Chapter 2128 - 864: Weakness at the Core

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding the satellite phone in his hand. The voice of Moses still echoed in his ear.

"The Squid needs help."

He was silent for three seconds. Then he pressed another number.

"Connect me to the 'Feathered Serpent Temple'."

The phone rang once and was answered. It was Victor's voice, very calm.

"Carlos."

"Leader, the Squid Man is requesting aid. The Syrians are preparing to cross Lake Tiberias, the Egyptians have already passed the Suez Canal, the second batch of Iranian missiles is on the way. The United States is still more than twenty hours away."

Victor was silent for three seconds.

"Tell them," he said, "Mexico can help. But with conditions."

Morales waited.

"First, the Squid acknowledges publicly that the bombing of the Mexican Embassy is an act of war, apologizes to Mexico, and compensates the victims' families."

"Second, surrender the F-16 pilot."

"Third—" Victor paused, "the Squid agrees to establish a demilitarized zone on the Golan Heights post-war, with Mexican troops involved in peacekeeping."

Morales's hand trembled slightly. "Leader, that means—"

"Means what?" Victor interrupted him, "Means allowing Mexico a foothold in the Middle East. Carlos, we're not here for sightseeing."

The call ended.

Morales stood there, looking at the barely visible coastline in the distance. He picked up the red phone and dialed Moses's number back.

"General Moses, the leader's conditions—"

He recited those three conditions.

The other end was silent for ten seconds.

Then Moses said, "Agreed."

4 PM, Jerusalem, underground command center.

Shamir stood in front of the gigantic map of Israel, looking at the map that was almost entirely red. Golan Heights, red. Sinai Peninsula, red. Gaza Strip, red. Lebanon Border, red. Only Tel Aviv was still blue.

Moses walked in.

"Prime Minister, the Mexicans agreed."

Shamir didn't turn around. "And the conditions?"

Moses recited them.

Shamir closed his eyes. Surrender the pilot. Public apology. Let Mexican troops step onto the Golan Heights.

He opened his eyes. "Agree to them."

Moses froze. "Prime Minister—"

"Agree to them." Shamir turned around, looking at Moses's tired, pale face, "We have no other choice."

5 PM, Golan Heights, east bank of Lake Tiberias.

Brigadier General Hassan stood by the lake, watching the engineers preparing to cross the lake. The pontoon bridge was already set up, tanks were queuing.

The staff officer ran over. "General, urgent telegram from Tehran—Mexicans are coming in."

Hassan froze. "What?"

"The Mexican Fleet and the Squid Man reached an agreement. They—they're coming to the Golan Heights for peacekeeping."

Hassan's hand was shaking. Not from fear, but anger.

"Peacekeeping?" His voice suddenly raised, "We've lost five thousand people to take Golan Heights, and they come to peacekeep?"

The staff officer lowered his head.

Hassan turned around, looking at the blinding blue of the lake water. He thought of those who died in Hasspin Village, those who died in the outskirts of Tiberias City, those who died on every inch of land in the Golan Heights.

"Tell Damascus," he said, "I disagree."

6 PM, Damascus, Syrian Ministry of Defense.

Hafez Assad looked at the intelligence report that had just been delivered. The Mexican Fleet reached an agreement with the Squid. The Mexican Army will participate in peacekeeping on the Golan Heights.

He put the intelligence report down. The Minister of Defense stood in front of him, face livid.

"Mr. President, we—"

"I know."

Assad interrupted him. He stood up, walked to the window. Outside, the sky over Damascus was dark and hazy, and the smoke from battles a few days ago could still be seen on the distant hills.

"Tell Hassan," he said, "cross the lake. Now. Capture Tiberias before the Mexicans arrive."

East bank of Lake Tiberias.

When the first T-72 drove onto the pontoon bridge, the Squid's artillery shell came over. Not from Tiberias City, but from further away—from Galilee, from Haifa, from places they thought had run out of shells.

The shell hit the pontoon bridge, creating a huge gap. That T-72, tank and crew, fell into the lake, splashing water over ten meters high.

Hassan stood by the lake, watching the tank slowly sink.

"Are there any more pontoon bridges?" he asked.

The staff officer shook his head. "Just this one."

Hassan was silent for three seconds. "Set it up again."

The engineers rushed up, setting up the bridge again under artillery fire. The Squid's shells came wave after wave, killing one engineer, the second one stepped up. Killed the second, the third stepped up.

By the time the pontoon bridge was rebuilt, the sky was completely dark.

The second tank drove onto the pontoon bridge. It moved slowly, steadily, like an old elephant testing the ice.

It had crossed halfway.

The Squid's shells came again.

This time not from Tiberias City, but from closer—from the west bank of the lake, from positions they thought were abandoned.

The shell hit the center of the pontoon bridge.

The bridge broke. That tank slid into the lake askew, the people on the turret jumping into the water, struggling in the darkness.

Hassan stood there, watching the silhouettes bobbing in the water.

"General," the staff officer's voice was trembling, "set up again?"

Hassan didn't answer.

He looked at the Squid's positions on the west bank still firing, watching those artillery pieces he thought were empty, those people he thought were all dead.

"Set up," he said.

8 PM, western bank of Lake Tiberias, Squid's final position.

A sergeant named Eli Cohen leaned against an old M-109 self-propelled howitzer, watching the dark lake surface on the east side. The pontoon bridge was set up again, the Syrian tanks were crossing.