Chapter 2129 - 864: Weakness at the Core

Three shells were left in his artillery position. He was the last man in his artillery company.

He loaded the first shell. Aimed. Fired.

The shell hit the center of the pontoon bridge, blasting a gap.

The Syrians began repairs. Engineers jumped into the water, groping in the dark for the broken planks.

He loaded the second shell. Aimed. Fired.

The shell landed in the tank convoy at the eastern end of the pontoon bridge, flipping over a T-72.

The Syrian counterattack came. Shells fell around him like raindrops, raising columns of black smoke and dust. Shrapnel ripped his cheek, blood running down his neck.

He loaded the third shell. Aimed. Fired.

The shell hit the western end of the pontoon bridge—among the tanks that had already crossed. A T-72 was directly hit, its turret flying into the lake, creating a huge splash.

Then, there were no more shells.

He stood there, looking at the outdated howitzer, at the eastern side where the lake was still burning.

The Syrians had rebuilt the pontoon bridge. Tanks started crossing. One, two, three.

He turned around, looking south. That direction led to Tel Aviv. The direction where his wife and children were.

He turned back, looking at the approaching tanks.

Then he laughed. A light laugh.

He picked up the old M16 from the artillery position, checking the magazine. Seven bullets left.

He walked to the lakeside, found a crater, lay down inside, and aimed at the tanks crossing the bridge.

The first shot hit the observation window of the foremost tank, and ricocheted off.

The second shot hit the same spot, and ricocheted off.

The third shot hit the Syrian officer poking his head out of the turret. The man fell off the tank and into the lake.

Fourth shot, fifth shot, sixth shot—

When the seventh shot was fired, the tank had already reached in front of him.

The turret turned. The barrel aimed at him.

He raised his head, looking at that dark barrel.

Thinking of his wife's face. Thinking of his son's face. Thinking of his yet-unborn daughter, whose name was already chosen.

The barrel erupted in flames.

At 9 PM, on the west bank of Lake Tiberias, the last M-109 exploded into fragments. Sergeant Eli Cohen, the last man of the artillery company, died in action.

But his three shells bought the Syrians two hours. In those two hours, the bridge broke three times, repaired three times. Only seven tanks crossed the river. Seven tanks weren't enough to take Tiberias City.

Hassan stood by the lakeside, looking at those seven tanks that had crossed the river, looking at the burning Squid positions on the west bank.

"Commander, do we keep fighting?"

He was silent for three seconds.

"Fight."

At 10 PM, Jerusalem, underground command center.

Shamir looked at the newly delivered military report. On the west bank of Lake Tiberias, the last howitzer fired its last shell. The sergeant manning the position fired his last bullet, then was killed by a tank shell. But he alone stalled the Syrians for two hours.

He put down the report. Moses stood in front of him.

"Prime Minister, the Mexican Fleet has entered Squid territory. They—they're on standby outside Haifa Port."

Shamir nodded. "Tell General Morales, thank you."

He paused. "And thank that sergeant on the west bank who fired the last shell."

At 11 PM, outside Haifa Port, on the Mexican fleet's flagship "Independence".

Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, looking at the sparsely lit Haifa Port in the distance. All the Squid warships in the port had been dispatched, leaving only a few patrol boats cruising back and forth inside the breakwater.

The communications officer approached. "General, a call from the Squid Prime Minister's Office—'thank you'."

Morales didn't turn around. He looked at the dark sea, thinking of Hector guarding the bombed-out camp on the Sinai Peninsula. Thinking of that ten-year-old child buried under the ruins of the Mexican Embassy.

"Reply," he said, "you're welcome."

At midnight, on the western shore of Lake Tiberias, on the outskirts of Tiberias City.

The seven Syrian tanks that crossed the river finally reached the edge of Tiberias City.

There were no regular army troops left in the city. Defending were the reserves, veterans, wounded escaped from hospitals, and farmers who rushed from villages across Galilee. Holding old rifles, they hid behind every window, guarded every alley, waiting for the Syrians.

The first tank charged into the street, and three anti-tank rockets were fired simultaneously from three different buildings. One hit the side, two hit the tracks. The tank was paralyzed in the middle of the street, its turret spinning, unable to find a target, then was pierced by an RPG round from behind into the ammunition compartment.

The explosion collapsed houses along the entire street.

The second tank bypassed, continuing forward. It reached a crossroads, hit by a rocket fired from a sewer hatch, striking the chassis. The tank crouched there, its barrel laid low like a giraffe with its neck broken.

Third. Fourth. Fifth.

By 2 AM, all seven tanks were destroyed. The reserve, veterans, wounded, and farmers defending the city were nearly all dead.

But Tiberias City remained in Jewish hands.

At 3 AM, on the eastern shore of Lake Tiberias, at the command post of the 5th Syrian Division.

Hassan looked at the newly delivered military report. Seven tanks, all destroyed. The vanguard, wiped out. Tiberias City, still in Squid hands.

He put down the report. The staff officer stood in front of him, face pale.