Chapter 2180 - 877: Seems Like an America

May 17, 1998, 4 a.m., Moscow, Lubyanka Square.

Vice Admiral Korosov stood by the window, watching the pigeons in the square.

The sky had yet to lighten, the pigeons huddled together on the streetlights, a dull gray, like a row of drowsy balls of fluff.

He had stood at this window all night, not due to insomnia, but because he dared not sleep.

The situation in Syria was escalating.

General Hassan was dead, buried beneath that olive grove alongside those whom he personally unearthed. The gravestone was carved by his own hand, bearing his own name.

President Hafez Assad did not send anyone to take command of the 5th Division, and the soldiers of the 5th Division did not come down from the mountain. They stayed in that grove, alongside their general, alongside those gravestones.

Dmitry entered, holding intelligence that had just come back from Damascus, his face pale.

"General, the Americans have made a move. Two destroyers of the Sixth Fleet, USS Laboon and USS Kani, passed through the Suez Canal into the Red Sea last night. Their destination—Syria's coast. The French have also acted, the De Gaulle carrier battle group set sail from Toulon Port and is heading to the Eastern Mediterranean. The British—the British announced they would deploy four 'Typhoon' fighters to Cyprus."

Korosov tapped his fingers on the window frame. Americans, French, British—three armies, three flags, one goal. Not Syria, but Russia.

The Assad regime in Syria was Russia's last ally in the Middle East. The naval base at Tartus was Russia's only foothold in the Mediterranean. The air base at Hemimeim was a launchpad for projecting power into Africa. If Syria fell, Russia would be driven out of the Middle East.

"What about the Mexicans?"

Dmitry flipped through the folder. "Still at the Golan Heights. Lieutenant Alvarez is still running a coffee stand on the bridge. As for Victor—he released a statement early this morning."

Korosov turned around. "What statement?"

Dmitry handed over a printout. It contained only a few lines in Spanish, which translated into Russian was even shorter: "The Syrian people have the right to know the truth. Who is buried beneath that olive grove, who buried them, and who protects those who did the burying? The truth does not kill, it is the suppression of the truth that kills."

Korosov tossed the paper onto the desk.

"He's mad. Who does he think he is? An international policeman? A world judge? He wants to turn Syria upside down, then what? Assad topples, civil war in Syria, millions of refugees flock to Europe. Whose head will the Europeans place the blame upon? Upon Victor's. And then? Then he'll be satisfied?"

He returned to his desk and sat down.

On the desk lay fresh military intelligence.

The deployment map of Russian forces in Syria, the naval base at Tartus Port, the air base at Hemimeim, the military advisory group in Damascus—all clearly marked.

"Dmitry, notify the Department of Defense that the stationed forces in Syria are to enter the highest state of alert. Tell Assad to hold fast.

Don't let the Hassan matter continue to ferment. Tear down those gravestones, erase those names, seal off that grove. Just pretend nothing ever happened."

Dmitry was stunned.

"General, there are hundreds of Syrian civilians in that grove. They know those gravestones, know those names, know who is buried beneath that grove. It can't be sealed."

Korosov looked at him. "If it can't be sealed, then burn it. Once burned, plant new trees. Once new trees grow, it will be forgotten."

Dmitry turned and left.

Korosov sat there, watching the pigeons outside take flight. Dawn had come, the sun rose from the east, casting long shadows of the pigeons across the square. He thought of 1976, the first time he went to Hamah, standing among those corpses, feeling for the first time that humans were not human. Now people were buried again beneath that olive grove, and he would have them burn those trees, plant new ones. Once new trees grow, it would be forgotten. ℴℴ𝘮

He closed his eyes.

"Damn it," he cursed softly.

5 a.m., Golan Heights, Tiberias Lake floating bridge.

Lieutenant Alvarez hadn't slept all night. He sat behind a folding table, the coffee in the thermos pot had gone cold. The coffee cup was still sitting opposite, placed since yesterday and untouched.

A car arrived at the eastern end of the bridge. It wasn't a tractor, nor a jeep, but a black car. It parked behind the tent, the door opened and a man stepped out, dressed in a black suit, without a hat, without insignia. He walked to the middle of the bridge, standing before Alvarez.

"Lieutenant Alvarez? I come from Damascus. I'm President Hafez Assad's envoy."

Alvarez stood up. "What's the matter?"

The envoy pulled a document from his briefcase and handed it to him. "This is the President's order. The olive grove from today is designated a military exclusion zone. No one is allowed to enter, those gravestones—must be removed within three days."

Alvarez took the document, but did not read it. He looked at the envoy. "Even General Hassan's gravestone must be removed?"

The envoy was silent for a second. "Yes, removed."

Alvarez placed the document on the table. He picked up the thermos pot, poured a cup of cold coffee, and drank a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

"Mr. Envoy, there are hundreds of Syrian civilians in that grove. They know those gravestones, know those names, know who is buried beneath that grove. You remove the gravestones, seal the grove, and then they'll forget?"

The envoy said nothing.

"They remember. They will remember. They will tell their children, and their children will tell their children's children. Gravestones can be removed, names erased, trees burned. But memories in people's minds cannot be burned away."