Israel's Next War

by Martin Archer

  It isn’t until we got to the embassy entrance that we realized we’re about to have a big problem—no money and no identification. Fortunately, the middle aged lady driving the taxi had seen the bandage on Dick’s arm and watched as I held his other arm and helped him into the cab to avoid hurting his ribs. She said something I didn’t understand with a nod towards Dick and a question in her voice. “Golan,” I replied. When she saw the look on our faces as we realized we have no money she said something with a sad smile and waved us away towards the embassy.

  The three Marines in the guard shack at the entrance to the embassy driveway were nowhere near as helpful, particularly because we couldn’t produce any identification and were wearing our ill-fitting and unmarked fatigues. The bottom line is we’re not on the latest access list and access is being limited to forestall terrorists—and probably most important of all, let’s face it, we’re scruffy and don’t look like American officers. Their disbelief and suspicion was obvious.

  Well, hell, they’re right not to take chances. The local Arabs are pissed at the help we’ve been giving the Israelis and the embassy is a prime target.

  Finally Dick showed his dog tags to the sergeant they summoned and the sergeant agreed to call the office of the military attachés and give them our names. Even then they made us wait out in the sun outside the gate until Colonel Hopkins came bustling out of the embassy lobby and hustled down the driveway.

  “Christ on a crutch,” he said as everybody saluted everybody else. “I thought you two were evacuated with the Israeli wounded.”

  A few minutes later and it was old home week in our office. Noya Lenor jumped up and started crying when she saw us and Si and Solly gave us big hugs and handshakes. They had returned to the office after helping deliver their truck full of Israeli casualties and had heard from Dewey Adams about our being wounded and evacuated. Dewey, they tell us, had sent an inquiry to General Roberts but had only received a reply this morning saying we were on our way back.

  I wonder how General Roberts found out since we deliberately didn’t tell him we were coming back for fear he would stop us. Big Joe must have called him.

  Ten minutes later and we are in Solly’s car and heading for the warehouse of the Tenth Brigade. We’re going to try to get another jeep and more weapons.

  “It’s a good thing you two showed up. Things don’t seem to be going so good for us up on the Golan. We were about to go back and try to find our old units.”

  ****** Lieutenant Yair Levin

  I’m in a flight of four F-16s flying as the wingman to my squadron’s executive officer, Major Rozen. It’s tough being Jake’s wingman—so far I have only two kills whereas he has seven. That’s because in our system he is the designated shooter and I am primarily his protector. Hopefully that’s about to change, my score I mean.

  And it may change. Ten minutes ago our controller came up on our tactical channel and ordered Blue Flight Six with four, that’s us, to swing to the east and move into southern Syria to join a big air battle shaping up over one of our advancing armor columns.

  Two minutes later and I could see a whole bunch of blips on my radar screen’s distant setting. It looks like a lot of planes all together in a real fur ball. Good. We’re ready—we’ve each got eight Pythons on the rails and a full load of 20mm cartridges in our Gatling Guns.

  Dammit, who the hell’s humming on this channel. Sounds like Josef. I wish Jake would tell him to stop.

  As we approached the air battle the humming stopped as our controller suddenly reports a large force of enemy planes, probably Syrian MiG-23s, attempting to attack some of our armor by coming in low under the planes fighting in the fur ball above our troops.

  “Blue Flight Six at thirty-two. Links coming up. Arabs twenty plus at three hundred ..repeat three hundred … one eight six kilometers. Come to 270 degrees. Buster.”

  I followed Jake as he swung to the right and pushed his nose down and kicked in his afterburner. The half second or so jump he got on me put him way out in front as the digital readout of my altitude began spinning so fast I could barely read it. Still no links.

  Between the speed generated by the vertical dive and the continuing use of afterburner I’ve never flown so fast. If there was ever a time to set the throttle on War Emergency and leave it on, this is it. I’ve totally lost sight of Jake but his icon shows him to be about eighteen hundred meters ahead and slightly above me. I hope the damn wings don’t come off.

  My screen flashed twice and target links began coming up. “Targets” we all shouted almost simultaneously as we corrected to intercept them without even thinking. A few seconds later I hear Jake say “MiG-23s. Probably Syrian. I’ll take the leftmost four. Fire on lock. Save one. Then hunt.”

  Jacob saying he was taking the left four automatically meant I was to take the next four and Bobby and Lev the two fours after that. I flipped the selector on to ready from lock, touched in their icons, and swept my gloved finger across seven of my eight missile activate buttons.

  Forty-three kilometers. I’m closing fast. Come on. Come on.

  Suddenly the Syrians began to take evasive action. Either their controllers alerted them or their warning systems finally kicked in. Too late. We’re locked. My plane shuddered slightly as seven of my eight Pythons leaped off the rails almost simultaneously. Two seconds later my missile warning system begins to shriek in my ears and my F-16 began to automatically eject flares.

  I blacked out for a couple of seconds right after I started grunting and my pressure suit inflated as I went into the hardest and most desperate climbing turn and loop I had ever pulled in an effort to defeat the incoming missiles. I didn’t even see them go past.

  Then I was alone at about three thousand meters—except for the two MiG-23s I could see to my left turning away from me. Another hard grunting turn and, when my vision cleared, one of them was right in front of me. I was closing fast because my afterburner was still on and my throttle was still set at war maximum. I don’t even remember flicking up the gun switch and killing the afterburner, but I must have; when I pressed the firing button a stream of 20mm cannon shells poured out and I didn’t shoot myself down by catching up to the rounds.

  At first I could see by the tracers that I was way off. But then I jerked my nose to the right and my shell stream swept over the MiG.

  The MiG was a little less than a thousand meters ahead of me when it exploded in a great puff of red and black which I flashed through less than a second later. I could actually hear and feel the debris hit as I passed through the cloud of debris. An instant later my plane flamed out and began to disintegrate as I grabbed for the ejection lever with my left hand and pulled as I tucked my elbows tightly into my chest.

  Oh dear God protect me.

  ****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky

  We were just getting ready to resume our march across the desert when a really big air battle suddenly erupted far overhead. Suddenly I could see a lot of contrails and our radios crackled with an order for everyone with SAMs to get them ready for enemy planes coming in low from the east. Up ahead I could see the APC carrying one of the Fourth Battalion’s Rapier missile launchers. It had been traveling with its missiles covered up to protect them from the dust and pebbles. Suddenly the APC stopped and I could see someone come up out of the commander’s hatch and pull the dust covers off its missiles. Seconds later the missiles came up into their firing positions and the radar dish on the APC began to rapidly swivel around and around. It didn’t fire.

  Three or four minutes later the commander in the tank ahead of me began waving energetically and pointing to our right. A parachute was coming down. Instantly the APC carrying our medics and mobile surgery peeled off into the desert to retrieve or capture the jumper as the case might be.

  A few minutes later we got the details. A report on the battalion net from the medics says he’s one of ours—a remarkably cheerful young lieutenant who’s only injury is a gash on his chin from bouncing off a rock w
hen he landed. According to the medics the lieutenant claims he wasn’t shot down at all, that he’d been in his F-16 shooting at a Syrian MiG-23 with his cannons when the MiG suddenly blew up in front of him and his plane got damaged and flamed out when he flew through the debris.

  Everyone chuckled when one of our medics, responding to a question from an unknown voice on the radio, said “He’s just a dumb kid; he wants us to rush him back to his base so he can get in another plane.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ***** Chief Warrant Officer Harry Duffy

  It took almost the entire day to get our new gear and weapons at the Tenth Brigade warehouse and drive up to the field headquarters of what is left of the Tenth. Our reception at the Tenth’s warehouse was particularly warm. I don’t know what Sully said as Talia, the warehouse manager’s assistant we met during our last visit, started to welcome us but it sure had an effect. She gasped and jumped back and absolutely ran to get a chair for Dick. Then she shouted something and a dozen or so of the warehouse ladies and some older men gathered around and gently shook his hand and touched his face; one of the girls actually grabbed his hand and kissed it with tears in her eyes. They treated me and Si and Solly pretty good too.

  The only person I didn’t see is Reuven, the warehouse commander who had been in a wheel chair singing Tom Lehr’s “The Boy Scouts Marching Song” the last time we were here. It’s hard to forget people like Reuven. I wonder what happened to him. I didn’t ask.

  As you might imagine, we didn’t have any trouble drawing more weapons and equipment even though the place is really busy. Trucks were being loaded at almost every one of the many loading docks by what must be at least four or five companies of young and not so young women. There are hundreds of them all wearing khaki shorts and blouses—and sweating profusely in the heat coming through the open cargo bay doors.

  And that’s not all—through the open doors I could see hundreds more women soldiers outside and even more trucks being loaded from conveyor belts running out of what are obviously ammunition bunkers.

  I wonder how long they can last out there in the heat and how much ammunition they have left.

  “My God, Harry. Look what they’re doing.”

  As the pallets of round metal shell cases come up the conveyor some of the women were unscrewing the tops of the cases to open them so the shells could slide out and go straight into a cannon for firing. It is most definitely not the safest way for cannon shells to be transported.

  ****** Major Richard Evans

  Driving up to the Tenth’s field headquarters took hours in the scorching heat and my sore ribs seemed to get worse every time we hit another pot hole. Jeez I hurt. The road north from Tel Aviv was packed with military traffic and the sound of the guns in the distance grew louder as we got closer. Much of the northbound traffic was self-propelled artillery and truck after truck covered with ammunition warning signs hanging on them and women soldiers driving.

  What was totally missing, I realized when Harry mentioned it, was the sound of jet aircraft and helicopter gunships.

  “You’re right, Harry, we should be seeing and hearing some planes and gunships, not just Medevac helicopters. The Arabs must either be operating under one helluva SAM umbrella or the Israeli air force has been destroyed.”

  Damn. I’ve got to find out. That’s exactly what the Boss told us he wants to know.

  A little further down the road a female Israeli MP, in a sweat drenched shirt that would have made her a winner in a wet tee shirt contest, was swigging a plastic bottle of water with one hand as she directed us onto a side road with the other. The Tenth, she shouted, is about five kilometers down on the right.

  Sure enough that’s where we found them. Fifteen minutes later we were talking to Brigadier Makow in the late afternoon shade of his headquarters APC. He looked exhausted and ten years older.

  “I’m surprised to see you and your men, colonel. I heard you two were wounded saving some of my boys and got evacuated. What the hell are you doing back here?”

  “Couldn’t stay away, sir,” I said with a smile. Then I got real serious. “Harry and I came to find out how it’s really going so we can report to General Roberts.”

  “Well at the moment it’s certainly going better than it was initially. At least we’ve finally got the bastards stopped.

  “How does it look?” I asked.

  “It depends on how you look at it. We can’t use our air force and gunships because of their SAMs—so what we’re doing at the moment is using a continuous artillery barrage to stop their infantry from advancing and keeping our casualties as low as possible.”

  “If I might ask, sir, then what?

  “There is nothing after this, Colonel. We’re going to keep hitting the bastards with artillery fire the likes of which they’ve never seen. When they’re all dead we can go home.” Well that explains all the self-propelled guns and ammo trucks we saw moving this way; but what’s with the colonel bit?

  “We saw all the self-propelled guns on the way here and the ammo trucks being loaded at your warehouse. It looked efficient, very impressive.” And very dangerous.

  “Yeah it is. Or at least I hope it is. How long are you and the major staying?”

  “As long as you’ll have us, General. And by the way, sir, I’m the major. Harry’s a chief warrant officer. I apologize if we misled you.”

  “You didn’t mislead me. I got a message from General Roberts a couple of hours ago. He told me you two would be coming for a visit and asked me to let you know you both got something called ’below the zone’ promotions by order of the President and some decorations. You’re a lieutenant colonel now and he said to tell Mr. Duffy he’s a major whether he likes it or not. Congratulations.”

  Holy Shit!

  ****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky

  My battalion was in the lead until the 3rd Brigade turned left to enter the Bekka Valley and began to slowly and cautiously move south towards Israel and the Mediterranean. The battalion I’m in, the Third, was the only one that did not turn left to go south with the rest of the brigade. Instead, we turned right and went on up the road to an intersection about five kilometers further north. We set up a battalion strength roadblock around a little cluster of houses and a gasoline station with a restaurant. We’re at the entrance to the Bekka Valley and our recon platoon has reached the coastal highway between Syria and Lebanon—we’ve just cut the main highway between Damascus and Aleppo and one of the two transportation corridors between Syria and Lebanon.

  The word is we’ll follow the brigade supply column and act as the rear guard when the 8th Brigade comes up to take our place blocking the entrances to the Bekka Valley and the coastal road.

  Everyone expected the Syrians to fight for such a crucial position so we initially moved slowly and cautiously as we came up the road to the little cluster of houses at the intersection. Nothing; it was eerily quiet. Needless to say, we all breathed easier and relaxed a little when our recon platoon came up on the battalion net and reported it was ten klicks further on up the road and had reached the coastal highway. The only action came quickly—in the restaurant and the station’s little store. They were quickly packed with our boys hurriedly filling their canteens at the bathroom water faucets and buying up all the available bottled water, soft drinks, cigarettes, and candy. They took credit cards.

  I sure hope the water from the faucets is okay. There’s going to be hell to pay if it isn’t and our crews have to stay buttoned up.

  About an hour later Benny came up on the battalion net to tell us we’ll be here until sometime tomorrow. Apparently the delay is because the Eighth, the brigade coming to relieve us, suffered a number of casualties in an air attack yesterday and is still evacuating them and repairing the damage. From the sound of the radio chatter the Eighth Brigade appears to have been hit by a number of Islamic air strikes during the big air battle yesterday, the one where my tank got knocked out by friendly fire. We’ll know more when they ge
t here. Meanwhile we’re refueling, doing maintenance, and getting some rest.

  ******

  Armor from the Eighth Brigade finally began to arrive about twenty minutes ago. We immediately saddled up and began moving down the Valley to catch up with the rest of our own Third Brigade. My crew and I are in the middle of the battalion column and that’s fine with me because it’s safer in the middle.

  It was an interesting trip—the road is paved and runs along a little stream that will apparently grow and become the Litani River as we get further and further down the Valley. Every so often we’d come to a village on one side of the road or the other. The first couple were Shite Muslim villages and the people just stood and watched sullenly as we clanked past. Once we got past them, however, we were in the mountains and the people in the villages were Druze and Kurds; unlike the Arabs, they came out to smile and wave.

  We moved down the Valley until we reached the city of Zahleh. Just past Zahleh we reached an important crossroads—the main highway between Damascus and Beirut. Holding the intersection with the Eighth Brigade now sitting on the coastal road between Aleppo and Beirut means we have severed both of the transportation corridors between Syria and Lebanon. So long as we hold them both the Syrian troops and the Hezbollah and other militias in Lebanon will be cut off from supplies and reinforcements.

  Zahleh and the villages around the intersection and further south are predominantly Christian. The people seemed genuinely pleased to see Israeli soldiers instead of the Islamic Militia and Syrian soldiers who have been dominating and terrorizing them for years. Once, amazingly, we came to a big “Yoram was here” newly painted in red on the face of a rock in Hebrew. Good grief!

  ******

  So far so good. The battalion net was relatively quiet all morning. That’s a bit surprising because when we stopped for a few minutes at the crossroads just past Zahleh, the brigade radio net suddenly became full of contact reports and movement orders. Every so often when the wind died down we could hear the distant rumble of artillery and fighting further down the Valley.