Israel's Next War

by Martin Archer

  I could only offer them instant coffee because Dorothy and I only drink tea these days and so does Marlene, our daughter’s au pair when we babysit—although once in a while there have been paper coffee cups in the garbage when I put it out at night.

  Dorothy laughed at me yesterday when I mentioned the paper cups and suggested we get a coffee maker so Marlene won’t have to go out to a restaurant when she wants a cup of coffee. She says something called Starbucks is a sort of social thing where people go to meet other people, sort of like the pubs in England. Buying coffee at a Starbucks, she said, doesn’t mean Marlene likes coffee. I must be missing something. What the hell is a Starbucks? We didn’t have them in France.

  I read the Morning Report as I sipped my tea and ate a bagel. Iran seems to have taken some really heavy hits in the last twenty-four hours according to the summaries and satellite photos. Not only were two of Iran’s nuclear facilities destroyed last night, but the Israelis scored a huge military victory in Jordan by totally destroying all three brigades of Iran’s elite Second Armored Division. The militias with them apparently turned their pickup trucks around and, at last report, were running north with the Israeli air force strafing them as they go.

  Even more importantly, at least I think so, Israel’s navy seems to have virtually destroyed Iran’s two navies and its oil export and container handling facilities in the Persian Gulf as well as the Iraqi port at Basra. Apparently the Israelis sank a shitpot full of supertankers while they were doing it. Damn big night for Israel.

  ******

  Charlie made good time to the White House despite the rain so I was the first one in the Situation Room. Tommy Talbot walked in a few seconds behind me and we spent the next ten minutes catching up. Tommy laughed and said he’s jealous of all the fun I had in Cairo while he was sitting in his office shuffling paper. Then he became deadly serious.

  “Chris, the Israelis have stopped giving ground in front of the Golan and seem to have inflicted a massive defeat on the Iranian Army in Jordan. It increasingly looks like they’re going to win without us really having to do much to help them. That’s good because, as you know more than anyone, congress is just not ready to send our people back into another war so quickly. But I’m getting more and more worried about all the attacks on the nuclear facilities, I really am—probably because I don’t know who is doing it or why.”

  “Yeah, Tommy. You’re right to be concerned about the nuclear attacks and not wanting to get involved in another war.” I’m pretty sure I know who is behind the nuclear attacks, but I’m not going to say a thing because I’m still not positive.

  We stopped talking about the nuclear situation and what it might mean when the rest of the Security Council members began walking into the Situation Room. There was a lot of small talk about Cairo until the President came in with Marty Andrews about ten minutes later. He obviously had already read the Morning Book because he looked over at me and started asking questions even before he sat down. My problem is simple. I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even have all the questions.

  The President looked at me intently as I summarized the situation.

  “Mr. President, despite being surprised the Israelis are doing better than many people expected. Yesterday was a really big day for the Israelis. They brought in a lot of mobile artillery from the Sinai and are using it to smother the efforts of the Islamic Coalition’s ground forces to advance. And their attack on the Iranian ports is understandable and so is their sinking of the tankers that were consorting with the Iranians and Iraqis and so is their navy’s occupation of the Gulf. But, for the life of me, I don’t see how the Israeli attack on the Iranian ports ties to last night’s attacks on the Iranian nuclear facilities. However they’re related, one thing is certain—Iran and its Ayatollah just suffered a tremendous blow."

  “The rest of the war news is not so good, Mr. President. The Syrians have moved at least two divisions all the way down the Bekka Valley and NSA reports the fighting in the ground war has become particularly ferocious and is now occurring inside Israel. Last night two divisions of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards used suicidal infantry attacks to push a couple of kilometers deeper into Israel before they ran out of steam and ground to a halt. Casualties are reported to be extremely high on both sides.”

  At that point, Tommy Talbot chimed in and added “Israel hasn’t released any figures, Mr. President, but Defense’s best ’guesstimate’ is the Israelis may have already lost more men than all their previous wars put together—as many as twenty thousand dead and more than one hundred thousand wounded.”

  “Things are better elsewhere,” I reported. “Overall, the Israeli army and air force seem to have seized the initiative. If the reports are correct, there are somewhere between six to eight of Israel’s armored brigades in Jordan and they appear to be moving across the border and into Syria itself. And in the air the Israeli air force has achieved total air supremacy everywhere except in terms of close support over the immediate battlefield on the Golan Heights.”

  ******

  Peter and I talked as we walked back to our office after the meeting. I leafed through the Morning Book as we walked until I found the satellite photos I was looking for.

  “Well the Israelis weren’t kidding when they said the Israeli navy is still in the Gulf and intends to stay there,” I said to him. “We’ve got satellite photos to prove it.”

  “My God, look at that; it’s just about the whole damn Israeli navy and they’re obviously in Saudi waters. No question about it.” And there has been no Saudi reaction which almost certainly means they have permission to be there. And that raises a lot of questions.

  “Peter, the Israeli ships and subs obviously passed through the canal at night before the war started and then went all the way around the Arabian Peninsula and into the Persian Gulf. How did we miss their move and how did the Israelis know to get their navy into position before the war started and why are the Saudis ignoring them? Is it the old ’an enemy of my enemy is my friend’ thing because the Saudis are Sunni and all three of the Coalition countries are either Shia controlled or a majority of their people are Shia, or is it something else?”

  Damn, I’ve got a lot of calls to make.

  “Come on in to my office, Peter. We’ve got to make some calls.”

  ****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky

  Sami and everyone in the battalion is treating me and the guys in my new crew with kid gloves. It’s been that way ever since my tank was destroyed by friendly fire and their tank commander was killed. My new tank is a carbon copy of the rebuild I lost yesterday. It came through the battle without a single scratch despite the death of poor Yossi who apparently got hit by the same friendly fire that hit my tank—one moment he’d been standing in the turret talking to his crew on the tank’s intercom; the next moment his partially headless body dropped into the crew compartment and bled out on top of them.

  According to Benny, it had taken some Orthodox volunteers from the battalion’s supply platoon the better part of the night to clean up the tank’s interior after they pulled out what was left of its commander’s dead body. Yossi’s crew didn’t participate in the cleanup and neither did I. We’d been out of it and confused because the medics gave us some strong sedatives and put us to bed in one of the battalion aid tents. Yossi’s tank, now my tank, was cleaned and the entire battalion refueled and rearmed while we were sleeping.

  Sami and Benny introduced me to my new crew in the morning right after they visited the medics’ APC to decide who should be sent back and who should continue. Each of us was quietly and privately offered a chance to go back as a medical evacuee; and each of us refused. Then, even though we have barely said a word to one another, we nodded to each other in an unspoken agreement, finished our breakfasts and hot coffee, used the hastily dug shallow trench designated as the company’s latrine, and climbed into our now-spotless crew compartment with me in the commander’s turret and a full load of ammo and fuel. Anot
her day, another shekel.

  ******

  By six-thirty Friday morning our supply column empties were already headed back south on the road on their way home to reload and then come back and rejoin our supply column. They’re leaving us and the rest of the Brigade somewhat rested, fully replenished, and ready to move.

  At five-thirty sharp when the sun came up, with our tanks and APCs stuffed with fuel and ammunition and more riding on top wherever it can be stacked, our entire brigade began moving eastward across the wreckage strewn road and into the rocky and dusty desert beyond it. Dozens of assault helicopters are flying ahead of us and on our flanks, and the contrails in the sky above us are obviously all from Israeli planes. Moving just behind us are hundreds of the remaining tracked and off road vehicles in our brigade’s supply column.

  At least I think the contrails must be ours since we aren’t being attacked.

  After a couple of hours we turned north and crossed the unmarked border into Syria. Our route, and that of the Eighth Brigade following immediately behind us, was obviously scouted and mapped long ago—one look at our tanks’ electronic maps and we all know exactly where we are and where we are headed and the route we are to take. Lebanon here we come.

  ****** The Iraqi Lieutenant Colonel

  The news at the supreme headquarters is mixed this morning according to my handsome Syrian colonel and the briefers. There is good news—our troops are continuing to push deeper and deeper into Israel despite taking terrible losses. There is also good news about two divisions of our Syrian troops in Lebanon moving all the way down the Bekka Valley. According to the briefer, they have already reached the Litani River just north of the Israeli border. The Syrian briefer proudly reports the Syrian troops were being cheered all along the way by Lebanese waving Syrian flags.

  The bad news seems to be the Israelis destroyed the only bridge over the Litani and, if the rumor is true, the silly Syrians didn’t bring any rubber boats or bridging materials. There are also rumors of major air battles and a big tank battle in Jordan with heavy losses on both sides.

  Tonight’s victory dinner is going to be hosted by the Syrians again. Of course I’m going; everyone will be there and my new Syrian friend helped organize it. He’s a nice man.

  ****** General Christopher Roberts

  Peter and I both made a number of calls to Israel Friday morning but neither of us learned much. It wasn’t until early Friday afternoon Washington time, and already dark in Israel, when I finally reached Chaim Netzion, a brigadier and one of the Prime Minister’s senior aides.

  Chaim told me that Ari himself called the Saudi defense minister immediately after the naval attacks and informed him the Israeli Navy would be in Saudi waters from time to time “and we intend to remain in the Gulf permanently.” According to Chaim, the Prime Minister promised the Saudis that Israel would not destroy or in any way impede the big Saudi oil terminal at Ras Tanura or the terminals and shipping of the other Gulf monarchies—so long as Israel’s ships and submarines are left totally alone and the patrol boats of the monarchies stay in port.

  Well that’s a viable threat if I’ve ever heard one. I sure hope the Saudis believe what the Prime Minister told them. I better call them to make sure they understand the Israelis are almost certainly not bluffing.

  Ten minutes later I was able to get through to Prince Nayef, the Saudi Defense Minister, and he confirmed the Israeli report. After the usual pleasantries we got down to business and I was surprised at what he told me.

  “We have no quarrel with the Israelis and they’ve promised not to attack us or the other kingdoms or the ships carrying our customers’ oil. That means the oil we’re sending to America and Japan is safe and there is no reason for the United States or anyone else to become involved. In fact, in an hour or two we’ll be announcing an increase in production to help offset the decline in Iranian exports. They’re going to be out of business for years, you know.”

  No quarrel with the Israelis? That’s a surprisingly benign response. Why didn’t he complain about the Israelis and ask us to encourage them to leave? And why didn’t our intelligence agencies report the conversation?

  “Nancy, would you please schedule a meeting for me. I’d like to drop in at the NSA and visit with Admiral Fletcher as soon as he’s free.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ****** Chief Warrant Officer Harry Duffy

  Dick and I walked into the crowded MATS passenger terminal at Rhine-Main with Colonel Dombrowski. We’re here even though it sure took some doing and we’re still wearing the baggy ill-fitting battledress Big Joe scarfed up for us.

  Yeah. We call him Big Joe. He says he likes it because it reminds him of when he was young and stupid like us.

  Getting out of the hospital took forever this morning and looked for a while to be impossible. They wanted signoffs from doctors and commanders’ approvals and all sorts of shit. But then Dick got an idea and called Colonel Dombrowski. He showed up and thirty minutes later he was driving us to the MATS terminal to catch a MATS flight to Tel Aviv.

  “You guys remind me of Guns. This is the kind of stupid fucking trick he used to pull.”

  “Hey Colonel,” I told him in an effort to explain. “You said it yourself. All you can do about Dick’s broken ribs is bind them up and give him something for the pain. Otherwise our cuts are sewed up and Dick’s got a cast on his arm. Big deal; we’re fine. And, hell, we’re useless here. We’re supposed to be in Israel keeping the boss informed.”

  It’s hard to call a colonel “Big Joe.”

  Ten hours later an Israeli military bus dropped us in front of our apartment building in Tel Aviv. Truth be told, I’m bushed and I know Dick’s ribs are sore despite the pills I saw him pop when he thought I wasn’t looking. We’ll get into some clean clothes and go to the embassy in the morning. Surprisingly enough, the only thing Dick admits to being bothered by is his broken wrist. He says his arm itches under the cast and he can’t scratch the damn thing.

  ****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky

  Our brigade turned north and stopped traveling through the desert when we reached a paved two lane road. The road, according to the electronic map on my M-60, runs towards Damascus. But we didn’t turn left and head that way. Instead the entire brigade turned right and spent a couple of hours or so on the road heading further east away from Damascus.

  Traveling on the paved highway was quite interesting. The cars and trucks coming down the road towards us were waved off to the side of the road by our recon platoon and their passengers inevitably watched in incredulous disbelief as we streamed by. They were obviously quite surprised to see us.

  It was a real relief to get on the road even if it is only going to be for an hour or two—less dust and fewer mechanical breakdowns. I’m tired of being constantly dusted and bounced around and I’ve already gone through three bottles of water since we started this morning.

  Twice while we were heading east on the road the light tanks of our recon troops met unsuspecting military supply convoys heading towards Damascus—one Syrian and one Iranian. Both times their drivers pulled off the road and stopped, then abandoned their trucks and ran into the desert to escape.

  According to battalion radio, the trucks and their cargos will be drained of their fuel and destroyed by our rear guard as it passes them. And we really struck pay dirt with the second convoy—it has a couple of fuel tankers. As a result, the battalion in front of us, the Second, pulled over and enjoyed an impromptu refueling stop. We waved and smiled as we rolled on by on the shoulder of the road and dusted them.

  I don’t feel guilty about the dust at all; I’ve been eating theirs all day.

  The land along the road was as bare and desolate as the desert our brigade traveled through to reach it. It was really quite hot and forlorn. All we saw along the road, except for the cars and trucks that quickly pulled over to let us pass, were periodic Bedouin tent encampments. They typically consisted of one or two tents with a pickup truck o
r car parked next to them and sometimes a camel or two and a couple of donkeys.

  Each time we reached a Bedouin camp the kids ran out to the road to stare and wave while the adults stood in front of their tents and silently watched. Once three kids on a little donkey came trotting out to the road to watch us pass and beg for candy.

  After we moved north on the road for a couple of hours we again swung east out into the desert and spent the rest of the hot, dusty, and bone jarring day and most of the night making a big circular sweep. It’s a route that will take us all the way around Damascus until we reach the Lebanese border. It was so exhausting that Herb, our loader, had to drive for a couple of hours while Joel, our driver and crew chief, napped in the loader’s seat.

  Joel grumbled when I caught him nodding off and told him to take a break. But he does—after sternly admonishing me and Herb to be careful “and don’t stick my goddamn tank in a goddamn hole.”

  And we sure as hell will be careful. The brigade is not stopping to assist tanks and APCs that break down except to have an engineering officer take a quick look and decide if it can be quickly repaired. If the engineering officer thinks the crew or the mechanics in one of the maintenance Humvees can make the repairs and catch up with the rear guard, one of the APC tankers stops and gives it a full tank of gas; if the engineer officer decides it is broken with no hope of a fast repair it is instantly abandoned—after what’s left of its gas is quickly siphoned off into one of the tankers and a key piece of equipment is removed from its engine along with the firing blocks of its weapons.

  Joel is particularly anxious because a breakdown which can’t be repaired by the crew in the field is considered a serious black mark against its crew chief even if we are able to come back later and successfully retrieve it.

  ****** The Colonel in Somalia

  The professor is down with an apparent heart attack and I’ve taken over command of the operation. Orders came in for our final mission while we were still sitting around in the Somali heat waiting for word on when an evacuation plane will be coming in for the professor and our excess staff. Now they’ll have to get us out of this hellhole.