Chapter 2127 - 864: Weak to the Core

12 noon, Cairo, Egyptian Ministry of Defense.

Foad II stood in front of the massive sand table, looking at the Suez Canal stretching across the Sinai Peninsula. On the other side of the canal was the Squid Man's last defense line. Behind the line lay Tel Aviv.

The Minister of Defense stood beside him.

"Your Majesty, the United States has deployed troops. The 101st Airborne Division is en route to the Golan Heights. We—"

"What about us?" Foad II interrupted him, "We've been fighting for four days, lost five thousand soldiers, and captured the entire Sinai Peninsula. Now you tell me to stop?"

The Minister of Defense bowed his head.

Foad II turned around, gazing at the Egyptian flag on the wall.

"Send out orders," he said, "The entire army is to cross the river. The target—Tel Aviv."

12:17 PM, East bank of the Suez Canal, Squid's last defense line.

The last commander of the remains of the 401st Armored Brigade, a Major named David Shallet, stood beside a Merkava devoid of shells, watching the plume of approaching dust from the west. Egyptian tanks, at least two hundred of them.

His forces were down to seven tanks, with fewer than five shells each. Infantry—less than two hundred men. Ammunition—fewer than ten magazines per person.

A communications officer ran over. "Major, orders from General Staff—hold for another twenty-four hours. The Americans are coming."

Shallet did not turn around. He stared at the advancing dust, at the positions he had defended for three days and nights.

"Tell General Staff," he said, "I will hold to the last second."

He jumped onto the shell-less Merkava and crawled into the turret. The gunman turned to look at him.

"Major, no shells left."

Shallet nodded. "Then use the machine gun. If the machine gun runs out of bullets, use fists."

He paused.

"Today, Egyptians will cross the river over my corpse."

1 PM, Suez Canal, Egyptian 4th Division crossing point.

Major General Shafeek stood beside a bridge-laying tank, watching the row of bridges slowly unfold. On the opposite side of the canal, the Squid positions were still firing. Machine gun bullets struck the bridges, splashing up columns of water. Mortar shells fell into the water, erupting white geysers.

But his tanks were crossing the river.

As the first T-62 moved onto the bridges, Squid anti-tank missiles came flying. The missile pierced the side armor of the T-62, turning the tank into a ball of fire, blocking the bridge.

The second tank maneuvered around and continued forward.

The third tank. The fourth tank. The fifth tank.

Squid's firepower was diminishing. Their shells ran out, missiles ran out, bullets were nearly depleted.

Shafeek stood at the bridgehead, watching the first tank rush onto the opposite bank. The tracks of the tank rolled over the Squid's trenches, and the Egyptian flag fluttered fiercely in the wind above the turret.

"Crossed the river," he murmured.

2 PM, East bank of the Suez Canal, Squid's last defense line.

Major Shallet leaned against the shell-less Merkava, watching the Egyptian tanks crossing the river.

His forces were down to three men. A machine gunner with a broken leg, a one-eyed gunman, and a loader who had just turned nineteen. Ammunition—fewer than five bullets per person.

Egyptian tanks were already at the front.

Shallet stood up, holding an M16 with only four bullets left. The first shot hit the observation window of the tank at the front, bouncing off. The second shot hit the same spot, still bouncing off. The third shot hit an Egyptian officer poking his head out from the turret; the man fell from the tank, hit the ground, and was motionless.

When the fourth bullet was fired, he turned the gun upside down, gripping the barrel, using the stock as a club.

That tank halted in front of him. The turret turned, aiming the muzzle at his face.

Shallet looked at the dark muzzle.

He thought of his wife. Thought of his son. Thought of the daughter whose name was chosen before birth.

He smiled.

The muzzle spewed flames.

2:17 PM, East bank of the Suez Canal, Squid's last defense line, the last Merkava exploded into fragments. Major Shallet, last commander of the remains of the 401st Armored Brigade, killed in action.

His forces, utterly annihilated.

3 PM, Tel Aviv, Squid Defense Army Headquarters underground command center.

Moses looked at the screen. Golan Heights, last light extinguished. Sinai Peninsula, last light extinguished. Gaza Strip, long extinguished. Lebanon Border, the last light was flickering.

A communications staff officer ran over, voice as hoarse as sandpaper.

"Chief, Egyptians crossed the river. Syrians are preparing to cross the lake. Iranians have launched the second batch of missiles."

Moses stood there, looking at the near blank screen. He thought of Ben Abraham, thought of Klein, thought of Barak, thought of Shallet. Thought of those nineteen-year-olds, twenty-year-olds, forty-five-year-olds of soldiers. Thought of those who fought to the last shell on the Golan Heights, battled with bayonets amidst Gaza ruins, used rifle stocks as clubs in Sinai Peninsula.

He turned around, looking at the communications staff officer who had rushed over from the Jerusalem bunker.

"Where's the Prime Minister?"

"Praying."

Moses was silent for three seconds. Then he picked up the red telephone and dialed a number.

"Connect me to the Mexican Fleet."

The phone rang twice, answered. On the other end was Admiral Morales's voice.

"Chief Moses."

Moses took a deep breath.

"General Morales, the Squid needs help."

3:17 PM, Eastern Mediterranean, Mexican Fleet Flagship "Independence."