Fahed opened his eyes.
"Full speed ahead. Target—Lake Tiberias."
Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias pontoon bridge.
Lieutenant Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, holding binoculars. To the east, the glow of artillery fire stained the horizon a dark red, and explosions could be heard over a hundred kilometers away, muffled, like thunder.
He put down the binoculars and returned to the folding table. The coffee pot was still steaming. He poured a cup and took a sip. Hot, bitter, but fragrant. He put down the cup and picked up the white flag.
The flag flapped wildly in the night wind.
At the east end of the bridge, the fog cleared.
Tanks.
Not just one, but dozens. Arranged in three columns, emerging from the fog, their barrels pointed toward the bridge.
Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, holding up the white flag, watching those tanks approach ever closer. Five hundred meters, three hundred meters, one hundred meters.
The first tank stopped at the bridgehead.
