Moses remained silent for three seconds.
"Tell the Air Force to take off. Target—Tiberias City. But don't bomb the Syrians, bomb the bridge over Lake Tiberias."
The communications officer was stunned. "Chief, that bridge—"
"That bridge was built by the Mexicans. Bomb the bridge, and the Syrians' supply will be cut off. With the supply cut off, they can't continue fighting. If they can't continue, they'll retreat. If they retreat, Tiberias City will be saved."
He paused for a moment.
"Tell the Mexicans, I'm sorry."
Noon, 12 PM, Golan Heights, Floating Bridge over Lake Tiberias
Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind a folding table, and the three cups of coffee in front of him had all gone cold. Hassan's, Assad's, and those who died in Aleppo. Three cups, three directions.
In the distant sky, planes were flying.
They weren't Syrians', nor Israelis'. No markings, no paint, the silver-gray fuselage glinted coldly in the sunlight.
He stood up, watching those planes get closer.
