Israel's Next War

by Martin Archer

  Bursting with a desire for revenge and seeing his chance, he quickly took over control of a flight of six Iraqi Mirages from the junior officer sitting next to him and directed the Iraqi pilots to intercept the now vulnerable Israelis who were continuing to fly south towards Israel.

  “Is target is two enemy is F-15s. Is no missiles. Is no fuel,” said the Iranian major controlling the flight informed the Iraqi flight leader. The lieutenant sitting next to him enthusiastically beamed and nodded his approval. The Iraqi lieutenant colonel commanding the flight of Mirages understood the Iranian controller and nodded to himself in satisfaction. An Israeli kill is exactly what he needed to get another promotion. And a couple of Israeli F-15s with no missiles and not enough fuel were exactly what he was looking for.

  The two Iranian controllers watched their screens with growing satisfaction as the six Iraqi Mirages turned to intercept the two Israelis and kicked in their afterburners. A few minutes earlier the Iraqi pilots had listened to the desperation and terrified shouts in the radio chatter as their friends and squadron mates tried to evade the Israeli missiles. They too are anxious for revenge, particularly since the Israelis have no missiles and fuel left.

  They were watching their screens with satisfaction as the distance to the Israelis closed rapidly when, to the absolute astonishment of the Iraqi pilots and the Iranian controllers, the Israelis turned towards the Iraqis to engage them instead of taking evasive action and running for their lives.

  About ninety seconds later, long before the obsolete and often broken French-made targeting radars on the Iraqi Mirages could lock on to the on-coming Israelis, the two Israeli lieutenants used their state of the art electronics to lock on to the Iraqis and fire another barrage of Python missiles.

  “This is not possible” was the surprised Iraqi colonel’s last thought as he desperately fired his flares and began to “gray out” as he jinked into a hard climbing turn.

  The older and less sophisticated French-made threat warning radars on the Iraqi Mirages reported the incoming Israeli missiles in time for the surprised Iraqi pilots to begin evasive action. They were experienced enough to instantly separate and begin taking the evasive actions they’d been taught and sometimes practice. Every one of the Iraqi pilots fired flares as he desperately jinked and made hard climbing turns and dives to avoid the on-coming Israeli missiles.

  Mercifully, all three of the Iraqi pilots whose planes were killed were in various stages of being “grayed out” from pulling high Gs when their turning planes were exploded by the Israeli Pythons and blown to bits in the midst of bright red flashes and heavy black smoke. They never felt a thing or even knew their time had run out.

  The three survivors were more than a little surprised to be alive as they broke towards the north and headed for safety with their throttles wide open. They knew they were lucky—two of them recognized the silhouette of the Israeli Kfir IIIs as they flashed past. They were absolutely furious at the Iranians for directing them towards the Israelis and telling them the Israelis were F-15s and out of missiles and fuel. The Kfir IIIs, the Iraqi pilots knew, are high performance Israeli-built fighters and can be configured to carry more missiles than the American-built F-15s.

  What the surviving Iraqis didn’t know, and their astonished controller didn’t think to tell them, is that the two Kfir pilots were reefing their planes around and intent on chasing them down. What they also didn’t know is that the old but continuously upgraded Israeli-made Kfirs are significantly faster than their old Mirages and much more maneuverable—and that each of the two Israeli lieutenants chasing them still had a Python on his missile rails, a full load of ammunition in his 20mm “Gatling Gun,” and an almost full tank of fuel.

  Worse still for the Iraqi pilots, as two of them were about to find out, both of the Israeli lieutenants flying the Kfirs were carefully selected and highly trained—and seriously determined to kill them and add to their rapidly growing scores.

  ****** Chief Warrant Officer Harry Duffy

  Somewhere along the line the truck carrying me and Dick and the Israeli wounded picked up a police escort. I know because I can hear the siren ahead of us. We are really moving flat out and swaying heavily from side to side in the turns as we go around traffic and every so often bounce along the shoulder of the road and over lane dividers.

  It’s a damn good thing we are moving right along because a couple of the wounded Israelis are in really deep shit. The Israeli medic had fluid bags in just about everyone including Dick and for the last ten minutes or so we’ve been taking turns pounding on the heart and breathing into the mouth of a little Israeli private who looked to be about fifteen years old.

  I was still breathing into the kid’s mouth when the back wheels of the truck literally broke lose into a little skid as we swung off the road and on to what turned out to be the entrance ramp of a hospital emergency room.

  There was quite a crowd of people waiting for us when we suddenly lurched to the side and skidded to a stop inside the hospital’s ambulance entrance. The casualties in the truck were unloaded in a flash. As the first of them was handed down I was literally knocked off the little private’s mouth by the hairy arm of a big Israeli doctor who leaped into the truck and slapped an oxygen mask on his face. He put a stethoscope on the kid’s neck while another doc picked up the medic’s heart massage and they shouted at each other.

  There was nothing more for me to do so I pushed past the Israeli medics and jumped down to run after Dick. As I hit the ground I could see he’d been put on a stretcher gurney on wheels and was being rapidly pushed towards the entrance door by a team of attendants wearing white coats. I literally ran after him pointing and shouting “American officer. Secret.”

  I suppose I look like a wild eyed fool holding my finger up to my lips and shouting and pointing “American officer” and yelling “secret” as I ran along behind Dick into the emergency room lobby. But I didn’t know what else to do. It seemed like everything was going in slow motion when one of the gray haired men examining Dick as his gurney rolled along, a guy who had been standing at the back of the truck and seen me knocked me off the little Israeli, looked back at me over his shoulder for a second.

  “Okay. We understand,” he shouted to me as he trotted alongside Dick’s gurney. “Secret American officer. It’s okay.”

  I don’t know why but I’m thinking it is good Dick is wearing an Israeli uniform.

  I followed Dick right through the lobby and a couple of swinging doors and right on into some kind of operating theatre. Then I just stood against the wall and watched as half a dozen men and women in green gowns quickly cut off Dick’s Israeli fatigues and manhandled him to inspect every inch of his naked body. They were also trying to get him to answer questions both in Hebrew and English as they hooked him up with various bottles and monitors. Then someone shouted something and they rushed him off somewhere through another set of swinging doors.

  It was my intention to head for a phone and report in. But as Dick started to be wheeled through the swinging doors one of the men who has been working on him barked something in Hebrew—and a couple of lady medics wearing surgical masks and a big guy with a long black beard and horrible breath grabbed me. It seems as though my bloody and ripped fatigues made them think I might be wounded too.

  And, shit, they find a slice on my ass that needs to be sewed up. Eight fucking stitches, a bottle of blood, and a bunch of goddamn shots. I never even knew it was there. Goddamn it. I fucking hate needles.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ****** General Roberts

  People were packing the streets around the Cairo embassy and the square across from its entrance was filled with tens of thousands of shouting and chanting demonstrators. Dorothy and I briefly stood together and looked out of our fourth floor window at the crowd before I went downstairs to see the ambassador. She came with me.

  “Where are the Egyptian police and soldiers?” I asked Ambassador Tolson a few minutes later while sort
of gesturing towards the outside of the building. We were in the embassy’s secure area next to the communications center.

  “I’ve been calling for help constantly ever since the mob started arriving a couple of hours ago. But I can’t get through to anyone, at least nobody important enough to send help. Sometimes the phone gets answered but all my interpreter and I keep getting told is help is on its way. It probably isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The crowd is obviously organized. It has to be. Some of them are carrying pre-painted signs and everyone turned up first thing this morning at almost the same time. So some group or another is probably trying to pressure the government and the army to join the Coalition and help it attack Israel. What’s worrisome is the demonstration was obviously preplanned and neither the police nor the army are here to protect the embassy. It probably means the Egyptian government, meaning the Egyptian President who rules with an iron hand, can’t decide which way to jump.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’ve sent home all the Egyptian staff and all the Americans who have family members living in the local economy. Interestingly enough, the American staff left but most of the local staff decided to stay once they heard we’d be resisting any attacks. Their main fear seems to be that they’ll be killed if they go home because their neighbors know they work for us. They decided it is safer to stay here when I announced we won’t surrender and let the mob in.”

  “Can you keep the mob out?”

  “Oh I should think so—if we are prepared to shoot instead of surrender. And we certainly are. I’m not about to surrender US territory and become a hostage the way the embassy did in Tehran. I’ve authorized my Security Attaché, Andy Andrews, because he’s the senior man in the legal office, to have the Marines open fire on any demonstrators who get inside the wall. Some of the civilian staff, including me, are also armed.”

  “Good decision. I’ll certainly back you up on that and help you myself if you’ve got an extra weapon. And I’ll have a chat with the commander of the Marine detachment and your military attachés—in case some fool in Washington tries to order them to do otherwise.”

  “Yeah. I’m concerned about that myself. But so far I haven’t heard much from Washington except requests for information.”

  “Well, I’m here and I represent the President. So don’t even think about giving up the embassy unless he personally orders you to do so. Which I seriously doubt will be the case.” And certainly not if I have anything to say about it.

  A few minutes later I walked up the stairs to get Dorothy and found a note saying she’s gone down to the embassy cafeteria to get breakfast. So I trotted back down the stairs to meet her. Except for all the excited talking the cafeteria seems to be operating as if it’s just another day.

  Dorothy was sitting at a table by herself and got up with a big smile as soon as she saw me walk in. She’d already had toast and tea but was obviously pleased to see me and anxious to know whatever I can tell her; so she grabbed her cup and hurried over to join me in the line and get a refill.

  The place was filling up and we had to wait in line while the people in front of us finished talking and selecting their food. From the size of the crowd and the overly loud and excited conversations we could overhear, it would seem a lot of the staff came in early without eating breakfast and everyone’s worried. There was a lot of talk about what happened years ago to the embassy staffers who were captured in Tehran. Well hell they should be worried. I certainly am.

  Dorothy’s original table had already been cleared and taken by a couple of guys wearing suits by the time we got through the line; so we sat down at another table. We were almost immediately joined by a couple of nice young ladies on the embassy’s staff. They were holding their trays and forlornly looking for a place to sit when I pointed at our two empty chairs and waved them over.

  Both of our grateful new table mates are Americans who look to be in their twenties and quite nervous—and both of them promptly asked Dorothy if she thought they should have gone back to the apartment they apparently share somewhere off the embassy grounds. According to the girls, they decided to stay and help out because the embassy is shorthanded since all the American staff with kids and families living outside the compound have been sent home. Now they’re not so sure they did the right thing by volunteering. The Egyptian employees, one of them tells us, were also given a chance to go home but, to everyone’s surprise, many of them decided to stay.

  The ambassador probably did the right thing when he let the embassy employees leave. They’ll be safer in their homes in the city if the mob attacks the embassy.

  “Oh yes,” Dorothy said. It’s much safer here. And besides, this is where you are needed.” It’s not really safer even though Chris is pretending it is.

  After some idle chitchat about why we were here, which I really didn’t answer, the two girls stood up, shook hands, and left. When they were gone Dorothy looked at me and asked, “Did I say the right thing to them?”

  She shook her head and answered her own question.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re scared and needed reassurance, like me and everybody else here. Anyhow there’s nothing any of us can do to change things now, is there?” I just nodded and reached out to take her hand.

  “I’m sorry I brought you here for this.”

  “Well don’t be. I’m not one bit sorry. I like it when we can do things together. It’s rather exciting actually and maybe I can help if there are any emergency medical issues.”

  She’s right. If the mob outside turns nasty and tries to get in we’re going to need a doc for sure. Damn, this is a good woman.

  “Yup. Good idea. You might be the only Doc in the place,” I told her as we walked to the elevator—and found it out of service.

  “Come on. Let’s walk up the stairs to the communications center. I need to call Washington to report in and see if I can find out anything new. Then we’ll go hunt up Ambassador Tolson and see if there’s anything we can do to be useful until we get out of here.” Besides, I want to get a weapon and some ammunition out of the embassy armory in the Marine barracks on the sixth floor.

  ******

  Despite the early hour Peter was in the office when I called in from the secure room in the embassy’s communications center. It’s a good thing he is because I want to talk to him before the Security Council meeting scheduled for seven this morning, in about three hours. He answered on the first ring, even though it’s still the middle of the night there, and quickly brought me up to date on what he knows.

  “Glad you called, General. It looks like all hell’s breaking loose. The Islamic Army has apparently thrown the Israelis off of most of the Golan Heights and in a couple of places actually pushed a little way into Israel proper. Word from the satellite guys at Defense and the NSA is the Coalition forces have suffered really heavy casualties but are continuing to slowly advance under their SAM umbrella. Nothing in yet about the Israeli losses but they’ve got to be substantial.”

  “Has anything come in about what’s happening in Lebanon and Jordan?”

  “We’re not sure but things don’t look good there either. According to the latest satellite photos the Islamist armies have pretty much moved into both countries in force. It looks as though they may be heading south in an effort to hit Israel on its flanks. Interestingly enough, they have so far pretty much avoided Amman where the Jordanians have concentrated a lot of their forces. Apparently both of the two big coalition columns went right around Amman on the Ring Road without even slowing down or trying to engage the Jordanians. According to the latest NSA intercepts they’re continuing to move towards Israel even though they’ve taken a pretty heavy pounding from the Israeli air force.”

  “Are we doing anything to help the Israelis?”

  “Nothing yet, although we’ve got the Nimitz on the scene and the Enterprise ought to be in range by this evening. The Kennedy’s headed that way t
oo but it’s still four or five days out. We’ll be able to provide the Israelis with a lot of air support if we decide to get involved.”

  “How about conventional arms? Armor and such. Have you heard anything about airlifting anything in from Europe the way we’ve done in the past?”

  “Defense says it’s being readied, whatever that means, but nothing has started, at least not so far as I know. Frankly I doubt the Pentagon’s done anything except prepare a statement for the media. They’re probably waiting for someone to tell them what to do.”

  “Well, I’m stuck here so I want you to attend the Security Council meeting this morning. I’ll be attending by phone. But things are getting a bit dicey here. So if I get cut off I want you to use my name and strongly insist the air force get off its ass and begin airlifting tanks and other armor to the Israelis. We need to be ready to go as soon as the Israelis request assistance, which I’m pretty certain they will if they haven’t already done so. And don’t forget to specify the armor we send should arrive already stocked with full ammunition loadouts and full fuel tanks.”

  “I’ll get on it immediately. And, yes, you’re right you might be there for a while. We’ve got a satellite over the embassy and there sure are a bunch of people around it.”

  “Tell me about it! Christ, you should hear the noise and chanting. And they arrived too quickly and too well organized to be spontaneous. According to Tolson, he’s the Ambassador here, the crowd’s probably a creation of the Islamic Brotherhood to try to pressure Egypt into joining the war.”