Western shore of Lake Tiberias, beside the white flag.
Lieutenant Alvarez sat under the white flag for two days and nights. The bread was finished, the water was gone, and the last drop in the coffee pot was drunk at dusk yesterday.
He placed the empty pot under the flagpole, lined up with three cups: Hassan's, Assad's, and those who died in Aleppo.
Four cups, four directions.
The distant sound of artillery stopped.
The Syrians were chasing, the Turks were fleeing, and the Israelis were in the middle, doing something unknown.
In the distance, from the northern direction, the artillery sounded once more.
Offshore from Haifa Port, flagship "Independence" of the Mexican Fleet.
Admiral Morales stood on the bridge, holding binoculars, gazing out at the distant sea.
The Turks' second fleet retreated, but not far. Their aircraft carrier stopped south of Cyprus at fifty nautical miles, bow facing south, its guns aimed at the Mexican Fleet.
