The Golan Heights at dawn.
The sky had not yet brightened.
Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the engineers set up tables. The tables were folding ones, camouflaged, brought out from the camp. The tablecloth was white, sent by the wife of the mess sergeant from Mexico City, originally intended for a wedding. The coffee pot was insulated, prepared last night, with beans from the Chiapas Highlands, a flavor Hassan liked.
At the eastern end of the bridge, the Syrian positions were pitch black, with no lights visible. On the western end of the bridge, the Israeli positions had a few lamps, dimly lit, like sleepy eyes.
The adjutant came over, lowering his voice. "Lieutenant Colonel, General Hassan has arrived."
