Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  Twelve minutes after being shot, the prime minister of Israel’s body arrived at Tel Aviv’s closest hospital.

  Union Station, Washington, D.C.

  General Brighton’s cell phone went off, then his emergency beeper. Sara hesitated, mid-bite, as he punched a small button to quiet his beeper and flipped open his cell. “Brighton,” he answered in a no-nonsense voice.

  He listened a moment, his face growing tight. “Are you certain?” he demanded, then listened again. “How long ago did it happen?” He looked at his watch. “Do they know who did it?” he asked. Then he gritted his teeth. “All right,” he said grimly. “You know what to do. Tell Grison I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep the recall going. Get everyone in. No, no, no, don’t send an escort, I’ll catch a cab instead. Be there in five minutes. Keep this line open and call if you get any word.”

  The general flipped the phone shut, pushed back his chair, and stood. His face was ashen and though he was looking right at her, Sara knew he didn’t see her anymore. “What’s going on?” she asked timidly. She recognized that look, and it scared her now.

  “Let’s go,” Brighton answered.

  “What is it?” she said.

  Her husband dropped a couple of bills on the table, took her by the hand, and pulled. “You had Ammon drop you off, right?” he asked her.

  She nodded as they ran.

  “OK. Take the Metro home and turn on the television. It should be on the news by then.”

  “Neil, you’re scaring me,” she told him.

  He pulled hard on her hand. “It’s OK,” he answered.

  Then he came to a sudden stop beside her.

  He knew. He didn’t know how he knew, it didn’t make any sense, but he knew that it had started. The final war was here. He shivered and looked at his wife, staring into her eyes. “Go home,” he said simply. “Don’t worry. It’s OK. Everything will turn out all right. If I come home, it will be late, but I’ll call when I can.”

  They had stopped at the bottom of the winding marble stairs that led down from the Americana Restaurant. He had to go right to the street. She had to go left to the Metro station. He turned and started walking, then came back to her. He held her shoulders tightly, looking into her eyes. “I love you,” he told her.

  “I know you do,” she said.

  Brighton kissed her and then turned and ran through the enormous brass doors that led out to the street. A small taxi turnout had been built in front of the station and he ran immediately to the front of the line. Two older men, both of them foreigners, were climbing into the first cab, but Brighton held their door open and bent down to them. “I must have this cab,” he said.

  The two men scoffed at him. “Get lost,” one of them said, his English halting but self-assured.

  “Please, I work for the White House. There is a problem. I really need this cab.”

  The foreigner took in Brighton’s uniform and scoffed again. “Are you military?” he asked.

  Brighton nodded eagerly.

  “Then forget you,” the other sneered, and both of them laughed. One of the foreigners slapped the Plexiglas. “Let’s go!” he said.

  The cabbie looked back and frowned. He was a huge black man with arms as thick as tree limbs and he didn’t look happy. He glared at Brighton’s uniform and then scowled at the men. “Get out,” he told them in a heavy Jamaican accent.

  The two men glared back at him. They didn’t move, but they cursed bitterly.

  Brighton reached into the cab and grabbed one of the men by his shirt, pulling him out of the cab and onto the street. The other man cried out, then rolled out of the other side of the cab. Brighton fell in and pulled both doors closed, and the cabbie turned around again. “Stupid French,” he muttered. “For one thing, they never tip. And their wives don’t even shave their legs.”

  Brighton almost laughed. “Get me to the White House,” he said.

  The cabbie looked surprised. “The White House. OK. You look like you’re in a hurry, mon.”

  “You’ve got no idea, friend.”

  “This some kind of national emergency?”

  “You got it.”

  “Cool, mon,” the cabbie smiled as he turned around and dropped his foot on the gas. “No worries,” he called back over his shoulder as he accelerated away. He started honking his horn to clear traffic before he even hit the main street. Brighton held on to the armrest as the cab sped along. The Jamaican screamed through the first red light, his horn blaring all the while. He bobbed, weaved and cut through traffic, driving like a madman.

  Six minutes later they came to the White House. Brighton slapped him on the shoulder, threw some money in the front seat, then jumped out and ran.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The surgeons, the best in the world, worked frantically to save what was left of the prime minister’s brain. The surgery was chaotic, desperate, delicate, painstaking and frustratingly slow. But when it was over, they had failed. There was simply nothing else they could do.

  The respirator breathed for him. The artificial heart pumped his blood through his veins. The electroencephalographic machines looked for brain activity, but there was nothing there.

  The truth was the prime minister had died the moment the bullet had passed through his skull. Now there was no heartbeat, no breath, no life left in him at all.

  The spirit had departed his body, leaving lifeless flesh and still blood.

  Both of the surgeons recognized it. They had grown sensitive to the subtle changes that take place in the body when there is no more life there. So, though they fought frantically, in the end they knew they would fail.

  Two hours after his hurried arrival at the hospital, the president of Israel spoke with the surgeons. He asked a few questions, nodding while he listened to the answers.

  Walking to a chaotic reception area, he announced to the world that the prime minister was dead.

  Jerusalem, Israel

  The Knesset met in an emergency session before the sun had gone down. Outside the red limestone building in the center of the government complex at Gavet Ram, eighty thousand demonstrators had already gathered, a number that was growing by ten thousand every hour. Pockets of rioters had mixed with the crowd, and the Home Front Command had been called to help with crowd control. Although the city was technically in a lockdown, with curfew and travel restrictions imposed, it was impossible to know that from the size of the crowd. The mass of people was growing every minute in both numbers and rage, the Israelis’ emotions boiling like water.

  Opposite the entrance to the Knesset building was an enormous menorah, symbol of the state of Israel. More than twelve feet wide and fifteen feet high, the sculptured menorah was carved with twenty-nine scenes depicting significant events in Israel’s history: the ancient prophets, the Ten Commandments, Ruth the Moabite, Spanish Jewry, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, creation of the modern nation-state. As the mass of mourning and bitter people gathered around the large sculpture, they sensed they would soon add another monumental scene to the carvings on the Menorah’s side. The history of their nation had been altered this day.

  The crowd swarmed through the square, some chanting, and some singing. A few prayed, but most cursed, pumping their fists in the air.

  At 9:15 A.M., not long after the sun went down, the meeting inside the Knesset was ready to begin. Only ninety-three of the one hundred twenty members were present, but it was a quorum, and the president stood at the podium and brought his gavel down. The dark wooden desks were positioned in a U-shape around him and the large chamber was noisy, the legislators talking and shouting and moving around. The president gaveled again, and the noise began to subside, though many still whispered in harsh, angry tones. The mood of the members matched perfectly the mood of the crowd on the street. Rage and resentment. A demand to do something now!

  At 9:20 A.M., the emergency session of the Knesset was finally brought to order. The Knesset settled down to business.

  At 9:38
A.M., a powerful explosion ripped through the room.

  * * *

  It had taken more than three years for the bombs to be slipped into place inside the Knesset building. Piece by piece, pound by pound, the powerful C-4 plastic explosive had been smuggled into the building by a single maintenance worker, an immigrant Russian Jew who valued the money more than his adopted home. In order to avoid detection, the explosives had been molded into various forms: plastic milk bottles, fake bananas, radios, cell phones, books, the heels on his shoes, combs, CD cases—dozens of deceptions were required to gather enough explosives to make the nineteen high-power bombs. Once inside the building, the former Russian munitions expert had hidden the powerful explosives inside small metal drums filled with mineral oil to avoid detection from bomb-sniffing dogs, then hidden the drums inside the ceiling air vents. The last thing he did before hiding the bombs was to attach the remote-controlled, long-life RD-182 detonators.

  At 9:38 A.M., the detonation signal had been sent from a small transmitter outside the government square, bringing the ceiling on the Knesset building down.

  Smoke, fire, dirt, and debris filled the night air. The explosions were so powerful, and so brilliantly placed, that the entire roof collapsed, along with two outer walls. Nineteen powerful fireballs rose and merged together into one puffy, black ball, the outer edges illuminated by the heat of the core. The smoke rose, then drifted east, carried by the Mediterranean wind.

  The explosions enveloped the crowd in a wave of smoke and heat. Those nearest the building were blown to the ground, pieces of broken tile and mortar piercing their skin and tearing their clothes. Everyone felt the heat, but no one was burned, for the police had kept the angry crowd a safe distance away. The debris began to rain down on the people: chunks of sandstone and rebar, cement smeared in blood, pieces of human skin and hair. As the explosions rocked the air, eighty thousand people turned as one, watching the building come down.

  The crowd stood in horror, their disbelief so complete that not one of them spoke. A silent hush fell upon them as the sounds of wailing sirens filled the air.

  The crumbled building was on fire, the smoke black and thick. The crowd remained in a stupor of horror and awe. Then the moans could be heard from the wounded, their voices drifting through the flames to lift over the silent crowd.

  TWELVE

  Headquarters, Israeli Defense Center, twelve kilometers west of Jerusalem, Israel

  The senior Israeli military leadership had been evacuated to the underground bunker, a facility hardened against nuclear devices, cut deep into the granite that had been exposed by ten thousand years of wind and rainwater washing toward the Soreq River.

  The Israeli Central Command Center seemed to cycle through moments of chaos, energy and uneasy silence. Three dozen officers manned their posts, taking in messages, coordinating rescue attempts, securing borders, and placing their military forces on alert. Outside the hidden facility, a dozen military helicopters circled in the air, ready for the orders to fly to Jerusalem and evacuate key members of the government to the underground capital.

  Everyone knew things were different now. Israel wasn’t just responding to another terrorist attack. They were going to war.

  Inside the CCC, the commanding general, Marshal Malka, watched the updates with a face of stone. He moved slowly and spoke in a calm voice, always in perfect control. While confusion and fear boiled around him, he was completely composed.

  He knew what was coming. There was no doubt in his mind. He had prepared for this day for almost thirty years.

  But still, in his gut, he quivered with fear. He had to move carefully. He had to be sure. So much depended on what he decided now.

  His assistant, a colonel, moved toward him, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, his eyes burning with rage. He stood before the general. The two men stared at each other, but neither of them spoke. The colonel hunched his shoulders as if he expected something, but the general only watched him, giving nothing away. The colonel turned angrily, and then walked behind his general, pacing like a wild dog on a chain. He stopped suddenly, swept his eyes across the control center, and leaned toward the general’s ear. “They’re gone,” he said simply, his voice grim with rage.

  The general’s face remained passive, almost unnaturally so, though he did move his head until he could see the younger man out of the corner of his eye.

  “They’re gone, Marshal, gone!” the colonel repeated. “The prime minister! The legislators! This isn’t an act of terror. This is a savage act of war!”

  The general turned away. “What’s the final count at the Knesset?” he asked.

  “Who cares?” his aide hissed. “If it turns out some survived—and I’m sure some of them will—none of that matters; our response must be the same. This isn’t an original scenario, General Malka. We’ve thought this thing through. We’ve war gamed this option for how many years? You know what to do now. What are you waiting for?”

  “Have you talked with the Home Defense Network?” the general demanded.

  The colonel hesitated, and then nodded.

  “What is the current tally?”

  “They really don’t know.”

  “What is their best estimate? I want to know!”

  “Fifty, maybe sixty, dead. Another thirty wounded, most of them critically.”

  The general sat back and exhaled.

  It would have taken a very powerful bomb blast to kill that many members of the Knesset. How did they do it? He wondered for the thousandth time. How, when had they been able to plant the bombs in the building? Security was so tight. The entire government complex secure! How had they done it?

  Then his brain shifted gears.

  He quit wondering how they’d done it and started wondering why.

  His assistant moved around his chair, standing before him again, tiny beads of perspiration forming on the top of his bald head. He looked at the general, and then lowered his voice. “You’ve got to Pinball this and you’ve got to do it now. They’ll expect us to be paralyzed by indecision, unable to move. But you know what to do.”

  “We should wait to find out if the president survived before we—”

  “No, General Malka,” the colonel hissed impatiently. “There’s no one left to consult with. This is up to you!”

  The general shook his head. “I cannot act alone. And no one has confirmed that the president is dead or the senior leadership of the Knesset is wiped out.”

  The other man huffed, his rage burning through. “Are you kidding?!” he stammered. “Do you think they would hesitate? You know what any of them would do! We have our instructions, general, and every minute you wait makes it that much more difficult. Every minute you hesitate makes it less likely that we are going to be able to finish this job.”

  The general thought for thirty seconds, then exhaled a long breath. “All right,” he answered slowly. “It is time. Light the Pinball.”

  THIRTEEN

  Hatzerim Air Base

  Hatzerim has been the primary Israel Defense Force/Air Force air base since its construction in the late 1960s. Located in southern Israel, with the rocky Mount Dimona rising dimly in the east, it is a modern military installation with huge aircraft hangars, hidden bunkers, an enormous and busy aircraft parking tarmac, and dozens of administrative buildings running parallel to the main runway. On a normal day, the taxiways and parking areas would have been packed with dozens of fighter and attack aircraft. With thirteen flying squadrons, the sound of screaming jets and the smell of burning jet fuel constantly filled the air. But the stop-launch orders had been given when the prime minister had been killed. The military needed time to increase combat sorties, time to get their pilots and their fighters ready to fight, so the parking ramp had fallen silent throughout the long afternoon.

  As evening fell, the wind had picked up, blowing in from the Mediterranean Sea, kicking dust and humidity into the air. As the sun set, the western sky began to burn like a bloated fireba
ll, the entire horizon turning an eerie purple and red. But then the wind suddenly quit, taking a breath before the storm.

  Shortly after 10 P.M., the aircraft parking ramps became suddenly crowded again as hundreds of crew chiefs and maintenance workers started preparing their aircraft for the sorties ahead.

  Twenty F-16 pilots were given the initial orders to attack. Their targets were an assortment of terrorist training camps, administrative buildings, homes, businesses, logistic centers, safe houses, and weapon storage facilities. Anything identified as being associated with any terrorist group—from their girlfriends to their families, from their businesses to their cars, from their guesthouses and retreats to their military training camps—they were going after them all.

  The list of terrorist organizations they could target was depressingly long: Hezbollah, Ansar al-Islam, al Qaeda, Qa‘idat al-Jihad, the Islamic Army, World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders, the Islamic Salvation Foundation, the Usama bin Laden Network, ‘Asbat al-Ansar, Hamas, Harakat al-Muqawama al-Islamiya, the Islamic Resistance Movement, the Organization of the Oppressed on Earth, the Revolutionary Justice Organization, Fatah Revolutionary Council, the Abu Nidal Organization, Islamic Jihad, the Arab Revolutionary Council, the Arab Revolutionary Brigades, Black September, the Revolutionary Organization of Socialist Muslims. All of these organizations (and an unknown number of other unidentified terror groups) were pledged to the destruction of Israel, and any one of them could have masterminded the attacks against the Israeli government. Half had already claimed responsibility, eager to get their names in the news.