Golan Heights, east bank of Lake Tiberias.
Brigadier General Hassan's troops had retreated five kilometers.
He stood at the forefront of the new position, watching the Mexican engineers busy on the west bank of the lake.
They were constructing a floating bridge, not a military one, but a simple pedestrian bridge with railings.
A sign stood at the bridgehead, with the same phrase written in Arabic, Hebrew, English, and Spanish: "Gate of Peace, Opens May 15."
Peace my ass!
You, Mexico, are the biggest thug.
A staff officer came over, holding a fax.
"Major General, a telegram from Damascus. The President is asking if you will attend the negotiations the day after tomorrow?"
Hassan took the fax, glanced at it, and didn't respond. He looked at the forming bridge, watching the Mexican engineers sweating under the sun. They were young, mostly in their early twenties, with faces not yet fully tanned.
