by Hesh Kestin
Felix St. George will not let this pass, president or no president. “Sir, this is classic Pearl Harbor. How could we know? All we picked up was increased communication.”
“About which you neglected to inform Jerusalem,” Flo Spier says. She is thinking about the Jewish vote, the Jewish lobby, the Jewish wallet, which no presidential candidate can afford to ignore. And now of course there are the damn-fool Christian fundamentalists, pro-Israel to the core. The bible-thumpers can easily throw the electoral college votes in six Midwestern states and most of the South. Just when the Jews had spread themselves out across the country and thus adulterated their vote, the born-agains came along. All they think of is abortion and Israel.
The president has no time for this, not now. But it is fair to say it remains in the back of his mind; the leader of the free world knows how quickly he can be out of the job. “What can we accomplish, Arthur?”
“The Sixth Fleet is off Izmir, sir,” General Hefty says with zero hesitation and a good deal of enthusiasm. “That’s Turkey, Mr. President. Figure eight hours. But we’ve got three hundred carrier-based aircraft within two. I can punch in twelve hundred Marines in four. En route we can coordinate with IDF. They’re good like that.”
Felix St. George already has a laser pointer moving across the eastern Mediterranean on the illuminated world map on the wall. “Russian naval units off Syria, sir.”
General Hefty turns to his commander in chief. “Mr. President?”
There is a mechanical buzz. St. George puts a phone to his ear.
“I’m not afraid of the Russkies,” the president says. “They’ll fight to the last A-rab.”
St. George puts down his phone. “Mr. President, Riyadh just announced they’re terminating oil production in support of their Muslim brothers.”
“What?”
“The oil weapon, sir,” Flo Spier says. “Tomorrow’s price at the pump will double all over the world—Europe, Asia, every gas station in America, to say nothing of heating oil when winter hits. Mr. President, this is worse than a major war. It’s a political catastrophe.”
The president decides to be presidential. “No damned A-rab is going to tell the United States of America how to conduct its foreign policy.”
General Hefty stands. “Is that a go, Mr. President?”
But not too presidential. “Arthur, order your leathernecks on stand by. And tell your Israeli opposite number over there that the American people are fully committed to the security of the State of Israel and to its eternal capital, Jerusalem.”
Admiral Staley offers a dry cough. “Jerusalem seems to have fallen, sir.”
A long moment of silence ensues, the kind of silence that greets the sudden death of a rich relative who has not left a will. All eyes are on the president. “That’s...unfortunate,” the president says.
General Hefty does not hesitate. “Mr. President, with respect, the US and Israel have treaty commitments—”
“We’ll reconvene at breakfast,” the president says, standing. “I’m sure the Jews will figure something out by then. They always do.” He turns with one hand on the doorknob. “Let’s just hope it’s not nuclear.”
35
IN THE COMMAND BUNKER three stories underground in the Kirya, the chief of staff of the IDF is way ahead of him.
On an interactive map that takes up one wall, real-time intelligence from Israel’s five satellites paints a digitized image of the country, with green—signifying Muslim control—spreading over Israel’s borders like an uncontrolled amoebic plague. From the south, Egyptian mechanized infantry has swallowed most of the Negev Desert and is moving in a two-pronged advance on the southern cities of Beersheba to the east and the Mediterranean port of Ashdod to the west. Jordanian ground forces are closing on Jerusalem, having already barreled through the Judean suburb of Ma’ale Adumim. From the northeast, Iraqi infantry has moved through the Jordan Valley heading to Tiberius on the Sea of Galilee.
In the north, another front has opened, with hundreds of tanks, presumably under Syrian control but now identified as Iranian, crossing the Lebanese border. In each case, thin blue lines representing Israeli defenders have either cracked or fallen back. Only in a handful of places are they moving forward to engage.
“Get me the prime minister.”
“Pinky,” his adjutant tells him in a voice so low it is barely more than a hoarse whisper, “all communication with the PM is down.”
“With the ranking members of the cabinet, then.”
“Nothing.” The adjutant pauses, looking at the spreading green blight on the digitized map. “Intelligence reports kill squads of paratroops within Jerusalem, nationality still unspecified. Pinky.”
“Say it.”
“They’re all gone.”
“Shit.” He sits for a while, wishing he had not given up smoking. There is no smoking in government buildings, of course, but this is not any day. This, Pinky thinks, is a day that will be remembered in Jewish history forever, if there is going to be Jewish history after today. He sits, heavily, as though irredeemably weakened. It’s an easy decision, really, he thinks. And down to me, number twenty-seven on the list. Who would ever have thought that numbers one through twenty-six would be unavailable? It’s more a political than a military decision. Not my area at all. But there it is. Of course we could wait. But what would that accomplish? Another hour and the opportunity will be lost. “Itzik!”
The chief of staff’s deputy for extraordinary operations is across the room, monitoring his own small screen.
Brigadier Itzik Arian is a small and intense man of fifty who came to the IDF fifteen years earlier by way of academia, an expert in his field who has never been in battle, never fired a shot outside of the shooting range where, like all IDF staff officers, he must qualify every month. That this former professor is required to be proficient in small arms has long been a kind of sick joke in those rarified quarters where Arian’s name and responsibility are known: it is like demanding a Tyrannosaurus Rex be handy with a flyswatter. Now the little Tyrannosaurus walks stiffly, almost reluctantly, to his commander in chief. In any other case, with any other officer, the chief of staff would simply have barked an order across the room.
“General Arian,” Pinky says with a formality that betrays the gravity of what he is about to say. “In line with Government Protocol 221, and in consideration that all others authorized to make this decision are not reachable, I formally command you to initialize Operation Samson.”
“General Pinchas, as you are aware, it is necessary to affix to such an order certain code numbers.”
The chief of staff recites the list of ten digits he committed to memory on his first day at the top of the IDF command pyramid, and which every Sabbath morning as he strolls to synagogue he recites again like an article of faith. Were it not for the fact that such an act would be blasphemous among a people who had been tattooed for other purposes, he would have had these numbers inked permanently on his forearm.
Brigadier Arian moves his lips as though he has just tasted something unpleasant. “General Pinchas,” he recites with the rigid solemnity of a high priest, “your command has been received and will be executed immediately. Pending further orders, Operation Samson will in one hundred twenty seconds be armed and prepared for execution.”
When these two minutes pass, Israel will be the first nation in the world since the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to be one terse command away from unleashing a nuclear holocaust.
Pinky stares at his digitized map and speaks to his adjutant without facing him. “Moshiko, get me air command.” He sighs. “What’s left of it.”
36
AT THE RENDEZVOUS POINT, the 112th Armored Brigade’s 1st Battalion comprising thirty Chariot tanks takes up position behind tall pines in a line overlooking the north-south coastal road, beyond which a thousand feet of empty beach stretches to the lapping sea. The 2nd Battalion’s thirty-two Chariots are nested behind a sharp turn in the oth
erwise straight highway a mile to the south; thirty Chariots of the 3rd Battalion are tucked away two miles to the north, poised to close off the enemy’s line of retreat.
Further north, a reconnaissance unit awaits the arrival of the Iranian force at the ambush point. This recon unit is composed of three-man jeeps that in every other unit of the Armored Corps have been replaced by large, powerful American-made Humvees. At Yigal’s insistence, the 112th has retained its old-fashioned jeeps because they present a profile one quarter the size of Humvees. The argument over their retention went straight to the commander of the Armored Corps, General Ido Baram, who had trained with Yigal. Reluctantly Ido agreed. Though he had accepted replacing Corps jeeps with the larger vehicles, he too doubted the decision of the chief of staff; Humvees had not done particularly well either in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Aside from the recon jeeps watching the coastal road to the north of the ambush point, another three jeeps guard the rear of the 1st Battalion from surprise from the east, just outside the communal settlement called Lohamei HaGeta’ot, the Kibbutz of the Ghetto Warriors. The settlement is named in memory of the Jewish revolt in the Warsaw Ghetto when, in spring of 1943, several hundred Jews armed with pistols and rifles took on thousands of heavily armed Wehrmacht and SS troops. At the kibbutz it is even worse: with every able-bodied man and women called to their units, defense has been left in the hands of mothers, children, and old men armed with little more than the weaponry of the original Ghetto fighters—rifles, pistols, grenades, and a single light machine gun.
The decision to fight rather than flee is based on experience gained in previous wars, when Arab soldiers seized every opportunity to kill Jews. However, in this war, bloodlust has been sacrificed to the grand strategy developed by Iran. The Muslim tank force on its way south from Lebanon intends to bypass such minor outposts in its rush to a target of strategic importance, the port at Haifa, just as in the south Egyptian armor will circumnavigate the outlying settlements, including the city of Ashkelon, as they drive for the port of Ashdod just to the north. Iran’s war planners are intent on cutting off resupply from the sea.
Standing atop the roof of his tank, Yigal sweeps the northern horizon with his field glasses. The coastal road is empty in the gathering dawn, the best time outside of dusk for an armored attack. In a matter of minutes the field of muted grays before him will explode into light, but just now, if the damned Iranians will hurry up, his tanks are all but invisible, just so many gray lumps. The road below is gray, the beach beyond is gray, the sea itself calm as an ironed gray tablecloth in a dimly lit room.
He switches on his radio and speaks into the mic suspended from his helmet. “Roller One to all units, Roller One to all units. Final briefing. Recon gives the first of our tourists three minutes. If you need a refresher: rise to ridge, acquire target, fire. If Svirs are in play, drop below ridgeline, wait for next missile to pass, rise to ridge, acquire target, fire. Enemy requires twelve seconds to reload. That’s our window. Twelve seconds. Commanders: status. Over.”
“Noam here. Awaiting tourists. All in order. Over.”
“Amir reporting. Ready to rock, Yigal. Over.”
“Nasdarovia, over.”
“Identify yourself, over.”
“Yigal, you know it’s me, over.”
“Misha, I will fucking relieve you of command. This is not Dizengoff Street. You will pretend to be an officer. Over.”
“I’m a staff sergeant, over.”
“Misha!”
His voiced laced with irony, Misha offers the vocal equivalent of an exaggerated salute. “Yes, sir! Sir, Sgt. Misha reporting. Sir, all primed and ready. Sir! Over.”
“You’ve picked up a gunner, over?”
“As you ordered. Sir! Over.”
“Misha, remind me to have you court-martialed after the war. Over.”
“Gladly, over.”
“To all personnel,” Yigal says, his voice now official, cool, as devoid of emotion as a machine. “If any of your cans is in less than fighting order, report now. Over.” He waits precisely five seconds on his wristwatch. “Beautiful. On my signal then, over.”
He is lowering himself through the command hatch when his radio buzzes.
“Super Skull to Roller One 1-1-2. Over.”
“Roller One here. How goes it, Ido? Over.”
“Is it you, Yigal? Over.”
“No, it’s the Queen of Sheba. Ido, we’re about to make boom-boom. I can’t chat with you now. Over.”
“Forget boom-boom. You are ordered to abort. Over.”
“Abort? We’re in position. Over.”
The voice of General Ido Baram almost cracks. “Straight from the top. You are ordered to fall back immediately to Herzlia. Full speed. Over.”
Yigal is half in the tank, his head and shoulders exposed. “There’s a timeout? What is this, the World Cup? Over.”
“Pinky is setting up a defensive perimeter: Herzlia-Ramle-Rishon. Over.”
“You’re telling me we’re sacrificing Haifa, also Netanya and Rishon? Over.”
“Yigal, the situation...”
“Fuck the situation. I have work to do.”
“Yigal, fall back to Herzlia. Now. Over.”
“Ido, we’re the only thing between the Revolutionary Guard and Haifa. Over.”
“Roger that, Yigal. Order stands. Confirm. Over.”
“Why? Over.”
There is a moment of deep silence on the other end of the line. “Jerusalem’s fallen, over.” This is met with an even deeper silence, as though communication has broken off. “Yigal?”
“I’m here, over.”
“A broad defensive perimeter is being formed around Tel Aviv. It’s all that’s left. Abort and fall back. Repeat: confirm receipt of this order. Over.”
Yigal does not need his field glasses to see what is approaching at speed on the coastal road from the north. He can hear it. The sound of four hundred tanks is no whisper. He lowers himself fully into the Chariot, pulling the hatch cover tight and securing it. The hatch cover seal will keep out dust, flames, and poison gas. But not reality. “Aborting in one hour,” he says into his mic. “Over and out.”
What Yigal now sees again through the 360-degree video screen in front of him is both mortally frightening and oddly comforting: four parade-straight columns of Iranian tanks shoulder to shoulder speeding south down the four lanes of the coastal road as though late for a wedding. “Or early for a funeral,” Yigal says under his breath.
Ephraim the tank driver picks up the muttered phrase in his earphones. “Commander?”
“Good where we are, kid,” Yigal says, then taps his headset. “Roller One to all units, Roller One to all units. You will be pleased to know our guests are bang on time. Try first to kill those babies closest to the beach so they block the rest from going to the sand. Each gunner work back by fours so the entire column is bottled up. Whoever taught these Persians tactical approach was probably named Ginsberg. Misha, bottle our tourists from the rear. Same instruction. Don’t bother with prisoners. Repeat, I don’t give a damn about enemy personnel. For all I care they can swim back to Lebanon. We are here to destroy these tanks. On my command.”
37
IN THE FIRST LIGHT of dawn over the Negev Desert, three Israel Air Force F-16s fly south in broad formation at 1500 feet, just below the radar of one hundred twenty-two Egyptian F-16s closing at two thousand feet above. In the lead plane, Major Alex scans the horizon as he applies lipstick, a muted peach. It’s daytime, after all. “Take it off, put it on,” he says to no one in particular, his talk button un-depressed. “The story of my life.” He absolutely hates applying lipstick without a mirror. On the other hand, he thinks, who the fuck is going to see my corpse?
Certainly not the two pilots on either wing three hundred feet behind him. He picked these men himself out of the hundred or so who showed up at the air base to find themselves riders without horses. Of these, twenty-three were detailed to pick up El Al and Arkia
civilian aircraft at neighboring Ben-Gurion Airport, the passenger planes to be loaded with bombs meant for Egyptian infantry. These are fighter pilots flying buses, and there is little doubt in their minds they will be blown out of the sky by enemy air-to-air missiles. For the Egyptian F-16s, this will be like shooting cows in a pasture.
Alex slips the lipstick into the slit chest pocket of his drab-green flight suit, ostensibly a standard-issue but—thanks to a certain talented dressmaker—cut exceedingly well. He taps his headset.
“Guys, sandwich high and low. I’m head on. Anybody doesn’t take out thirty of these mothers is a douchebag. Look at those innocents, flying so close. Fire well and you’ll hit two with one rocket. Just one more small thing: nobody returns to base with unexpended ammo. Repeat: pouches empty, not one round. Happy hunting. Over and out.”
His left and right wingmen peel off. All three planes go vertical, attacking from below.
38
IN THE JORDAN VALLEY, his clothes torn and bloody, Lieutenant Cobi stumbles to the edge of a grove of date palms planted in a precise geometric grid. He knows he must find cover. Whatever is happening, Cobi intends to survive long enough to get back to a tank unit, any tank unit, where he can be useful. Like almost every other Israeli, he has no idea of the extent of the debacle, nor of what will come next. Almost all military communication is crippled, if not neutralized entirely. All he knows is that he is alone in a landscape barren but for the date palms, whose neat rows offer shade and perhaps water if he can find the source of the irrigation system that keeps them alive. Above him are tons of dates, probably not ripe but possibly edible. He intends to try one and wait for the effect, which he hopes will not be the runs. But first he must find cover and try to sleep. There is no sense attempting to locate friendly forces during daylight. His only chance is to wait until nightfall and proceed west.
He kneels, exhausted, his weight on his short-barreled Tavor rifle. For the briefest possible moment he allows his eyes to close, then—even before he knows why—his lids raise as though on springs. He looks up at the unmistakable metallic sound of a weapon being cocked.
