“Your analysts are mistaken.”
“I hope so, because if they are correct, I will consider our relationship with Egypt in a totally different light. I will embargo your country and close the Suez Canal. All foreign trade with your country will cease until the status quo is reestablished.”
Dasud’s face paled. In diplomatic terms, Pontowski had told the ambassador that if Egypt entered the war, he would seal Egypt off from the outside world, forcing her to survive on her own resources until the fighting had stopped and Israel’s borders were secure. In practical terms, he was saying that Egypt would not be able to import the food it needed. The ambassador immediately understood all that. It was his job to inform his government that the United States was playing hardball and start immediate damage control.
“Surely, Mr. President, you realize such action would mean an oil embargo and worldwide condemnation in the United Nations.” No response from Pontowski. He tried another tack. “If there were other options open to my government that the United States could support …” Pontowski nodded and Dasud relaxed. There was room for accommodation.
“The role of Egypt as a peacemaker is well known,” Pontowski said. Now they were back to polite diplomatic exchanges.
“It would be helpful if I had something positive to cable my superiors,” Dasud ventured.
“Rather than see Egyptian military maneuvers in the Suez,” Pontowski replied, “I would like to see discussions on increased agricultural aid and more trade credits.” No response from Dasud. Pontowski upped the ante. “And if Egypt was to present a cease-fire initiative to the United Nations, my ambassador would back Egypt’s claim to the Gaza Strip.”
The ambassador understood-perfectly; Egypt gets its forces out of die Sinai, starts taking an active role in stopping the fighting, and in return gets the Gaza Strip and more foreign aid. It was doable. Besides, his air attaché had received an intelligence report from a source in the DIA on Israeli nuclear capabilities and intentions minutes before he had left his embassy. The source was, he knew, unimpeachable.
“Mr. President, please let me relay your comments to my government. I know they will be carefully studied.”
Pontowski stood. The diplomatic formalities were over. “Matsom, again thanks for coming so quickly.” He shook the man’s hand warmly; they were old friends. “I need action quick. Otherwise all hell is going to break loose.”
“I know, Zack. I’ll do what I can.”
As usual, Colonel “Mad” Mike Martin, the deputy for operations of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing, felt an overpowering urge to get involved, get to the bottom of the problem, and crunch a few heads. But this particular dilemma did not call for such a violent reaction. Mike Martin was a contained and highly directed individual who controlled his natural combative urges and found acceptable channels for his energies. Martin shambled around his office at RAF Stonewood, his six-foot bulk shaking the floor, his round face brooding. His massive head of black hair and hairy arms made the man sitting in his office think of a gorilla or a Mafia hit man. But he knew what was beneath the surface—a consummate fighter pilot and brilliant combat leader, not happy in peacetime operations.
“Carroll,” Martin growled, “you got your ass kicked off the National Security Council and you ask to be reassigned here. Why?”
“The Forty-fifth is my old unit, sir,” Bill Carroll answered. “I thought I could do some good as your chief of intelligence.”
The answer satisfied Martin. “Have you read Pontowski and Furry’s report on how the Israelis are getting their heads kicked up their collective asshole?” Martin never spent much time on any one subject.
“Yes, sir. Other intelligence supports what they saw.”
Martin grunted something unintelligible and jabbed at the buttons on his intercom with a stubby finger. “Get Furry and Pontowski in here,” he barked. Seven minutes later, the two men were walking through the door of his office.
Furry ignored his DO and shook Carroll’s hand. “Good to see you, Bill. Been a long time.”
“Not since Operation Warlord.” Carroll smiled.
Martin did not interrupt the reunion between the two old friends. He knew he had two of the veterans of the 45th under his command. Two men who went back to the legendary Muddy Waters. “You two done kissing?” he said, his voice warm and friendly. “Good. Let’s get down to business. I want to kill some ragheads.”
“Sir,” Matt said, “That’s not going to be easy.”
“I know that, Fumble Nuts,” Martin snapped, reverting to type. “That’s why you three are in here. I want to know if there’s any way, time, or place we might get involved in that pissing contest you got to play in?”
Matt’s face turned hard. For the first time, he fully understood what it meant to have your “fangs out.” “Kirkuk.”
“Thanks for the clue, Meathead,” Martin growled.
“Charming fellow,” Carroll mumbled under his breath for Furry to hear.
“He calls everybody that,” the wizzo said.
“Captain Pontowski, are you talking about the nerve gas plant and storage bunkers outside of Kirkuk?” Carroll asked. Matt nodded.
“Mind talking to me?” Martin barked.
“Sir,” Carroll said, “the Iraqis have built a large new nerve gas plant and arsenal twenty miles west of Kirkuk replacing the one we destroyed during the Kuwait war. The Israelis tried to hit it but couldn’t fight their way through Iraq’s air defenses. Your ‘ragheads’ learned some valuable lessons in ‘91. It’s a mission the F-Fifteen E was made for.”
“That’s a good starting place,” Martin said. “Work up a target briefing for me in, say”—he looked at his watch—“an hour. I want to be impressed. Carroll, get with Plans and put together an ops plan for striking that target. Call it Operations Plan Trinity. I want it at headquarters in two days. Go. Kill.” There was no doubt they were dismissed.
Out in the hall, Matt pulled Furry aside. “Is that the same Carroll you told me about?”
“Yeah,” Furry answered. “Just the best damn intelligence puke in the Air Force.”
21
The prime minister of Israel took his place in the command room of the bunker. He was freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, refreshed after a six-hour sleep. His eyes scanned the situation boards, and for the first time, a feeling of success warmed Yair Ben David’s resolve. Don’t get overly confident yet, he warned himself, we’ve got a long way to go.
A cup of hot tea appeared at his elbow and he took a sip. He glanced around the room. The men and women manning the bunker were weary to the point of exhaustion, the emotional strain telling, and the stale stench of unwashed bodies filled his nostrils. Still, he could sense a change—optimism had replaced the sense of foreboding doom that had hung there like a dark fog only twenty-four hours before.
A sergeant was working behind the Plexiglas map of the Sinai, posting new information. The room fell silent as every eye watched the sergeant mark up the latest disposition of Egypt’s armed forces. Scattered applause greeted the sergeant when she was finished. The Egyptians had moved back into garrison and were standing down from their “exercise.” Israel’s southern flank was no longer threatened and they could use the full resources of Southern Command to defeat the Syrians and Iraqis in the north. With resupply from the United States going full bore, they could do it.
Ben David turned his attention to the other three fronts. The battle on the northern border with Lebanon had stalemated and was seesawing back and forth across the border. On the Golan Heights, the Israelis had been pushed back to the very edge but were stubbornly holding on. A commando assault force had retaken Mount Hermon but at a terrible price. Over 70 percent of the commandos had been killed or wounded. Only the last-minute insertion of reinforcements with Black Hawk helicopters fresh from the United States’ arsenals in Germany had given the Israelis a much needed victory. But they had lost over half the helicopters.
The situation on the Wes
t Bank was the most serious. The Syrians, reinforced with three Iraqi armored divisions, had pushed across the Jordan River and were within sixteen kilometers of Jerusalem. The Arabs were shelling the city around the clock but thanks to the fresh troops that had been rushed out of the Sinai and massive supplies now arriving from the United States, the line was holding.
More good news appeared on the boards; the first of ninety-five F-16s being ferried in from the United States had landed and were being turned for combat. But the major general in charge of Hel Avir, the Israeli Air Force, was worried. The air force was suffering from a severe shortage of pilots and every available body was in the cockpit. He had recently recalled to active duty retired pilots who were in their fifties and was rushing them through refresher training. They would soon be thrown into the battle.
Out of habit, Ben David scrutinized the “Status of Casualties” board last. His lips compressed as his eyes ran across the columns. He was caught up in the type of war he most dreaded, a long and protracted conflict, and the numbers told the story. His countrymen were in a war of attrition. How long could they hang on? he asked himself. But he knew the answer—as long as they had to.
An aide appeared at his side. “More good news, Yair,” he said. “The Egyptian ambassador to die United Nations has placed a resolution in front of the General Assembly calling for an immediate cease-fire.”
Ben David stood up and his presence filled the room. He knew they could do it! They could, without doubt, survive! The Egyptian call for a cease-fire was the first crack in the solid Arab front. Long experience had taught him how fast the Arabs could realign and seek an accommodation with Israel.
An old worry came back to haunt him, driving him back into his seat. Before a cease-fire was forced on him, he had to secure his borders and hold the best defensive position possible. He had to think ahead—to the next war. And punish them! he raged to himself. Those casualties, the cold numbers on the “Status of Casualties” board, had a personal meaning for him and every Israeli. In a country as small as his, every family had paid a price—a father, son, daughter, killed or wounded, maybe a POW. Please, not our daughters as POWs, he pleaded. An old wrath swept over him. So the Arabs would degrade his children in captivity, drive his people into the sea. I hope they are looking at the desert sands behind them, he told himself, for that is where I will send them.
“Get Avi Tamir,” he ordered. Then he picked up the phone and made a brief call to Mossad. When the call was completed, he started issuing orders. Every person in the room responded to him, buoyed by his presence, feeling his resolve. They all could sense it—in spite of Iraq’s entry, the war had been stabilized and now they were going on the attack.
Avi Tamir’s face was worn and haggard, matching the way he felt, when he answered the summons to the command bunker. At least, he thought, I have some news that Ben David will like. He was surprised when the guard cleared him in without an escort. Inside, he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Loud discussions rang out and people were scurrying through the corridors. And then he caught it—the scent of victory. “Finally,” he mumbled to himself. The door to Ben David’s small office was open and he walked in.
The prime minister greeted him warmly and waved him to a seat next to the other man in the office. Tamir sank into the soft cushions and, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. All the signs were there. The tide of the war had turned and they would not have to use nuclear weapons. Ben David rose and closed the door himself while Tamir greeted the stranger. The wizened gnome uttered some perfunctory words but did not introduce himself. He rubbed at his bulbous nose with a handkerchief and focused his attention on Ben David, ignoring Tamir.
“Have you made progress?” Ben David asked.
Tamir nodded. “I’ve solved the boosting problem.” For a moment, he considered telling them how he had devised a method of injecting lithium-6 deuteride directly into the core of an atomic bomb, making a thermonuclear reaction. He had even refined the process, and the yield of the weapon could be changed by throwing three switches in the warhead. “Five days and it will be ready.”
“How big is it?” Ben David asked.
Tamir wasn’t certain what the question was. “It will fit into the warhead of a Jericho Two missile,” he answered.
“I meant how big …” the prime minister stammered, not knowing how to ask a question the scientist would understand.
“Yair wants to know the kiloton or megaton yield,” the gnome said, still not looking at Tamir.
“Oh. It’s selectable,” Tamir answered. “Two point two, thirty, fifty, or one hundred twenty kilotons.”
“I was hoping for a bigger bomb,” Ben David said.
“There are problems …” Tamir protested. Then his anger flared. “My God! You have no idea how big a hundred twenty kilotons is.”
“Please, Avi, I did not mean that as a criticism. You have done good work.” Ben David put on his serious-but-relieved face. “We are stabilizing and I don’t think we’ll need to use our nuclear weapons. You know, I had always planned to use them only as a last resort to save our people from destruction.”
A feeling of relief engulfed Avi Tamir and, for a moment, tears swelled in his eyes. His work would not give the world another Holocaust.
Ben David caught Tamir’s obvious relief. “Still,” he cautioned, “there are dangers ahead of us and we cannot afford to lose. When you say ‘ready in five days’ does that mean it can be mated to a missile?” Tamir told him yes. “Good.” The prime minister stood up. “Please don’t worry, Avi. The war is going our way and we won’t need to use it. But I must take every precaution … our people have suffered too much … I must end this war quickly.”
Tamir understood he was dismissed and left.
Ben David immediately punched at his intercom and ordered up a meeting of the Defense Council in ten minutes.
“Well?” the Ganef asked, blowing his nose again. “Why did you want me here for this?”
“Didn’t you believe me when I said there were many dangers ahead of us?”
“That’s obvious,” the old man replied.
“I’m going to make sure the Arabs cannot start another war like this one. It will be interesting to see how they react when we create more defensible borders and establish a security zone in depth.”
“That could prove difficult,” the Ganef said. “Our success might force them to use chemical weapons.”
“I’m aware of that possibility and you’re going to prevent it. I’m going to load Tamir’s bomb on a Jericho missile and program it for one of two targets—Damascus or Baghdad. I will launch it against the first one foolish enough to use chemical weapons.”
“And you want me to—”
“Make sure the Arabs know we have the bomb and how we will use it if they use chemical weapons.”
It all made sense to the Ganef. “What size yield?” he asked.
“The biggest.”
“The war has taken an unfortunate turn,” Sheik Mohammed al-Khatub said, watching for the old woman’s reaction over his coffee cup. Khatub was one of the few people not impressed with B. J. Allison’s mansion, her jewels, or power. He had more. Still, he felt comfortable in her palatial home in western Virginia and had enjoyed the private dinner. But he hated the discussion that came afterward.
For her part, B.J. was enjoying the evening and the chance to spar with the sheik, a man she liked and respected. Besides, she told herself, he is most handsome and only in his mid-thirties. He does remind me of a young Omar Sharif, she thought. A fleeting image of Tara and Khatub together flashed through her mind and she made a mental note to pursue the idea. How convenient that liaison might be, she decided, considering Khatub was OPEC’s minister of finance. “Ah, the war. So, I’ve been told,” she said, returning to the subject at hand.
“We cannot ignore what your government is allowing to happen,” Khatub said, “and must consider our interests, perhaps a change in policies.”
“Surely, you are not thinking of another oil embargo?”
“It is foremost in our thinking at this time,” the sheik replied.
“Is there anything I can do to, ah, persuade you to take other actions?”
The sheik smiled, skillfully masking his feelings for the woman. In his world, women were relegated to their proper position and he would never discuss such important matters with them. It was beneath his dignity to deal with Allison. “We were hopeful that the scandal about illegal campaign funds would preoccupy your President, perhaps limiting or moderating his actions in support of the Jews.” He sighed. “But that all appears to be dying on the vine.”
“If the press were to uncover new evidence,” Allison said, “as we say, ‘find the smoking gun,’ would that convince you that other voices are speaking out for a more equitable solution to the war?”
Khatub leaned forward and asked for another cup of coffee, smiling. They understood each other perfectly.
Tara Tyndle had been waiting for the call and was fully dressed and ready when the phone rang at one in the morning. Three minutes later, she was on her way to the helipad to catch a hop to her aunt’s home.
“You do spoil your aunt,” Allison said, greeting Tara when she entered the elegant drawing room she used as an office. The handsome young secretary escorting Tara closed the door behind her, leaving them in privacy. Allison came right to the point. “I must limit Pontowski’s support of Israel or we will be facing an oil embargo. Do you know what that means?” She didn’t expect Tara to answer. “Government control of my industry, my company. Tara, I won’t have it! I will destroy that man.” She was pacing the room. “What else have you learned about his campaign financing?”
Tara related how Fraser had funneled money into a network of offshore corporations and secret bank accounts in the Bahamas and had linked them together with the electronic transfer of funds through Hong Kong. She still didn’t know the details of how he moved the money back into the United States and the campaign. “He’s very clever, Auntie, and does it all in his head, and he used a middle man to direct the money into political action committees and get-out-the-vote groups at the right moment. But Fraser orchestrated it all. Auntie, you weren’t the only contributor. I think Fraser tapped some of the Mafia families and no income taxes were ever paid on much of the money.”
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