GOLAN: This is the Future of War (Future War)

by FX Holden

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Yes. Very problematic. While I have no knowledge of whether or not Iran possesses nuclear weapons, I cannot see how you would distinguish between a conventional missile fired by an Iranian warship that felt itself threatened by your Navy, and a nuclear one. In either case, it would seem to me, you would feel justified to attack our ally Iran, and we, in turn, would feel compelled to defend it.”

  Henderson picked up a pencil and tapped its end against his desk. “President Navalniy, I have a proposal for your consideration. A way through this.”

  “I am listening.”

  “If you could use your influence to persuade those Iranian ships to withdraw to ports in the Black Sea and Iran, and persuade the Iranian strategic missile forces embedded with Syrian troops on the border with Israel to withdraw their missiles, we would be happy to jointly sponsor with Russia a treaty conference between Israel and Iran on reduction of strategic medium- and long-range missiles.”

  Lewis saw Henderson stop tapping, and his eyes rose from the notepad in front of him to look across the room at her. This was their main play, entirely based on an assumption that Iran did not really want to go to war with Israel, but rather desired a negotiated end to their uneasy cold war. If they were wrong, it would not interest the Russian premier at all.

  “You believe you could persuade the Israeli Prime Minister to agree to such a proposal?” Navalniy asked.

  Lewis realized she’d been holding her breath and let out a sigh of relief. They were negotiating now.

  “Perhaps. If they do not feel their very existence is threatened by the presence of Russian-backed Syrian and Iranian troops on their border.”

  “Ah, your requests mount. You expect Syria to also give up its entirely legitimate claim to its territories in the Golan? I am flattered that you think Russia would have the influence needed to achieve this, but I am afraid I do not have the same confidence.”

  “Israel can deal with Syria alone, Mr. President, we both know that. All I am suggesting is the withdrawal of Iran’s naval and missile forces. In return, we can perhaps achieve a new era of peace and stability in the Middle East together.”

  “You make it sound so easy, President Henderson. I fear the devil will be in the detail, as you Americans like to say. But I will discuss your proposal with my cabinet and our allies.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President, and may I suggest that while you do so, you ask Admiral Gromyko of your Black Sea fleet to sail a little slower through the Aegean?”

  Navalniy chuckled. “I think you have not met Admiral Gromyko, Mr. President? I would no sooner tell him how to sail his ships than you would tell me how to run my country. Good evening to you, sir.”

  “And to you, President Navalniy.”

  Sianni didn’t even wait for the phone to hit the cradle on the Resolute desk. “The bastard is going to test us. There is not a chance in hell those Russian ships will back off.”

  Lewis’ phone started buzzing, but she silenced it. She could get to her messages when they were finished debriefing on the call. She couldn’t disagree with the VP’s analysis. Still… “All that matters is that it looks like Tonya was right. Iran wants a deal with Israel and Russia is behind them. Syria wants the Golan Heights, and Navalniy threw that into the pot too, but I suspect they’ll pull back on that if they can get the credit for inking a missile treaty between Iran and Israel.”

  “Did you hear him denying Russia is behind the cyber attack? ‘We stand ready to help’ my wrinkled ass,” Sianni muttered. “And you never mentioned the fact their missile cruiser just swatted ten Israeli satellites from the sky while they say they shot down one, ‘by accident’.”

  “They know we know, Ben. They know Israel knows. What matters is, he all but admitted the goal is a treaty between Israel and Iran and Golan is a sideshow.”

  “A treaty with Navalniy as the peacemaker? What a joke. We give him that, we give Russia the Middle East from Lebanon to Iran.”

  “I’d be happy to hear the Vice President’s alternate strategy,” Lewis said carefully.

  Sianni didn’t hesitate. “It’s the same as the Joint Chiefs are advocating outside this room. Get right in behind Israel and smack this gorilla in the face. A massive air assault on Syrian forces launched from Israel, Cyprus and the Nimitz in the Gulf. Knock out their air defense, communications and control and destroy every damn tank and missile on the ground, whether it’s Syrian, Russian or Iranian. Stop firing fishing nets at Iranian warships and put mines or torpedoes in their hulls if they try to enter the Red Sea or the Med. Send a battalion of US infantry to reinforce Israeli outposts up and down the border.”

  Carmine listened respectfully. She knew well what the belligerent generals of the Joint Chiefs were advocating behind closed doors in Washington, and she knew their view was gaining traction not least because it played perfectly to the hearts and minds of the Jewish lobby.

  “The Joint Chiefs, for all their words about modernization, still think putting ordnance on targets is the solution to everything,” she responded. “Say we do all that? Will that stop the cyber attacks? Covert anti-satellite activities? Or will it just expose us to a massive retaliatory attack on US space and cyber infrastructure? If we defang a nuclear-armed Iran without destroying all of its nuclear weapons, will that make it more or less likely they’ll use a nuke? Even this massive air assault – how does that even work? It isn’t a Syrian or Iranian air force in the skies over Syria. It is Russian. US forces didn’t shoot down a single Russian aircraft in Turkey, only Turkish Coalition Forces were engaged – for a reason. So how will Russia react if US aircraft start smacking Russian aircraft out of the sky over Syria? Do the Joint Chiefs really think Russia will just pack up and go home, or are they looking for a bare-knuckle fist fight with Russia that can only end one way?”

  Sianni wasn’t backing off. “No one ever got what they wanted by playing nice with Russia. If we keep going down the non-confrontation path, they will win. You’ll see.”

  Henderson, who had been listening to them both, reached for the TV remote and turned the TV on again. It was still showing a map in a small window on the news feed of the Russian-Iranian fleet in red, US warships in blue, and a dashed white line across the Aegean Sea marking the entry into the Mediterranean, with the Russian fleet getting closer by the minute.

  “I may be a simple man, Ben, but this particular scenario does not appear non-confrontational to me.”

  Buq’ata, Golan Heights, May 18

  As the Marines jogged up a winding driveway to the IDF corporal’s house, a worried man appeared in the doorway with a small child. He looked past Jensen to the Marines and townsfolk behind, some bandaged, some – like Amal – still bleeding. “Amal?” She ran to him, took what was apparently her child and pulled him inside the house. Jensen could see he still had a lot to learn about Amal Azaria.

  While she was gone Jensen walked the yard, and the more he walked, the more he liked what he saw. He even wondered if the IDF reservist had picked it with this day in mind. Like the other houses in Buq’ata, it was made of double-walled aerated concrete blocks. A green painted chest-high concrete wall ran around the front and sides of the house. At the rear of the house, flanked by the walls, was a large metal shed, and at the rear of the shed, the ground to the east fell steeply away into a gravel quarry. It was scalable, but no one would be rushing them from that direction. The walls around the house gave open fields of fire for at least a hundred yards to the west, south and north.

  “Gear in the house, let the corporal direct you,” Jensen said. “Then get back out here with weapons and ammunition.”

  He stood surveying the ground. When the squad was assembled again, Jensen gave them positions on the perimeter. “Buckland and Stevens, the wall to the west, Wallace and Lopez, south, Johnson, north with me.” He turned and looked up at the roof of the house. He could see a sun umbrella up there. “Patel, on the roof with that Mk22 MRAD, alright?” Patel grinned; he wasn
’t about to let anyone else play with his new toy anyway. “Bell, you are his spotter, keep an eye on that quarry to the east too. Anyone sees anything in a green uniform, call it out.”

  Jensen waited until everyone was in position, and made some adjustments to ensure his people on the perimeter had overlapping fields of fire, then went inside to check the layout of the house. The civilians were huddled in the downstairs living room, which he didn’t like, so he had them move upstairs where there were bedrooms and a bathroom. While he was upstairs, he heard a blazing argument start downstairs. A man and a woman, shouting in Arabic. He walked cautiously down the stairs. Immediately, the man he had assumed was Amal’s husband came stomping out of the kitchen with a child in his arms, and a backpack over his back. He pulled a set of keys off the wall and, without a backward look, pushed past Jensen and stormed out of the house.

  Amal came out behind him, looking pained. “My brother. We have an aunt at Qiryat Shemona, about fifteen miles west. I sent him there with my son. He was not happy, but I do not want Raza here.”

  “What about the Druze roadblocks?”

  “We grew up here. He knows the back roads.”

  “You could go too,” Jensen told her. “Leave us the radio, go with your brother.”

  Amal looked at him like he had insulted her. “This town is my home. These people are my people. I am staying.”

  He nodded. “Your call, Corporal. Now, someone needs to look after those people upstairs, and you are too valuable to be babysitting them.”

  “I will see to it.” She went up the stairs and in a few moments was back again with a grey-haired old lady who looked to be at least seventy. She had a bandage over a burn on her arm.

  Amal pulled her forward. “This is Gadeer. She used to be a nurse. She will take care of the townsfolk, keep an eye on the injured.”

  The old lady reached out her hand and Jensen thought she meant to shake it, but she grabbed his hand in both of her own and gripped it tight. She spoke quickly in Arabic for a couple of minutes, then waited for Amal to translate.

  “She wants to say ‘thank you’.”

  “All that for thank you? She’s welcome.”

  “She also said to tell you that it was not anyone from Buq’ata who did this. Jewish and Druze have lived here for decades without problems. This is outsiders.”

  “I understand.”

  The old woman shook his hand firmly one more time, then climbed back up the stairs.

  The IDF corporal leaned on the stairs watching her go. She looked thoughtful, no doubt reflecting on her decision to send her son and brother away. Jensen put a hand on her shoulder gently. “Corporal, I desperately need to contact the UN unit at Merom Golan. Your radio?”

  She pulled her hair back over her ears. “Yes. Of course. It is upstairs. Follow.” She took the stairs two at a time. In a few moments she appeared from a bedroom with a small digital transceiver unit on a shoulder strap which she slung over her shoulder. She pulled up the long rubberized whip antenna. “We should go up to the terrace,” she said.

  He followed her upstairs to where a spiral staircase led from a small passageway up to the roof. He saw with satisfaction that Bell and Patel had moved some concrete planter boxes into a rough square in the middle of the terrace to give themselves some additional cover, though the rooftop appeared to be the highest point for about a mile around. He looked up at the sun. Mid-morning already. It was going to be hot up here, umbrella or not. “Bell, go fill some bottles with drinking water, bring them up here and stay hydrated.”

  “Aye aye, Sarge.”

  “All clear so far, Sarge. Civilian foot traffic is all,” Patel told him.

  “Thanks, Corporal.” Jensen knelt down next to Amal, who had sat herself on the rooftop with her legs crossed and the radio in front of her. “Call your unit first. Tell them the situation here. See if they can send help.”

  “Yes.” She turned on the radio and pulled a handset from its cradle. In a few minutes she was talking rapidly in Hebrew. Jensen couldn’t follow what was being said, and didn’t even know enough Hebrew to know if she was sounding glad or mad. But he didn’t like the look on her face when she put the handset back in its cradle.

  “Bad news?”

  “The commanding officer of the Golani Brigade was assassinated. Colonel Zeidan Amar was appointed acting commander.”

  “That guy we tackled?! A brigade commander? So what in hell is he doing at a roadblock in Buq’ata during a civil emergency?”

  “That is the question. My friend in Palhik Company said Colonel Amar has been reported missing. He left Mount Hermonit after the assassination and has not been seen since. My friend doubted that this man could be Colonel Amar.”

  “You saw his ID card. Did it look genuine?”

  “Yes. I don’t understand.”

  “We don’t have to understand. We just need to get ourselves out of this cluster. Is your unit able to send someone in to get us?”

  “No. My CO was told what is happening here, but said he has no one to spare. The whole country is in chaos. I was ordered to join my unit at our unit base in Mas’ade if I can. The Brigade is pulling out, heading west to our headquarters at Camp Shraga.”

  “West? I thought the whole Syrian army was lined up on the border to the east?”

  “So did I.”

  “By whose orders are they withdrawing?”

  “Colonel Zeidan Amar.”

  Jensen scratched his jaw. “My folks were South Bend Irish. We have a saying: ‘Don’t be breaking your shin on a stool that’s not in your way.’”

  Amal frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “It means that whether that officer was Colonel Zeidan Amar, why he is here and if he ordered your Golani Brigade to pull back to base, is not our problem right now.”

  “Not your problem, perhaps, but it is mine, and a problem for the people of Buq’ata,” she said with fire in her eyes. “Many of whom are now mourning their dead.”

  Jensen flinched. “I’m sorry. That was stupid. Let’s see if we can get help from somewhere else. You know what frequencies UNDOF uses? Because I don’t.”

  “Yes, we have a coordination channel. They will be able to put you through to their base at Merom Golan.”

  Jensen felt his hopes lift. At last, something was going right.

  Zeidan Amar surveyed the damage in the center of Buq’ata. There was no sign of the Americans, or the IDF corporal. He saw a woman kneeling by the body of an old man on a sidewalk, keening, a small crowd gathered around her. Some shopkeepers were already starting to sweep glass and debris out of their shops. He motioned to a local police officer. “Get the bodies off the street. What about the seriously wounded?”

  “We sent them to the hospital at Mas’ade.”

  Amar pointed at the wrecked vehicles. “Get a truck and have these towed away.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” The man walked over to the small group around the body and started speaking with them.

  Zeidan motioned to one of his men and took the bullhorn once more, climbing up onto the roof of his Storm utility vehicle. “Israeli citizens of Buq’ata! You are not safe here. We cannot protect you. All Israeli citizens should evacuate, now. It is not safe in Buq’ata. You must leave, now.” Fearful, confused faces stared back at him. He handed the bullhorn back to the corporal. “Start moving around town, repeat what I said. If anyone asks you, we are evacuating all Israeli citizens, by my order. They are to leave immediately. Understood?”

  “Yes, Zeidan. And if they do not?”

  “If they do not leave by lunchtime, then they will become guests of the armed forces of Syrian Golan.”

  Zeidan walked over to a shopkeeper who had returned to pulling broken glass from a window frame. “Your name, friend?” he asked in Arabic.

  The man had his back to him and jumped. “You scared me. Labib Hanifes,” he replied, also in Arabic.

  Druze. Good. “This is your shop?”

  “It is.”


  “My men will help you clean up. The people who did this will be found.”

  “Thank you.”

  Zeidan gestured around him. “This was a parting gift from the Zionists.”

  “Perhaps. Someone said the men with guns were Druze. They recognized one of them.”

  “Someone was wrong. Tell me, friend, there was a young woman here, an IDF corporal. She fought back against the terrorists. Her last name is Azaria. Did you see her?”

  “With the Americans, yes.” The man turned and nodded at a wrecked shopfront across the road. “That was their store.”

  “Yes. I wish to thank her. Where did they go?”

  The old man pointed. “The east road. She has a house near the quarry. Perhaps there.”

  Zeidan shouted to two of his men loitering near the roundabout and ordered them to help the old man, then stood looking up the east road.

  The loss of two of his men in the ‘terrorist’ attack was an inconvenience. But the presence of a squad of Marines and that damn IDF corporal were more than that. Amar’s timetable was now being sorely tested. By now he should have been in full control of Buq’ata. This was supposed to be the first and easiest phase of the operation. Having achieved control of the largest Druze township in the Golan Heights, he was then to make a declaration over local radio in his own name of its provisional independence from Israel, and alliance with the Syrian regime. The third phase of the operation – at a time and date to be agreed with his Syrian contacts – would be to invite the Syrian government to send troops into Buq’ata to protect it from Israeli reoccupation.

  By that time, he was supposed to be well dug in and to have been joined by Russian ‘advisors’ – false-flagged troops waiting just across the border in the ruins of the old town of Quneitra in Syria. The Russian unit was made up of a platoon of T-14 Armata tanks and crews operated by a private security company – Strauss Security – but his information was its personnel had been drawn from the Russian 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division.