Chapter 2184 - 878: The New World Police! (Part 2)

"Are we there? Where exactly?"

"Mediterranean Sea. Outside Tartus Port. Two cruisers, three destroyers, and a nuclear submarine. The carrier's aircraft have started patrolling over Syria. Assad wants to turn the state funeral into a parade."

Alvarez said nothing.

"Lieutenant, wait at the airport. Don't wander off. We'll send someone to pick you up."

"Who's coming?"

"3rd Special Forces Battalion."

The call ended.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy tone.

He looked at the flight information screen, at the red "Delayed" signs.

He remembered Hassan standing in the olive grove, cane in hand, saying "The bridge stays, the water flows, I've buried the people." Now the bridge is still there, the water is still flowing, but the people are gone.

He turned and left the departure hall.

11:05 a.m., above Damascus, Big Mao Air Force Su-27 fighter plane

Major Victor Sergeyevich Sokolov held the throttle with his left hand, the control stick with his right, eyes fixed on the radar screen.

On the screen, three green dots were approaching from the west. They were fast, flying low, almost skimming the sea surface. He switched the radar mode from search to track. The dots became clear signals—fighter jets. Unknown model, unknown nationality, unknown intent.

"Red Three, this is Red Leader. Northwest direction, three unknown targets, distance eighty kilometers, altitude two hundred meters, speed eight hundred kilometers per hour. Follow me."

His wingman responded over the headset: "Red Three, copy."

Sokolov pushed the throttle down, the Su-27's engine roared, thrust pressing him into the seat. The aircraft dove rapidly from six thousand meters, piercing through the clouds, the blue Mediterranean below. On the sea, Big Mao Fleet's ships were lined up in battle formation like grey toy boats.

On the radar screen, those three dots came closer. Sixty kilometers, fifty kilometers, forty kilometers. Sokolov opened the common channel, shouting in English:

"Unknown aircraft, you've entered Syrian airspace. Identify yourselves or face interception."

Silence.

Thirty kilometers.

"Unknown aircraft, warning again, identify yourselves."

Still silence.

Twenty kilometers.

Sokolov's finger hovered over the weapon safety. The Su-27 was armed with six R-73 air-to-air missiles, each able to lock a target at thirty kilometers. He activated the fire control radar, starting the targeting process.

Ten kilometers.

Finally, the other side responded. English, with a heavy Mexican accent:

"Big Mao aircraft, this is the Mexican Air Force 3rd Special Forces Battalion. We are on an evacuation mission. No intent to violate Syrian airspace. Request safe passage to Damascus Airport."

Mexicans.

Sokolov withdrew his finger from the weapon safety.

"Mexican aircraft, Syrian airspace is sealed. All aircraft must land or leave. You have thirty seconds to decide."

Three seconds of silence.

"Big Mao aircraft, we choose to land. Request navigation."

Sokolov switched channels, contacting Damascus Approach Control. "Damascus, this is Big Mao Air Force Red Leader. Three Mexican aircraft request landing for evacuation mission. Please advise."

The controller paused for five seconds. "Permission granted for landing. Eastern tarmac, away from military zones."

Sokolov switched back to common channel. "Mexican aircraft, permission granted for landing. Follow me, keep five kilometers distance."

"Copy."

Three Mexican planes emerged from beneath the clouds. C-130 transport planes, painted gray, wings bearing the Mexican flag. They formed a line, flying towards Damascus behind the Su-27.

Sokolov glanced back. The C-130's cargo doors were shut, concealing its contents. But he knew, it couldn't be just evacuees inside.

"Damn," he muttered, "this damn well isn't an evacuation."

11:32 a.m., Damascus International Airport, eastern tarmac

The C-130 engines were still running when the cargo doors opened.

Alvarez stood at the terminal entrance, watching those three transport planes taxi on the runway. They didn't park in the hangars, stopping instead on the tarmac beside the runway, doors facing out, engines facing in. This was the standard tactical landing posture—ready to take off at any moment.

He recognized this stance.

On the Golan Heights, every resupply drop by the Mexican Expeditionary Force used this landing method. Doors open, supplies thrown down, people jump out, then the aircraft takes off immediately, never lingering. Because staying too long made it a target.

The doors fully opened, and those who walked out weren't evacuees.

They were soldiers.

Fully armed Mexican soldiers in desert camouflage, wielding G36 assault rifles, grenades at their sides, tactical backpacks on their backs. They jumped down from the doors, assembling on the tarmac quickly in silence, no one speaking.

A Major approached Alvarez, stopping in front of him.

"Lieutenant Alvarez?"

"Yes."

The Major pulled a document from his pocket, handing it to him. "Mr. Bramo asked me to give this to you."

Alvarez took the document. It had just one line, handwritten, in a scrawling script: "Bridge stays. Monument stays. People, don't evacuate."

He looked up at the Major. "How many?"

"A company. One hundred and twenty men. Equipped with: anti-tank missiles, portable anti-air missiles, mortars, drones. Mission: protect the evacuation channel at Damascus Airport. Duration: indefinite."