The minister of defense, Benjamin Yuriden, stood up. “Not good, Yair,” he said. “We have slowed the advance of the Syrian Fifth Army, but they are still moving forward. Unless we can halt them, they will be within artillery range of Jerusalem in thirty-six hours. We are taking heavy losses and resupply is becoming a problem. Our supply trucks are being attacked by Palestinians when they move through the West Bank. We are moving in armed convoys to get safely through. It’s slowing us down.” The Israelis were up against the hard reality of modern warfare—the side that could pump the most men and material into the maw of combat would win.
Ben David stood up, his face flushed and fists balled into knots. He drove his knuckles down onto the table. “I know how to deal with terrorists and Arabs,” he growled. “The next time one of our supply trucks is ambushed, level the village or town where it happens.”
“Our trucks are being attacked on the open roads, outside the villages,” an army general told him.
“Then go to the nearest village and take ten prisoners. If they will not identify the terrorists, shoot them. The attacks will stop.” No one questioned the prime minister’s order. Fighting for his country’s survival was taking its toll, and for the first time, Ben David was seriously considering his nuclear options.
“He always takes the easiest job, the lazy bastard,” Avner grumbled as he took another round that Dave Bielski handed him through the turret hatch. Each of the shells weighed over fifty pounds and it was hard work loading the magazine to its capacity of sixty-three rounds. As usual, Amos Avner was complaining about their driver, Nazzi Halaby.
“Refueling is Nazzi’s job,” Bielski grunted and worked faster to shut the loader up. A flurry of activity surrounded the tank as a forward support team refueled and reloaded the M60 for battle. Levy had left and gathered with the surviving tank commanders around the tank that had become the company’s headquarters. The crew was buttoning the tank up a few minutes later when Levy rejoined them, a troubled look in his brown eyes.
Dave Bielski caught it at once and sensed trouble. “What now?” he asked.
“They gave me a platoon,” Levy told the three men.
A stricken look crossed Avner’s face. “They promoted you?” Levy nodded in reply. “A segen mishneh?” Avner asked. Again Levy nodded yes. “Oh, no,” Avner wailed, his voice high-pitched and filled with lament. “Shma Yis-real…”
“Shut up,” Bielski growled at him. “We’re not dead yet.”
Avner stopped his recital of the sacred words Jews uttered at a moment of extreme peril. “We might as well be,” he moaned. “A second lieutenant we don’t need.” The high attrition rates the Israelis were suffering in the war had caught up with Moshe Levy and his crew. Levy had received a battlefield promotion to segen mishneh, second lieutenant, and would lead a platoon into combat. What had Avner so upset was that Israeli officers were expected to lead and they did just that. Second lieutenants experienced an intensely exciting, but somewhat abbreviated life in combat, and Avner wanted no part of it.
“Mount up,” Levy said. “We’re counterattacking.” Loud whistles overhead announced the beginning of an artillery barrage, and in the distance, they could hear the rumble of jets. A carefully coordinated attack was starting that would poke and probe at the Syrians, looking for a weak spot the Israelis could exploit. A wicked grin split Nazzi Halaby’s weasellike face and he blew a kiss in Avner’s direction. The Druze driver scrambled up the face of the tank and lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He was as frightened as Avner but was determined to show the stiff-necked Orthodox Jew that he would not run from a fight. One of Avner’s most deep-seated prejudices about Arabs being cowardly was taking a beating.
The young woman in uniform pushed her way through the crowd of people hurrying in and out of the building in Tel Aviv, pressed by the urgency of war. Occasionally, a male head would turn and follow her progress, hoping that the captain might have business in his office. She was familiar with the building and took the stairs to the second floor, turned right down the corridor, and walked into the end office, the entrance to Mossad’s headquarters in the basement.
The Ganef was expecting her and motioned her to a chair in his office. He tried not to notice her legs when she crossed them and decided the short skirt was very provocative, especially to Americans.
“Well?” he asked.
The Intelligence officer from Ramon gave a slight shake of her head. “Neither of them has made a pass at me. I thought Furry was interested at first, but he’s happily married and misses his twin girls. Why do American men insist on carrying pictures of their children in their wallets to show everyone?” A beautiful, wistful look played across her face. “And Pontowski only asked if I happened to know Shoshana Tamir.”
“What about Colonel Gold?”
“Nothing;” she answered. “He’s all business and would be highly suspicious if I made a pass at him. He knows the game. Gold may look like a pompous ass but he’s not. He’s a tough one.”
The Ganef sat quietly for a few moments considering his next move. “So, we need something more than sex to put the Americans in our pocket. What is the price?”
“More intelligence,” the woman answered. “Pontowski must become one of the Americans’ best sources. The more the Americans learn through him, the more they will believe him when he tells them what we need.”
“Then we must pay the price,” the Ganef decided. “We must convince Gold that his best source of intelligence is Matt Pontowski. He will beg the ambassador to keep him in Israel as an observer.” And perhaps, he thought, the young man might fly another mission for us.
Moshe Levy sensed, rather than knew, that the carefully coordinated counterattack was falling apart as he led his platoon toward their objective, a ridgeline overlooking the coastal road right on the border. It had been an easy advance and his three tanks and four APCs had encountered little opposition. Yet he was certain something was wrong. The two F-4s that he had heard checking in on the radio had not received clearance into the area and were holding when they should have been hitting targets of opportunity. The artillery barrage that was supposed to roll forward of their advance wasn’t and he wondered if the shells falling around him might be their own.
He tried to look through his periscope but the bouncy ride and dust kept him from focusing through the small prisms. Levy wished the tank had the original commander’s cupola with its ring of vision blocks, but the Israelis had replaced it with a low-profile cupola. He had no idea if there were friendly tanks or APCs to the left or right of his platoon. In fact, he couldn’t see much of anything buttoned up in the turret and didn’t even know where the enemy was.
Levy had to make a quick decision if they were to continue. He threw his hatch open, stuck his head out and scanned 360 degrees around him before he hunkered back down in the tank. The hard metallic ping of bullets ricocheting off the turret echoed inside. Tank commanders have a very limited view of the action around them when they are buttoned up and the smoke, haze, and dust that engulfed Levy’s tank had blinded him. The quick peek had confirmed his worst fears: His platoon was rolling along totally unsupported on its flanks. “Nazzi,” he half barked, half coughed over the intercom, “head for that low ridge off to your right and try to find a hull-down position.”
Halaby did as ordered and veered the tank to the right. He could hear the rapid ping of bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the front slope of the tank, the most heavily armored part. Then Halaby saw the machine-gun nest; it was dug in at the top of the ridge directly in front of them. He tuned out Levy’s barked commands as they engaged a Syrian tank and concentrated on where Levy wanted him to go. They were almost under the protective shadow of the ridge. Halaby expected the soldiers manning the machine-gun nest to break and run but they didn’t. Now he could see another man wiggle into place beside the machine gun and aim an RPG at them. The tank was less than sixty meters away from the ridge when he saw the flash of the antitank weapon
the Syrians had gotten from the Soviets.
The high-explosive warhead of the RPG-7V was traveling at a thousand feet a second when it hit the front of the tank and the shaped-charged warhead ignited one of the Blazer reactive armor plates attached to the tank. The explosion from the reactive armor canceled out the RPG. Halaby uttered an Arabic curse. The RPG could not have penetrated the front of the tank where the armor was the thickest. Now they had an open patch of armor where a Sagger could hit and penetrate. Halaby twitched on the T-bar he steered with and centered the tank directly on the men shooting at him. He buried his right foot in the big gas pedal and hurtled the tank over the top of the ridge and dropped its fifty tons of steel onto the three men in the machine-gun nest, grinding them into the rocks and dirt.
Without being told, Halaby reversed the tank, backing over the ridge. As they came down the slope, a wire-guided Sagger missile hit their front right track and exploded, blowing their track off the front idler. Halaby still had enough momentum and control to back the tank down a few more feet before they came to a halt.
The commands came quick and furious as Bielski traversed the turret and sought out the BMP that had launched the missile at them. Finally, the tank quieted and only the harsh noises of the radio filled the turret. Levy keyed his mike and spoke to his platoon before he popped the hatch and scanned the killing field in front of him with binoculars. Satisfied they were safe, he ordered the other tank commanders and squad leaders from the APCs to gather around his tank while he established contact with his company’s command post. As expected, his orders were to hold and stand by for orders.
Bielski and Halaby were examining the battle damage to the tank when Avner slid down to the ground. “Where the hell are we?” he asked, trying to get his bearings.
“Apparently stuck in the middle of nowhere all by ourselves,” Bielski said.
“Now what the hell are we going to do now?” Avner grumbled.
“Get a new tank,” Bielski said. “This one is going to take some major repairs before it moves again.”
Avner spun around and glared at Halaby. “Damn you! You were never ordered to go over the ridge. If you had stayed on this side, we would’ve never taken that last hit. You’re a jinx, Halaby.”
Nazzi Halaby shrugged, his way of fending off the heavy-set, nineteen-year-old Avner. Then a thought occurred to him. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
Fraser was standing in front of the President’s desk, waiting to escort him down to the Situation Room in the basement. Pontowski stood up and led the way as Fraser’s short legs tried to match his long strides. “Who’s giving the briefing today?” he asked.
“William Hogan from the CIA,” Fraser told him.
“When will BUI Carroll be back?”
“He won’t, Mr. President.” Pontowski raised an eyebrow and Fraser knew an explanation was in order. It was die moment he had been waiting for. “We had him checked out and discovered he had an unauthorized contact with Mossad.”
“Was he working for Mossad?” Pontowski asked.
“No, just talking to them when he shouldn’t. Rather than take chances, we pulled his clearance and put him out to pasture. We’re still watching him. By the way, another interesting connection showed up.” They were almost to the Situation Room. “Carroll has been talking to Melissa.”
Pontowski paused at the doorway and stared at Fraser. He humphed and walked through. Inside, the National Security Council, along with the director of central intelligence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, were standing, waiting for him. The CIA briefer, William Hogan, was standing nervously beside a set of briefing charts. Pontowski nodded and sat down. Everyone but Hogan shuffled into his chair. “Mr. Hogan, I hope you have some good news for us,” Pontowski said.
“I wish I did, Mr. President.” With that, he started his briefing on the latest installment of the Arab-Israeli conflict. In a few words and with three charts, he summarized the situation. Fraser relaxed into his chair next to the wall and made desultory notes, easily splitting his attention. The Israelis are going to take a beating on this one, he thought. That should make B. J. Allison and her Arab buddies happy.
Matt’s name caught Fraser’s attention and he focused on the speaker, Admiral Scovill, the JCS Chairman. “Our air attaché has found Captain Pontowski and Major Furry and they are providing us with the best intelligence we have from inside Israel. It’s all in Colonel Gold’s latest report. We’re talking a gold mine here.” Scovill looked over his reading glasses. “Pun intended, sir. The intelligence is so good that our ambassador has requested that we make them official observers and give them diplomatic status.”
“Too many political liabilities,” the secretary of state said. “Your grandson as an official observer could be read as a personal commitment to the Israelis. And it is dangerous. If he were taken hostage or killed …” He let the thought trail off.
“Recommendations?” Pontowski asked.
The room was split evenly on the question. Finally, only the director of central intelligence, Bobby Burke, remained to be heard from. “I think they should stay in place. The Israelis are famous for crying wolf to get more arms and aid. With a good source of intelligence, we can better judge what they really need and just how bad the situation is.”
“If the ambassador wants them, he’s got them for now,” Pontowski said. “If they are taken as hostages, nothing special.” The men and women in the room could see the pain of that decision in the President’s eyes. “Next item. Are we making headway in the UN to get the fighting stopped?”
The secretary of state knew the question was for him. “No, sir,” he answered. “The Arab bloc of nations senses a victory and is stalling. Winning is a new sensation for them and they are collecting on every favor and debt owed them for support. There won’t be any progress in the UN until the Israelis start to win.”
Silence came down heavy in the room. “So the question is,” Pontowski said, “should we start the resupply of Israel now?” This time, the room was unanimous that a resupply of arms had to begin immediately. Especially urgent was the need for more Patriot, TOW antitank, and Stinger surface-to-air missiles.
“Mr. President,” the secretary of state counseled, “I agree that we need to start now. But, what we are sending Israel will be used against a very important client state of the Soviet Union. Given the turmoil going on inside the Kremlin, we had better tell the Russians what we’re doing and send them reassuring words that we will not let Israel defeat Syria. God only knows how the hard-liners will react if they see a threat to their interests. We could be playing right into their hands and give the hawks in the Kremlin an excuse for a military coup. They ‘re not above using an external threat as a reason for reestablishing a dictatorship. If they have their way, this fighting could jump the firebreak we’ve got around it now. We don’t want to turn this into a wider, regional war.”
Pontowski sat for a few minutes thinking about the options open to him. There was little doubt that the United States had to react now or that Israel would be overrun, and that he could not allow. But what were the Egyptians and Iraqis up to? Would they come into the war? What would the Israelis do once they were on the offensive? Yair Ben David was a tough old bird with a belief in vengeance and a deep-seated hatred of Arabs. What end game would the Russians accept? Was there anyone in charge in the Kremlin? Were the Syrians acting as a wild card on their own? Too many questions and no answers, he thought. Well, this is what I was elected to do, what I wanted to do.
“Mr. President?” It was the secretary of state. “Since the Soviet ambassador has been recalled home, may I suggest we use the Hot Line to establish contact and relay our intentions before we start resupply operations?” He pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Pontowski. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a message.” The Hot Line was not a voice link with the Kremlin’s leaders but a Teletype. “Also, perhaps we should send our own Russian translation with it so that … ah�
��—he sought the right diplomatic words but gave up—“the dumb bastards don’t get it wrong.”
The President read the message. It was concise, to the point, and made it very clear that the United States would cut off the flow of arms and material once the fighting had stopped and a return to the status quo had been achieved. “Get it translated and on the wires,” he ordered. He rose and walked back to the Oval Office, mulling over how and when to tell his wife that Matt was still in harm’s way.
“Sit down, Tom.” Pontowski waved Fraser to the couch and slumped in his own leather-covered chair. He spun and looked out the window, not seeing the President’s Park stretched out before him. This has got to be the loneliest job in the world, he thought. And it doesn’t help with Tosh coming out of remission. Lupus was rampaging through her body, this time attacking her heart, killing his wife, his Mend, lover, and best counselor. Suddenly, he felt very old.
“Mr. President?” It was Fraser bringing him back to the moment. Strange, he thought, how much I rely on Fraser and I don’t even particularly like him. “Shall I order you some lunch?” Pontowski nodded. Before Fraser could pick the phone up, it rang. The President nodded and Fraser answered it. His face visibly paled as he listened. “The Hot Line is down,” Fraser said, “no one is acknowledging our calls.”
“That’s not good,” Pontowski said. He sank back into his chair, considering the implications. The crisis in the Kremlin had gone critical and he was making decisions in the dark, not knowing how the Russians would react, not able to cable them his intentions. “How many Russian advisers are there in Syria?” he asked.
“Over fifteen hundred at the last count,” Fraser replied. “Our weapons are going to kill some of them,” the President predicted.
18
What I don’t know will kill us, Moshe Levy thought as he watched his platoon consolidate their position. He had hated ordering one of the other tank crews to switch tanks with him, but as the platoon’s commander he had to have mobility if he was to survive and get them to safety. His old tank was mostly hull-down behind the ridge and still capable of using its main gun. But if the Syrians attacked, it would be the first target. It amazed him how the other tank crew had readily accepted the change. Even Avner had commented on it and said that he would not obey that order. Levy had let it go.
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