by W. S. Fuller
“And what do you think of our moral obligation, Benjamin?” Perin asked Gaifen. “Do you think we should act the same as they do and justify anything that will destroy them, even if it saves us?”
“I think we certainly have a moral obligation, sir.” Gaifen replied. “But under the circumstances that might best be fulfilled by ending this thing as quickly as possible. It might very well be the option that will cause the least amount of loss and suffering. Things are different now. Without everyone being aligned into East and West camps anymore, there is virtually no chance a limited nuclear engagement will escalate into a wider conflict. Everyone with the big boomers are on the same side. And we should be able to do the job without using anything that would harm too much beyond this theater. Hiroshima and Nagasaki struck a fear into the major powers that has prevented another exchange for generations. Maybe it’s time for the same kind of lesson for all the two-bit dictators and expansionists of the world who might somehow get a weapon or two and have no conscience to prevent them from using them. The superpowers hands are tied with these guys, but ours are not.”
“And what if we can’t locate theirs?” Perin again addressed Gaifen.
“Well, that certainly changes the equation. The strike would still be devastating and should scare some sense into them, but if we can’t be sure of destroying their capability then we are really putting ourselves in harm’s way. We’d be sure to get some back if we left any.”
“Mark, are there any realistic chances of taking them out if they get them in the air?”
“Not much. Everything we have tested or that is available has had poor results at such close range. It will only take four minutes for a missile to get here from Tehran, less from Damascus, and we don’t know yet exactly how many they have. It’s almost certain one or more will get through.”
Perlman had been quiet up to now. “General Engen, what do you think about a first strike, with nukes?”
Mark Engen said nothing for a moment, then began to speak in a soft, measured tone. “With due respect to Benjamin’s comments...I will, for a moment, play the devil’s advocate.
I think to be sure we eliminate any chance our enemies might continue their aggression, we will have to use larger warheads and more of them than would allow the damage to be confined only to this area. And of course no one actually knows how wide ranging and long lasting the effects will be. For the same reasons already stated... that they probably see this as do or die, that they will have no moral considerations about throwing everything they have at us...if we are going to launch a first strike it had better be one that does the job. As for our moral obligation...rather than two-bit dictators learning a lesson, a first strike might eliminate the onus of being the first...it could make it easier for countries to start throwing nukes around. When no one thought an exchange of any magnitude was survivable because it would bring in the major powers and worldwide destruction...there was certainly a deterrent. If it can be proven that most of the planet could survive these things, it could make the consequences less daunting. And then, of course, there are the actual catastrophic losses and destruction that will surely occur. Only theirs at best. Both theirs and ours very possibly. Certainly you will all agree that the concept of ‘best case’ here is still horrendous to contemplate. Hundreds of thousands of people…women and children…suffering gruesome deaths, either immediately or after years of suffering. I think we would be wise to give every other option as much of a chance as we can.”
Isaiah Perlman leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling and spoke slowly and softly. “Hopefully, we’ll have some details on locations soon. We’ve got to have that.”
There is no problem the humans do not seem capable of solving…if their efforts are coordinated and for the right cause. It totally contradicts rational thought - that they contemplate such horrible destruction of their own rather than turning their enormous capabilities to saving their planet. I, Luggalor.
2012
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Hi Joe, sorry I’m a few minutes late,” Sam said, reaching out his hand and smiling warmly. He pulled off the blue, wool, double-breasted overcoat, unwrapped the white scarf from around his neck, and sat down at the corner table in the small, elegant bar.
“Do you think this weather means the end of our outdoor tennis matches for the season?”
“Naw, we’ll be able to get a few more in,” Joe Chandler answered. “We’ve got another month before this kind of stuff is here to stay. Which brings me to...it’s been over a month since we’ve played, can you handle a match on Sunday? Alan keeps bitching about us trying to avoid them for a rematch. God he hates to lose. I’m looking forward to kicking their asses again.”
“I’ll have a Miller Light, please.” Sam said as the waitress appeared at the table. And could we have some pretzels?”
“Yeah, I think I can make it Sunday. I need to play or do something other than work. I’ve been jogging and working out a little, but nothing that’s any fun. I’ve got to get back into playing at least once or twice a week. So how’s everything with you?”
“I’m really busy too, as you can imagine,” Joe said. “Times like these are hellacious in my business, as they are in yours. Stories and information are coming from all sides, around the clock, and just keeping up with them would be enough of a job even if we didn’t have to write and put it all together and get it out once a week. I’ve got to hit the head, I’ll be right back. Encroaching old age has undoubtedly shrunk my bladder. I’ve only been here two beers longer than you.”
Sam watched his old friend disappear down the steps. Joe looks good. He always looks good. Sam had known Joe since their undergraduate days at the University of North Carolina. They met in a philosophy class. The professor would sit on the top of his desk and ricochet erasers off the blackboard into a trash can while asking provocative questions they usually couldn’t answer...but questions that made for wonderful, beer-soaked conversations later at The Stube. They started hanging out, playing tennis together, and struck up a close friendship that would survive the years through many telephone conversations and sporadic meetings. Joe went to graduate school in journalism at Northwestern, worked his way up through the print media, and is now a senior editor at NEWSWEEK. Since Sam had been in Washington he had seen as much of his friend as he had in the past ten years, and he enjoyed being with him immensely. They always seemed to be on the same page, to understand each other instinctively.
Joe looked at Sam as he sat back down. “What can you tell me about the rumors I’m hearing about more deployments.”
“Damn, can’t we at least talk about tennis, women, or the virtues of your Saab versus my Rover before you try to coerce me into giving out the secrets of the realm. Besides, you know my tongue doesn’t loosen up much with just one beer,” Sam said as he motioned for the waitress. “Could we have another round of the same, please.”
“Joe, I don’t know that I can tell you much you haven’t already figured out. The additional deployments are happening. Probably have already started. It looks like we’re going to try to get a hell of a lot of people and equipment there real quick.”
“What pulled the trigger?”
“It’s become obvious that nothing the U.N. is likely to do will slow this thing down. Israel is screaming for more help, and alluding to some pretty grim scenarios if they have to face this alone, considering they’ve reached the conclusion the Arabs have a fair shot at winning, or at least taking a good bit of their territory.”
“What kind of scenarios, Sam.?”
“That’s something I can’t elaborate on, but then I don’t think you really need me to.”
“God, Sam, do you think they would really do it?”
“I don’t know, but if they won’t, the other guys might. The brink...the goddamn, son-of-a-bitchin’ brink. Can you believe it? Remember when we were together in New York after the wall came down, were toasting the end of the cold war, and decided we might sudd
enly have a world out from under the shadow of a nuclear holocaust and we could turn more of our energies and money to saving the environment? But within days of the fall of the Soviet Union there were rumors of Russian scientists and fissionable material on the black market. No good deed…huh? And now this. What the hell happened?”
“But even if it happens,” Joe said, “I can’t see it spreading beyond the Middle East...there won’t be the worldwide devastation, the type of an annihilation we all feared for so long. And I think we knew it ahead of the rumors you mentioned…we knew it from that very conversation in New York. It wasn’t that hard to connect the emerging dots. The chances of the big exchange were dramatically reduced, but the odds on a small one had jumped dramatically overnight. Not enough control over any of the components, and those components suddenly floating loose.”
“Joe, the people in the area where the damn things land, it’s sure as hell going to be annihilation for them, and there’s a real good chance a lot of those people will be ours. What’s our reaction to that going to be? And then there’s the damage from the fallout, nuclear winter...Christ, Joe, you’ve got to forget I said that. Anyway, you know as well as I that nobody really knows what the overall damage will be.”
“What about the Russians?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are they going to give us any help with this thing?
Sam gazed through the window at the bundled, rush hour exodus bending against the cold, raw wind as they moved in double time. He was silent for a few moments, his eyes still toward the window when he did speak. “Everyone is pissed at the Russians because they’re using the conflict in Azerbaijan as an excuse not to send anybody. Well, it may be a legitimate excuse, or it may not. They do have a hell of a lot of their people and equipment in there, and it is a real mess. But maybe we should be worrying about something other than whether they will give Israel, and us, any help.”
“What are you getting at, Sam?”
“Hypothetical, Joe, all hypothetical.”
“I accept that, go on.”
“The Russians have been worried for years, back to Khomeini, about the fundamentalists moving across the border...exporting their Islamic fervor. Afghanistan started the serious ticking of the clock. Their economy’s still pretty much a wreck...and they’re so desperate for money that the oil revenue from Iraq would have to look real good. They’ve got a large force right there. Once the shooting starts there are a number of excuses they could use to make a move. And then, if the Arabs turn and drop one on them, or just threaten, and there’s all that wealth right there...” Sam looked back at Joe, and there was silence between them.
Finally, Joe spoke. “Have you floated this around, Sam? Is this all yours or did you get it somewhere?”
“It’s pretty much mine...along with one relatively obscure transmission intercept. Yeah, I’ve mentioned it to a few people, but I think with everything else they’ve got to worry about...maybe it’s a case of sensory overload. Or maybe it’s just a ridiculously farfetched scenario without any possible validity.”
“Jesus, Sam, do I ever hope you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
2012
HAIFA, ISRAEL
Suddenly pitched forward, Kabril somehow managed to twist his body just enough to slam his shoulder instead of his face against the wall. The plastic bottle of water spilled over him and began to collect in a pool in the corner of the upturned box. Rolling over so he was on his back, he silently cursed himself for having left it open between sips. He realized he was being offloaded. Kabril tried to move with complete silence, and without shifting his weight, but knew he must dry the water immediately or it would drain through the hole for the air hose when the crate was tilted back upright. Using the small blanket, he soaked it up as best he could. Suddenly upright again, he reasoned he was now on a lift and would be off the ship in a few minutes. Bracing with his feet and hands against any sudden motion that could cause him to slide, make a sound, or shake the crate, he strained not to move a muscle.
The wait for the feel of being set off the lift was much longer than he expected. His arms and legs ached from being flexed for so long a time, and to avoid the onset of cramps he started releasing one arm and leg at a time, stretching them as much as he could, while continuing to brace himself with the others. Kabril finally relaxed all his limbs together, but kept them positioned against the walls so he could again brace himself at the slightest movement. At last he felt the jolt of the container being set down. Faint voices pierced the box...he knew they must be close because of the insulation. Once more he braced himself.
It had been two hours since the box last moved, and Kabril had heard nothing more. He was beginning to get drowsy, but knew he could not afford to be caught off guard again. Pills had enabled him to sleep much of the time after he was safely aboard the ship and knew he would not be moved again until they arrived. Now he put a pill into his mouth to keep him awake until he was safely through customs and in the truck.
Kabril’s thoughts turned to the mission ahead. He, Gamal, Yashim and Uday would be taken to a safe house in east Jerusalem where they would prepare and train the local Palestinians who had been chosen. They were all experienced fighters. There was a large cachet of arms and explosives...everything they would need, including rocket launchers and Tow antitank weapons that had been confiscated from the Israelis.
When the time came, they would launch what would perhaps be the most sacred and important operation since al Fatah, Hamas, Hezbollah, or any or the other groups were formed. They would attempt to take and hold the Wailing Wall and Haram es-Sharif...or as the Jews refer to it, the Temple Mount. The Wall is the Jews most sacred site and the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque, which are within Haram es-Sharif, are among the most sacred of shrines to all Muslims. If they could succeed in holding the area for a day or two, the outcry might distract the Israelis and play an important role in a successful invasion.
It was without doubt a suicide mission, but Kabril did not care. He was tired of fighting, and by all rights he should have died years before on the beach during the failed raid on Nahariyya. The only survivor, he spent fifteen years in a prison before being exchanged for Israeli soldiers. This was his first major mission since his return, and his request to lead it had been granted as much in payment for his years in captivity as for other considerations. But Kabril knew his experience was critical to the mission, as was that of the other members of the team. Younger, less experienced fighters who could have been used were already in Jerusalem, were not listed, and would not have had to be smuggled in. It was by far the most important mission he had ever been involved with...a mission worthy of dying on. He only regretted he would not live to see the triumphant return of his people to their homeland. A sudden thought of avenging the deaths of his family flashed through his mind, then he remembered that his fire for that had died years ago. I have probably exacted enough revenge.
Kabril wondered about the others. In Naples they had each climbed into identical, oversized, industrial ice boxes that were then sealed in crates and loaded onto a British cargo ship bound for the Israeli port of Haifa. There was a hose for air, a small battery operated fan and light, food and water, and the pills. The interior of each box was four feet by four feet and six feet high. There was space to curl up in a fetal position to sleep, and to stand to stretch. The journey south down the Mediterranean coast took three days and had not been so bad. Being able to sleep much of the time made the days and nights run together.
Kabril heard a muffled, whirring noise. The box vibrated...he braced. After a few moments of movement he was sure he was again being lifted and moved. After five minutes or so he sensed the box being lowered, then the movement stopped. Again there were voices, then silence.
Ten hours had passed since the box last moved, or Kabril had heard voices. He knew by his watch it was now 10 p.m., but he also knew that customs sometimes worked through the night if there was
cargo backed up. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he kept repeating to himself that he must stay awake. It was becoming difficult.
“These ten are together.” The voice was close and clear coming through the air hole, and Kabril knew the instant he came awake that it referred to the ice boxes. He heard the wrenching of the crate being pried open, and reached for the 9mm pistol tucked into his clothing.
What has gone wrong. There is supposed to be someone here, one of our customs agents to be sure none of the four boxes are opened. I will not be taken and go back to a prison camp. He released the safety on the pistol, pointed it at the door, and sat as motionless as he ever had in his life...taking smooth, steady breaths in the stale air.
He felt pressure against the box, heard the sound of metal parting and clinking against the floor, and knew the strapping was being cut away. His heart pounded in his chest.
“Jacob, it is not necessary, I have already opened these two. We must start over here with these. We are behind. Come now, we must hurry.”
Kabril waited. He heard nothing more for a few minutes, then voices that were fainter, came from farther away. Placing the gun in his lap, he tilted his head back against the wall and tried to let the tension drain from his body.
Within an hour the box was lifted again. The whirr of an electric motor told him he was on a fork lift, and he thought this time he was probably on the way to the truck. Three taps on the box just minutes earlier told him the person nailing the crate back in place was one of theirs, that they knew they should once again hide the air hole. There were a number of stops and starts, and he kept the pistol ready, just in case. The box suddenly tilted, then was upright again, and there was the clanging of what sounded like a heavy metal door being shut. He heard the screech of the crate being pried off and again the three taps. In another few seconds the door opened.
