Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2)

by E. L. Pini

  He mumbled something unintelligible, placed his bunch of weeds on the ground and went after her, his cheeks aflame.

  I finished weeding and went into the bedroom. The monsters were stretched out like a pair of lions at the foot of the bed and seemed to have absolutely no interest in leaving. They had some sort of inner mechanism, to recognize distress and behave appropriately. I went to take a shower. When I came out I poured myself a glass and was about to head back out to the grave for a chat with Eran, but Verbin, eyes closed, asked, “Stay.”

  She reached her hand out to me. “You’re not getting all postpartum on me, are you?”

  “No more than usual, I guess. I’m not really depressed. I feel… empty. Like… like I lost Eran again.”

  “I thought you might.” She opened her eyes. “I really hoped you wouldn’t.”

  “It’s wrong, I know. He didn’t die again, he just never made it this time. But he’ll get here, love. He will.” I hugged her, and wondered if I actually believed what I’d just said. Ali’s face, warped by fear, with the red dot in the middle of his forehead, pressed into my mind. I tried to push it out.

  “What about you, love?”

  Verbin shrugged. “I’m fine. I’m a woman – hormones are pumping again and I’m good as new. You want me to come with?”

  I took the bottle and three tumblers and we walked slowly, my hand on her shoulder, like two old men. Garibaldi and Adolf walked beside us, sniffing the ground. Verbin settled into the folding chair and I leaned on the tombstone. We drank to Eran and I left him his full glass on the grave, but suddenly I understood that nothing would ever be the way it was. You can’t lose half of yourself, even more than half, and get better. I remembered the headless Palestinian.

  “Yalla, to the caves!” ‘loco’ Moshiko yells, his Argentinian accent rolling up behind him as he empties a hydration pack over Dvir’s head, dodging swiftly when Dvir throws a cartridge at him.

  “30 seconds!” Yuval the team commander roars. We run towards the chopper. Our heads are instinctively bowed from the terror of the spinning rotor. We disappear inside, Pesach bringing up the rear as usual, hopping on one foot, holding a shoe in his hand.

  “When we get back I’m kicking your ass,” Yuval yells.

  “If we get back,” says Pesach and climbs inside, straightening his knitted kippah.

  In the air there isn’t much distance between our base at Kfar Sirkin and Majdal Bani Fadil – passage between Israel and the occupied territories is always surprisingly short. Yuval glances at his watch and says, “Fifteen mikes to landing.” The lights of Nablus glint beneath us. “We touch ground east of the village, across the ridge on the back slope, and from there we slide down toward the cave. Intelligence reports ten of them are in there, armed. The cave entrance is high up, giving them advantage. They pop out to fire the rifle grenades and mortar fire that were left there for them. The 933rd Nahal fighters under the command of the territorial brigade already got six wounded, two oleanders24, and retreated. Now we’re up. Questions?”

  “We making a ‘pressure cooker’?” asks Dvir.

  “Pressure cooker’s for housewives. You know how long it’ll take the bulldozers to get here? I’d like to get this done while we’re young. We charge in and finish them,” says Yuval, completely contradicting the orders from the brigade commander.

  “Captain, why do we always come in from the rear,” Moshiko rolls his ‘r’s, then jumps and swears, “Ha, kusemeq.” Dvir, who dropped a beetle into his shirt, bursts out laughing.

  “Settle down,” barks Yuval. “Twenty seconds to land!”

  I open and close the bipod on my new Tavor bullpup. The weapon is fully operational – we just got it recently. It’s much lighter than the MAG. This is the first time out in the field with it.

  The helicopter gets ready to land, when suddenly gunfire buzzes around us, accompanied by grenades. A narrow series of illuminating shells soars up and lights up the skies around us. The helicopter stays in the air. We set our radios to the brigade frequency.

  “More injured!” someone screams. The targets have taken us by surprise, coming out of the cave and charging forward. Yuval tries to contact the brigade commander, fails, and takes the initiative, cancelling the landing and ordering the pilot to get closer to the cave. After a brief exchange, the pilot agrees to land close to the action, just above the cave. We drop out into a crouching run and immediately find ourselves under heavy fire.

  “RPGs, the bastards have RPGs!” Moshiko yells.

  “Ehrlich, move your ass, cover fire!”

  Two of them rise up from among the rocks and quickly move into the cave. Once inside they rain an inferno over us.

  “Go, go, faster! Cover fire, Ehrlich, move your ass!”

  “I’m moving!” I yell, and open fire along with the rest.

  “I’m vaulting!” shouts Dvir and leaps over a rock. We lay down fire and press forward, pushing the enemy back into the cave.

  “K-9 units coming your way,” the brigade commander finally comes in.

  “By the time the dogs get here, all they’ll get is scraps!” Yuval yells. “Moshiko – birdhouse!”

  “Makin’ a birdhouse!” replies Moshiko, and wraps together a trio of M26 grenades in red electrical tape. Dvir comes to assist, holding out a strip of black duct-tape. “Ready?” Moshiko asks, and Dvir nods. Moshiko quickly removes the three pins and holds down the levers.

  “Come on, tape it!” he screams at Dvir.

  “I’m sorry, that was that?” Dvir blinks innocently.

  “Tape it! Tape it! Sweating my balls off here, fuck!”

  Dvir carefully tapes the pins down with his duct tape. Each taped pin allows Moshiko to release one of his fingers.

  “With me! I’m going in!” Yuval suddenly yells, and runs into the cave. We follow. Moshiko goes first, and yells at me, “Why isn’t he waiting for the grenades?!”

  An RPG fires once, and Yuval goes down. The rocket has torn him in half. I move in to check his pulse nonetheless and find none.

  “Kusemeq, whore bastards!” Moshiko screams, “I’ll fuck your mothers!” he tears off the duct tape and throws the birdhouse in the cave like a ball through a hoop. The cave provides a sort of resonance chamber and the noise is deafening. I dive to the ground and open fire in measured bursts. The assisting company from the 933rd is laying down a salvo of overhead fire, maybe a 60mm mortar, which lands right on top of us. I hear Moshiko yell, “I’m injured! Medic, medic!” his voice dies out. Another salvo lands. The medic has also taken mortar fire. I run up, grab the handset and yell, “Cease fire! Cease fire! 933rd, 933rd, cease fire! You’re firing on our own forces!”

  One of the targets comes out of the cave, shooting wildly. I raise the barrel and squeeze out a long volley, stitching across his neck. His head falls to the ground, and the rest of him keeps running and shooting. I fire again and the headless body keeps shooting until it collapses, twitching and convulsing with bullets.

  Verbin’s warm hand wiped the sweat from my forehead.

  “Are you okay?”

  It took me a moment to find myself again, and then I said, “He’ll get here, love, he’ll get here,” and I embraced her, not knowing if she felt the tremor pass through me.

  * * *

  24IDF code for fatalities

  26.

  Tel Aviv, 14:00, the Annual Manufacturers Association Convention.

  The guest of honor – Professor Yisrael Be’er, strategic advisor to the PM and soon-to-be head of the NSC – asserts that the “missile accuracy” projects that Iran is setting up in Syria and Lebanon are placing Israel under existential threat.

  “This infrastructure,” adds Be’er, “will not be removed unless we destroy it, and the sooner the better, while Iran cannot respond effectively.” To the news reporter who claims that these statements are both
aggressive and hawkish, Be’er smilingly responds, “We are obligated to defend ourselves.”

  Moscow, 14:00, the office of Colonel Rasputin.

  The colonel is running on the large treadmill in the middle of his personal gym, watching the professor’s speech in Tel Aviv on a large LCD.

  “The little zhyd’s doing well. Grisha, get me General Black-ass.”

  The general comes up on the screen and into the earbud in Rasputin’s ear. “Good afternoon, Major General,” says Rasputin, still running. “How are you? Good, good. Where am I running to? Hah,” Rasputin chuckles, “wherever they let me. Aren’t we all? So – are you ready? Excellent. Nonetheless, give me an hour’s heads-up, so I can make sure our satellite is on it. By the way, have you seen the recent speech from the head of their National Security Council? Yes, just now. The kikes just won’t stop talking shit about you. He says they’ll attack in Latakia as much as they can while you’re unable to respond. The damn zhyd has no idea what’s coming. Good luck, Major General.”

  Rasputin never breaks stride as he hangs up, and immediately says, “Grisha, get me Colonel Cernigov from air intelligence in Latakia. Hi, Colonel, how’s it going? Good, yes, I’m good. You know about the attack the black-asses are planning for today? Excellent. We estimate that right after the containment phase, the zhyds will commence immediate retaliation, and I’m guessing it’ll be a full-scale attack on the entire sector. I want full coverage. You’ve got some old Ilyushin down there, right? The Ilyushin 20? Perfect. Let me know the minute you notice something starting. And get that Ilyushin in the air.”

  Rasputin hops off his treadmill, goes to the safe behind his desk and takes out the beautifully carved wooden box. He sits down and takes out the seven wristwatches, spreading them neatly on the desk. An expression of deep satisfaction appears on his face as he examines them each in turn.

  “Grisha, come here!”

  Grisha arrives as bidden and looks closely at the watches.

  “Astounding, boss. All seven in perfect sync.”

  Rasputin smiles. “I see you’ve managed to learn something after all.”

  He points at the wall in front of him, where a row of clocks are mounted, corresponding to various cities. “Go and get me two more, one for Nicosia and one for London. Hang them up by Tel Aviv.”

  He picks up the Albino Rolex Daytona and puts it on.

  “You’re heading out to the field, sir?”

  Rasputin grins. “You know I can’t go too long without it.”

  “May I ask - how much are these worth, sir?” wonders Grisha, looking at the watches.

  “No more than a few million. Now go and get me Cyprus and England.”

  Grisha goes to get the clocks, and in a few minutes they are hanging up on the wall. He looks at Rasputin questioningly.

  “Well hung, Grisha. Bring the vodka, and a glass for yourself.”

  He waits as Grisha does so and pours.

  “Za zdorovie,” Rasputin says, raising his glass. “How’s your old man?”

  Grisha’s face grows grim. He shakes his head slightly.

  “Your father is a serious man. He’ll come through. He always has. You know, we found a traitor once, in our own platoon. I interrogated him and… nothing. Frustrating. Then your father said to me, take your time, Yuri. The best friend of truth is time. More vodka?” Rasputin looks up at the clocks. Grisha politely declines.

  “You’re a delicate man, Grisha. Your daddy and I, whenever a bottle came our way it would very soon be empty. But you turned out delicate, huh?”

  “It’s ‘gay,’ sir. You can say it. There is no need for a euphemism.”

  Rasputin looks at him silently. His gaze becomes glassy. “You know, Grishka, my father was also a serious man. A serious piece of shit, too. If they hadn’t killed him, I’d kill him myself.”

  Grisha looks at Rasputin, perplexed.

  “What is it, Grisha? Spit it out.”

  “I thought your father killed himself, sir.”

  “No. The bastard didn’t kill himself. Vysshaya Mera Nakazaniya. He got help.” Rasputin chuckles, downs the remainder of his vodka, exhales loudly and says, “Alright, Grisha. Now piss off.”

  ***

  Ramat Hasharon, 15:00, Mossad headquarters,

  “If the professor’s intention is to piss people off, he seems to be doing quite well,” Moshe says, as Dovik circles various marked targets around Latakia with a laser pointer.

  “We’ve identified twenty-two launchers that are being wheeled out of their hidey-holes as we speak – Moshe, you lose your coffee budget or something?”

  “After what they pay you guys, we had to cut more than coffee, but I brought a nice brew from home. When do you leave?” Moshe addresses the question to the commander of the Air Force.

  “Not until all of their teams are within our maximum destructive range,” Benny replies, smiling eerily.

  “Yes, Bella?” Moshe answered the chirp.

  “Coffee’s coming in.”

  The door opens and a young soldier pushes a coffee cart inside, holding a pen and notebook in her free hand.

  “Who’s having what?” she asks.

  “Thank you corporal, we can manage from here. Nora?”

  “All of our intel points to 1 am as their H-hour.”

  “Nahum, your Russians?”

  “Will be given a heads-up at the designated time, not a second before.”

  “Froyke, the PM?”

  “Approved, he should be here around H. I ask our esteemed generals,” Froyke nods toward Dovik and Benny, “to arrive in the building starting at 5 pm. Moshe, Nora, Nahum and I will take the division’s military bus over to you, along with the PM. I repeat, no armored cars. Come in a truck, a taxi, your soccer mom jeep for all I care – anything more official is already in their database.”

  “You think the Russians will point their satellites at us?”

  “I don’t think, I know they will,” said Froyke, “And I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “Who’s joining the PM’s menagerie today?” Moshe asks.

  “Only the office administrator,” says Froyke.

  “What about Ehrlich’s professor with the cigars?” asks Benny.

  “Apparently not,” Froyke shrugs, and Dovik smiles conspiratorially.

  “Where is RP?” Dovik suddenly asks. “These meeting have gotten considerably more interesting since he’s joined the forum.”

  “He’s at home with Dr. Verbin. She’s… not feeling well,” said Froyke.”

  “Something serious?” Froyke shakes his head and changes the subject. Later, after the rest have gone, he tells Dovik about the miscarriage. “What? Fuck,” says Dovik, slamming his fist down on the conference table. “Not RP, of all people… he must be crushed. When you see him, tell him – you know what, never mind, I’ll call him, God dammit.”

  *

  “Now crawl, slave,” snarls the mistress. She is tall, blonde, and leather-clad.

  Rasputin, down on all fours in his personal gym, does not move.

  The mistress commandingly repeats, “Crawl, I said!”

  She raises a leather bullwhip and brings it down with a crack on Rasputin’s naked, lily-white buttocks. He moans shamelessly.

  “Lick this,” she said, shoving the tip of a stiletto boot into his mouth. “Go on, lick it!”

  Rasputin glances at his watch and immediately raises a submissive gaze to the mistress.

  “Do you need another whipping, slave?”

  He nods enthusiastically, and she complies.

  Suddenly, without warning, he grabs both her heels and stands up, raising her legs into the air. Her head hits the floor with a hard crack. A painful yelp escapes her, then silence.

  “Time to switch, love,” Rasputin drawls as he ties a black silk kimono around
his waist, grabs her by the hair and drags her toward the large treadmill in the corner, where he handcuffs her to the handlebar and turns the machine on. Her limp body is jerked and tossed from side to side, smacking against the accelerating belt. She wakes up and starts screaming. Rasputin makes a face and stops the machine, grabs her by the jaw and twists until he feels her neck snapping.

  He strokes her hair. “You know, on a long enough time-line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero,” he quotes in her ear. After that he locks the gym and heads into his office, where he turns up the volume on the speakers and puts on Wagner’s Valkyries. He props his feet up on the desk and lights a plump Cohiba before looking again at his Rolex Daytona, and then at the clocks on the wall, comparing the time.

  Fifty-five minutes, he thinks.

  ***

  24:55. Latakia, Syria.

  Twenty-two missile launch pads are aimed south. Dozens of soldiers and officers finish the final preparations for the attack. Suddenly the whine of a siren pierces the air. The soldiers are stunned, and they react slowly. Some dive to the ground and seek close cover. Others head to the nearby structures.

  The missiles hit one after another, relentlessly, destroying the missile batteries, the ammunition depots, the structures and the vehicles surrounding them, the defenseless soldiers. The local anti-air defense systems finally activate, and fire salvo after salvo of anti-air missiles. Clouds of metallic chaff slowly scatter, blinding the Syrian radar systems. Squadrons of IDF F-15s continue to fire their own missiles, destroying humans and structures alike.

  ***

  01:05. Latakia.

  A Russian Air Intelligence Ilyushin II-20 approaches the combat zone. The mission commander asks for permission to reroute and receives none. He reports, “The black-asses are shooting like drunks, indiscriminately. No Israeli planes are hit.”

  A moment later he yells, “I’m hit,” and soon the Ilyushin plunges from the sky, along with the fourteen aircrew and intelligence personnel it was carrying.