He thought of his brother Hector, holding the scorched camp on the Sinai Peninsula, waiting for him. He arrived. Would Maher wait for General Fahed? Would Assad wait for Maher? Could he wait for them?
He didn't know. He only knew that his fleet was still here, his sailors were still here, and his coffee was still brewing.
5 AM, Northern Suburbs of Haifa Port, Advance Troops of the 4th Division
Maher's tanks were parked by a dried-up river, opposite the Turkish defense line.
Trenches, barbed wire, anti-tank missile positions, and at least twenty tanks. The gun barrels pointed in his direction, gleaming a dark gray in the early morning light.
He lay by the riverbank, holding a telescope, watching those black muzzles. He only had thirty tanks, each with less than five shells, and his soldiers hadn't slept in three days. Some were smoking, others were cleaning their guns, and some were asleep, leaning against the tank tracks.
The adjutant crawled over, speaking in a low voice.
