Shamir closed his eyes. Forty-eight hours. Can the Golan Heights hold for forty-eight hours? Can the Sinai Peninsula hold for forty-eight hours? Can the Gaza Strip hold for forty-eight hours?

He opened his eyes.

"Tell all units, hold for two more days."

8 PM, Damascus, Syrian Ministry of Defense.

Hafez Assad stood before a massive sandbox, looking at the red arrows marking the battle lines. Golan Heights, the Syrian army had advanced to within less than five kilometers from Lake Tiberias. But the sudden intervention by the Iranians had derailed his entire plan.

The Minister of Defense stood beside him, his voice laden with an anxiety he could barely suppress.

"Mr. President, the American 101st Airborne Division is gathering in Italy. They can air-drop onto the Golan Heights in the fastest forty-eight hours. We must capture Lake Tiberias before then."

Assad remained silent. He looked at the tank models densely packed in the sandbox, at the red arrows representing the troops, at the blue lake he had waited for thirty years.

"Third Armored Division," he finally spoke, "deploy."

The Minister of Defense was taken aback. "Mr. President, the Third Division belongs to the Capital Guard Force—"

"I know." Assad interrupted him, "But if not now, when? If the Americans arrive, it will be too late for anything."

He turned around, looking at the large portrait of the Assad family on the wall.

"Tell Hassan, by dawn tomorrow, I want to stand by Lake Tiberias."

9 PM, the outskirts of Moscow, a villa.

The Boss sat in a large chair, holding a glass of vodka, looking at the old television on the wall. CNN was continuously broadcasting images of the bombing of Jerusalem, the presenter's voice excited as if commentating a World Cup final.

The phone rang. He answered.

"Boss, the Americans have deployed their forces."

The Boss nodded. "I know."

"The Syrians are still fighting. The Iranians are still gathering. The Squid Man is nearly finished."

The Boss took a sip of vodka. "Tell the Iranians, don't stop. Tell the Syrians, keep fighting. Tell—"