Our Sacred Honor

by Jack Mars

  This was an idea Yonatan hated. He hated it because of all the fruitless loss of life—the loss of highly trained and valuable agents—that had already come from previous infiltrations into Iran. He hated it because he would be forced to wait while the agents disappeared, with no idea if they might resurface and whether they would know anything when they did. Yonatan did not like the prospect of waiting—not when the clock was ticking and the Iranians could launch their own massive attack at any time.

  Yonatan especially hated this idea because it appeared to have come from inside the White House of Susan Hopkins. Hopkins had no idea of the reality of Israel’s situation, and she did not seem to care. She was like a parrot with a reluctant owner, who had only taught the poor bird one phrase.

  The Palestinians. The Palestinians. The Palestinians.

  “What are the odds that such a mission would succeed?” Yonatan said.

  Shavitz shook his head. “Very, very slim. But attempting it would probably please the Americans, and demonstrate to them the restraint we are showing. If we made the whole thing time-limited, perhaps forty-eight hours, we might not have anything to lose.”

  “Can we afford that much time?”

  “If we closely monitor the Iranians for any sign of a first strike, and immediately launch our own strike at forty-eight hours, we should be okay.”

  “And if the agents are killed or captured?”

  “An American team, with perhaps one Israeli guide who has significant Iranian experience. The Israeli will be a deep cover operative with no identity. If anything goes wrong, we simply deny involvement.”

  Shavitz paused for a long moment. “I already have the perfect operative in mind.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  12:10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Joint Base Andrews

  Prince George’s County, Maryland

  The small blue jet with the US Department of State logo on the side moved slowly onto the taxiway and made a sharp right turn. Already cleared for takeoff, it quickly accelerated down the runway, left the ground, and climbed steeply into the clouds. Within another moment, it angled sharply left toward the Atlantic Ocean.

  Inside the plane, Luke and his team easily fell back into old habits—they used the front four passenger seats as their meeting area. They stowed their luggage and their gear in the seats at the back.

  They were leaving later than he had intended. The holdup was because Luke had gone to see Gunner at school. He had promised his son that he would never leave without telling him face-to-face, and sharing as much as he could about where he was going. Gunner had asked for that, and Luke had agreed.

  They had met in a small room provided to them by the principal’s assistant—it was a place where they stored musical instruments, mostly old wind instruments, many of them gathering rust, by the looks of things.

  Gunner had handled it pretty well, all things considered.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  Luke shook his head. “It’s classified, Monster. If I tell you…”

  “Then I tell someone, and that person tells someone.”

  “I don’t think you would tell anyone. But just knowing would put you at risk.”

  He looked at the boy, who was more than a little long-faced.

  “Are you worried?” Luke said.

  Gunner shook his head. “No. I think you can probably take care of yourself.”

  Now, on the plane, Luke smiled to himself. Funny kid. He had been through a lot, and somehow hadn’t lost his sense of humor.

  Luke glanced around at his team. In the seat next to him sat big Ed Newsam, in khaki cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Steely-eyed, huge, as eternal as a mountain. Ed was older now, certainly. There were lines on his face, especially around the eyes, that hadn’t been there before. And his hair wasn’t as jet black as it used to be—there were a few gray and white strands running around loose in there.

  Ed had left the FBI Hostage Rescue Team for this gig. The FBI was moving Ed up the ranks—more seniority, more responsibility, more sitting at a desk, and a lot less time in the field. To hear Ed tell it, he was switching because he wanted to see some action again. But that didn’t stop him from holding out for more money. It didn’t matter. Luke had been ready to make the SRT budget cry out in agony if that’s what it took to get Ed back on board.

  Across from Luke and to the left, facing him, was Mark Swann. He stretched his long legs out into the aisle as usual, an old pair of ripped jeans and a pair of red Chuck Taylor sneakers there for anyone to trip over. Swann had changed, of course. Barely surviving his time as a prisoner of ISIS had made him more serious—he no longer joked about the danger of missions. Luke was glad that he had come back at all—there was a period of time when it seemed like Swann might become a recluse, and never emerge from his penthouse condo overlooking the beach again.

  Then there was Trudy Wellington. She sat directly across from Luke. She had curly brown hair again, and hadn’t aged at all. That made sense. Despite everything she had seen and done—her time as an analyst with the original SRT, her relationship with Don Morris, her escape from prison and her time in hiding—she was still only thirty-two years old. She was slim and as attractive as ever in a green sweater and blue jeans. At some point, she had done away with the big, round, red-rimmed owlish glasses she used to hide behind. Now her pretty blue eyes were front and center.

  Those eyes were staring hard at Luke. They didn’t look friendly.

  What did she know about his relationship with Susan? Was she angry about it? Why would she be?

  “Do you know what you’re doing, man?” Ed Newsam said. He said it good-naturedly enough, but there was an edge, an undercurrent to it.

  “You mean, with this mission?”

  Ed shrugged. “Sure. Start with that.”

  Luke glanced out his window as he spoke. It was a bright day, but the sun was already behind them. In a little while, as they moved further east, the sky would begin to darken. It gave him the sense of events surging out ahead—a familiar feeling, but one of his least favorite aspects of the job. It was a race against time. It was always a race against time, and they were way behind. The war they were trying to prevent had already started.

  “I guess that’s what we’re about to find out. Trudy?”

  She shrugged, seemed noncommittal. She picked the tablet up from her lap. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to assume no prior knowledge.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Luke said. “Boys?”

  “Good,” Swann said.

  “Let’s hear it,” Ed said. He eased back into his seat.

  “This is Israel and Iran,” Trudy said. “It’s not exactly a short story.”

  Luke shrugged. “It’s a long flight,” he said.

  * * *

  “Israel is a young country, existing only since 1948,” Trudy said. “But the idea of the Land of Israel as a place has been sacred to the Jewish people since Biblical times, possibly as long ago as two thousand years before Christ. The first written reference to Israel as a place occurs around 1200 BC. The area was invaded, conquered, and reconquered throughout ancient times by the Babylonians, the Egyptians, and the Persians, to name a few. Through it all, the Jews persisted.

  “In 63 BC, the Roman Empire conquered the region, transforming it into a Roman province. For almost two hundred years, it became the site of a violent struggle between the Jews and the Romans, which ended in widespread destruction, genocide, and ethnic cleansing. The final Jewish revolt against the Romans failed in 132 AD, and the majority of Jews were either killed or dispersed—many went north into modern-day Russia, northwest into eastern and central Europe, or directly west toward Morocco and Spain. Some went east into Syria, Iraq, and Iran. A handful might have headed south into Africa. And some stayed in Israel.

  “Over time, the Roman Empire faded, and the region was conquered by Arabs in the middle 600s, who themselves had recently adopted the new religion of Islam. Despite freque
nt attacks by Christian Crusaders, the area remained mostly under the control of Muslim sultans for the next nine hundred years. In 1516, it was conquered again, this time by the Ottoman Empire. On Ottoman maps as early as 1600, the area we think of as Israel was referred to as Palestine. When the Ottoman Empire was destroyed in World War One, Palestine came under the control of its next ruler, the British.”

  “Setting us up for modern problems,” Ed said.

  Trudy nodded. “Naturally. Throughout history, some Jews had remained there, and over the centuries, there were numerous idealistic attempts to have Jews from other parts of the world return. By the early 1900s, those efforts were picking up steam. The rise of the Nazis led to vastly increased numbers of Jews leaving Europe. At the end of World War Two, the population of Palestine was about one-third Jewish. After the war, a massive influx of Jews, survivors of the Holocaust, left their destroyed communities across Europe and made their way to Palestine.

  “In 1948, the State of Israel was formed. This set off a series of violent conflicts between Muslims and Jews that continue to the present day. In the initial fighting, Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Iraq invaded, joined by contingents of irregulars from Yemen, Morocco, Saudi Arabia, and Sudan. The Israelis fought them off. At least seven hundred thousands Arabs fled or were expelled by advancing Israeli forces to the areas now known as the Palestinian Territories—the West Bank and the Gaza Strip.”

  “See, here’s the part I don’t get,” Ed Newsam said. “1948 is old news. Right now you have all these Palestinians locked up in Gaza and the West Bank. Why not just give them their freedom and let them become their own country? Failing that, why not just give them all citizenship and incorporate them into Israel? It seems like either thing might put the brakes on all this fighting.”

  “It’s complicated,” Swann said.

  “Complicated, to put it mildly,” Trudy said. “Impossible is more like it. For one thing, Israel was established as a Jewish state—a homeland for Jews all over the world. This is a project nearly two thousand years in the making.

  “If Israel wants to remain a Jewish state, it can’t simply incorporate the Palestinians into the country as citizens. It would set the clock ticking on a demographic time bomb, one which would go off sooner rather than later. The country has universal suffrage—every citizen gets the right to vote. There are roughly six and a half million Jews in Israel, and nearly two million Israeli Arabs, the vast majority of whom are Muslim. There are about four and a half million Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank combined.

  “If the Palestinians all became citizens, suddenly you’d have a society nearly split down the middle between Jews and Muslims, with a relative handful of Christians and others thrown in. Right away, Jews would no longer be the majority. Also, Israeli Arabs and Palestinians have higher birthrates than Israeli Jews, generally speaking. Within a couple of decades, Muslims would have a clear and growing majority. Would they vote to keep Israel the Jewish homeland?”

  “Doubt it,” Swann said.

  “So give the Palestinians their freedom,” Ed said. “Grant them nationhood. Open their roads, let them control their own airspace and coastal waters, and let them trade with other countries.”

  Trudy shook her head. “Also impossible. I rarely make absolute declarations about future events, but I’ve looked at these scenarios from every angle. No matter who says what during international negotiations, no matter how many times the United Nations general assembly votes its condemnation, keep your eye on Palestinian nationhood. It never comes any closer to fruition. And that’s because Israel will never voluntarily allow it. The very idea is absurd. It’s suicide.

  “Look, Israel exists in a state of sometimes desperate conflict with the countries that surround it. Survival is always an open question. Security is the most important thing in Israeli society, and providing it is a major focus of the state. Israel is a tiny country as it is. If the West Bank were not there as a buffer zone, and in fact became a foreign country, the situation would instantly go from difficult to very, very dangerous. Untenable. The coastal plain of central Israel is a narrow sliver of land, from the West Bank to the sea, varying for much of its length from nine to eleven miles wide. The average person could ride a bicycle that distance in under an hour.

  “Most of the civilian population, as well as the country’s industrial and technology sectors—are located there. To make matters worse, the West Bank lands are hills that overlook the plain—there are places in the West Bank where you can easily see the Mediterranean. When extremists in Arab countries talk about driving the Israelis into the sea, the thing to remember is it’s a very short drive.

  “The Palestinians are allied with Iran, and many Palestinians are hostile to Israel’s very existence. If you grant the Palestinians nationhood, what’s to stop Iranian tanks, fighter planes, missile batteries, and troops amassing on your border? Not just on your border, but on the high ground above you? It’s a nightmare scenario. Further, the West Bank highlands are the water source for the freshwater aquifers in coastal Israel. What’s to stop a sovereign Palestine from trying to block this water supply?

  “Even further, although Israel doesn’t acknowledge its nuclear capabilities, it is widely accepted that they have anywhere from fifty to eighty nuclear weapons. Most of these are thought to be housed at the Zachariah Missile Base southeast of Tel Aviv, and others are housed in the southern desert. But some—perhaps as many as twenty or even thirty percent—are deployed in underground missile silos in the West Bank east of Jerusalem. These are 1970s and 1980s Cold War–era weapons, and are likely still operational.

  “The expense, the transportation logistics, and the public outcry would make it nearly impossible to move the silos back into Israel, and there is no way the Israelis are going to allow the Palestinians to administer those weapons. As I said before, Israel doesn’t even acknowledge the weapons exist.”

  “So what are you saying?” Luke said.

  “I’m saying that Israel faces an existential crisis no matter where they look. If they grant the Palestinians citizenship, the very concept of Israel gets voted out of existence. If they let the West Bank become sovereign Palestine, the country of Israel gets bombed out of existence. So they pursue a third path, one that is fraught with danger, but offers some chance of success. That’s the path of never-ending tension and conflict with the Palestinians, Hezbollah, Iran, and whoever else decides to join in. It may seem extreme, imbalanced, and highly emotional from the outside, but it is actually simple, hard-headed, rational decision-making. Develop and maintain technological superiority at all costs, mobilize the entire population militarily, and never let your guard down, not for one second.”

  “But that only works for as long as you have technological superiority,” Swann said. “Once your enemy catches up to you…”

  “Right,” Trudy said. “Then you’ve got big problems. And it looks like the Iranians have just caught up.”

  “Have they caught up?” Luke said. “Do they have nuclear weapons?”

  Trudy looked at him. “Yes. I’m almost certain that they do.”

  * * *

  Luke pulled down his window shade.

  He had been staring out into the vast darkness until he realized there was nothing to see but his own face, wreathed in shadow.

  The Lear jet was going east, and if Luke had to guess, he’d say they were over the North Atlantic, nearly as far as Europe now—they’d been flying for hours, and had hours more to go. This was a long trip.

  Luke looked at Trudy, who sat across the aisle from him. She was the only one besides Luke who was still awake.

  Behind her, Swann lay curled in a ball across two seats. He was fast asleep. In the row behind Swann, Ed Newsam was doing the same thing. Ed was rock solid, of course. But Luke had some reservations about Swann. It wasn’t Swann’s fault—he had been traumatized by his time in ISIS captivity. He had changed. He was not the same wisecracking, sarcastic idiot he had once been. H
e was more reserved now, more careful. He spoke a lot less. On the surface, that might seem like a good thing—wisdom, maybe, or maturity. But Luke suspected it might be lack of confidence.

  Swann had been rattled to his core. When the heat came, when the stress level amped up, it remained to be seen how well he would perform.

  Luke looked across at Trudy. She had been asleep for a little while, curled into a ball. Now she was awake again, gazing out her dark window. From here, all Luke could see was a blinking light on the wing.

  “Dark out there,” Luke said. “A whole lot of nothing.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Exactly that. Nothing.”

  He paused. It was awkward between them. He supposed it always would be. He didn’t want to get into it with her now, their shared time together, because Swann and Ed were here. Swann and Ed were not involved in this, and he didn’t want them to wake up in the middle of it.

  “I remember the last time we went on a long flight together,” Luke said.

  She nodded. “So do I. Korea. You guys had just broken me out of prison. That was a crazy time. I thought my life was over. I didn’t realize it was just beginning.”

  “How was your time on the run?”

  She shrugged. She did not seem eager to look at him. “I wouldn’t choose to do it again. But all in all, it wasn’t terrible. I learned a lot. I learned not to get so attached to a specific identity. Trudy Wellington, who is that? One possibility out of hundreds. I dyed my hair blonde, just like you suggested. I also dyed it black. At one point, I even shaved my head.

  “You know I fell in with a bunch of left-wing protestors in Spain for a while? I really did. I learned Spanish in high school, and Spain was a safe place to disappear. No one had any idea who I was. They sent me for EMT training, so I could become a street medic. People get hurt at these protests a lot—usually minor things, but the ambulances can’t get to them. Street medics are right there, in the middle of the action. I saw quite a few broken limbs and cracked skulls. I thought of Ed the whole time I was doing it—I always had a lot of respect for his medical skills. Even more so now.”