Chapter 2131 - 865: I Told You, You Would Love This Feeling!

Mexico City, "Feathered Serpent Temple" top floor.

When Bramo pushed the door open, Victor was standing by the window, holding a cup of coffee that had already gone cold.

Outside the window, Paseo de la Reforma was silent, with only streetlights casting a dim yellow glow in the night.

Reports from the Middle East streamed in one after another, all conveying the same message: The Americans were going to intervene.

"Just received the news." Bramo's voice was low, as though discussing something meant to be unheard, "The United States Congress has just passed an emergency act for military intervention in the Middle East. It's not those politicians in the House of Representatives pushing it, it's AIPAC—the American-Israel Public Affairs Committee. They bypassed the White House and laid three hundred checks on Capitol Hill."

Victor didn't turn around. "How many votes?"

"411 votes in favor, nineteen against, five abstentions. A record-breaking number."

Victor's lips twitched. "Jewish money is more useful than Jewish prayers."

He turned around, walked back to his desk, and sat down.

On the desk was a newly delivered intelligence summary, marked with a few lines in red pencil: The 101st Airborne Division has taken off from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, destination—Golan Heights. The 82nd Airborne Division has departed from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, destination—Sinai Peninsula. The Sixth Fleet has set sail from Naples Port, Italy, destination—Eastern Mediterranean.

Three forces, three flags, one goal: to plant the American troops' boots into the sands of the Middle East before the Squid nation falls.

Bramo stood in front of him, with a face darker than the night outside the window. "The main force of the U.S. Military can arrive in the war zone within forty-eight hours. By then—"

"By then, the Syrians will halt, the Egyptians will retreat, the Iranians will scurry back into their caves and continue praying. The Squid Men save their lives, the Americans save face, and everyone acts as if nothing had happened."

Bramo waited for more.

Victor stood up, walked to the giant map of the Middle East on the wall. His finger pointed at the Golan Heights.

"But here, it was our people who helped the Squid hold ground. Sinai Peninsula, it was our people who helped the Egyptians capture it. Lake Tiberias, it was our people who bombed, inch by inch, back into their hands." He turned around, "Americans wanting to step in and pick up the pieces? They can eat shit!"

3:45 AM, Tel Aviv, Squid Defense Army Headquarters underground command center.

Moses stood before the main control panel, staring at the enormous screen. The Syrians on the Golan Heights had stopped.

The Egyptians on Sinai Peninsula had stopped. Hamas in the Gaza Strip had retreated into tunnels. Even those missiles launched from Tehran had turned back halfway.

The communications officer ran over, his voice trembling with excitement.

"Chief, the Americans are here! The advance team of the 101st Airborne Division has already landed on the Golan Heights! The 82nd Airborne Division is currently airdropping supplies on Sinai Peninsula! The Sixth Fleet has already entered the Eastern Mediterranean!"

Moses said nothing.

He watched the screen with its ceasing red arrows, retreating enemy markers, and illuminating blue ally icons.

He recalled Ben Abraham dying in the Merkava on the Golan Heights, Klein firing the last cannon shell at the Hasspin Line, Barak stabbing the last enemy in the ruins of Gaza with a bayonet.

He remembered Shaleet using the gunstock as a club in Sinai Peninsula, and Cohen firing the last cannon shell by Lake Tiberias.

"Tell the Prime Minister," he said, "the Americans have arrived."

Shamir stood by the window, looking at the distant Temple Mount silhouette. The sky hadn't yet lightened, and that ancient city still lay asleep. But on the Golan Heights, American transport planes were landing. On Sinai Peninsula, American paratroopers were dropping. In the Mediterranean, American aircraft carriers were cutting through waves.

The door opened. Moses walked in.

"Prime Minister, the Mexican Fleet is still outside Haifa Port."

Shamir turned around.

"Moses," he began, "do you think after the Americans arrive, they'd leave?"

Moses was stunned.

"Prime Minister—"

"The Americans won't leave. Once they arrive, they won't leave. The Golan Heights will have American bases, Sinai Peninsula will have American radar stations, Lake Tiberias will have American patrol boats. We've changed from a country surrounded by Arabs to one occupied by Americans."

Moses said nothing.

Shamir picked up the conditions from the Mexicans. "But the Mexicans are different. They don't want occupation; they want—negotiation. Apologies, compensation, handing over people, then the Mexican Army comes to Golan Heights for peacekeeping. After peacekeeping? They will leave, because they are twelve thousand kilometers away, their home is not here."

He laid down the document. "Tell the Mexicans I agree to the conditions."

Moses was stunned. "Prime Minister, what about the Americans—"

"I'll handle the Americans."

5 AM, outside Haifa Port, Mexican Fleet flagship "Independence".

Admiral Morales hadn't slept all night. He stood on the bridge, watching those increasingly bright lights of American warships in the distance.

The aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers of the Sixth Fleet, at least twenty, were lined up outside Haifa Port.

The communications officer ran over. "General, Jerusalem called—The Prime Minister agreed to our conditions."

Morales took the telegram. It contained only one sentence: "Apologies, compensation, handing over people. Mexican Army comes to Golan Heights."

He folded the telegram, tucked it into his pocket. Then he picked up the red phone and dialed a number.