Crusader One

by Brian Andrews

  A cheer in the analyst mosh pit down below snapped Jarvis back to the present. Satellite footage showed Khatam al-Anbia Air Defense Base being hit by the first wave of Popeye Turbo submarine-launched cruise missiles. Rocket trails zipped skyward as Iran’s S-300 surface-to-air missile batteries came to life, attempting to intercept the incoming Israeli ordnance. The S-300s knocked down multiple Israeli cruise missiles, but the IDF commanders had clearly decided to err on the side of “shock and awe” because the first submarine salvo still packed a hell of a punch. Multiple buildings and ground structures flashed with fire in rapid succession as the missiles hit their targets. Plumes of smoke, dust, and debris mushroomed upward. With the Iranian air defense command and control crippled, the next wave began.

  Six new icons appeared on a tactical topographical map of the battle space—six green triangles crossing the Iraqi border into Iranian air space. An operator selected and clicked on one of the green triangles, and two new windows appeared. The first was a fighter pilot’s heads-up display, full of tactical theater information that could only be from one aircraft. The second was a camera feed streaming from the same aircraft. The corner of Jarvis’s mouth curled up. The F-35 was Israel’s first manned war machine to cross the border and the first time the multirole stealth aircraft would face live-fire surface-to-air missile defenses. Although the newest generation fighter jet, manufactured by Lockheed, had been much beleaguered in the media, the DNI had told him in confidence that the smear campaign was working out to be an invaluable strategic advantage. The more the enemy underestimates this plane, Kelso, the more ass we’ll kick when it’s time to take the gloves off. If only Director Philips were alive and beside him right now, because the gloves had just come off.

  “Last I heard, Israel only had taken delivery of four aircraft. General Boaz was quoted as saying they would not be ready for fleet service until the end of the year,” Jarvis said, glancing at Harel.

  “Funny,” Harel said with a sly grin. “I’d heard the same thing. Looks like that information was erroneous.”

  He watched the F-35s travel in pairs toward their respective targets: four angling northeast toward Fordow, Natanz, and Parchin and two toward Isfahan in central Iran. To his and everyone else’s relief, the stealthy multipurpose fighters navigated Persian airspace without detection by the Russian-made S-300 batteries or the indigenous Persian SAM sites. The southern pair of F-35s reached Isfahan first, dropping conventional precision-guided munitions on SAM batteries protecting Persia’s uranium-enrichment and specialty-materials facility and on Khatami Air Base. It wasn’t until after the strike that four F-14 Tomcats were scrambled from Khatami Air Base to intercept, validating the effectiveness of the Israeli F-35s’ stealth approach. Jarvis watched and waited, wondering how the F-35s would handle these once formidable but now obsolete fighter aircraft.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  The F-35s’ superior radar and real-time link to the IDF’s battle-space data stream allowed the pilots to target the Tomcats over the horizon. Four Python-5 air-to-air missiles were launched, and all four missiles hit their marks. Cheers erupted in the TOC below. Twenty minutes later, similar scenarios unfolded at Fordow and Parchin. What happened next, however, surprised even Jarvis.

  Over the next forty-five minutes, the Israeli Air Force launched a protracted air campaign the likes of which he’d not seen since Operation Desert Storm. With the Persian ground-based radars and SAM batteries either decimated or disabled, the F-15 and F-16 attack runs could begin in earnest. Sorties out of Ramat David and Tel Nof commenced in rapid and synchronized fashion. And instead of bugging out and heading home, the F-35s stayed in orbit and were refueled by Boeing 707 aerial refuelers dispatched from Nevatim Air Force Base. Persian counteroffensive sorties with Soviet-sourced Sukhoi Su-24 and MiG-29 planes, as well as American-sourced F-4s, F-5s, and F-14s, were quickly squelched by the more proficient and capable IAF fighters. Within three hours, the IAF categorically owned the Persian skies.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Harel asked, shaking Jarvis from his trance watching the Mossad’s tactical jumbotron below.

  “Water, thank you,” Jarvis said and realized that over an hour had passed with neither man speaking a word.

  The Mossad Chief walked over to a minifridge against the back wall and pulled out two bottles of water. Then he stood beside Jarvis at the plate-glass window.

  “Do you know the story of David and Goliath?” Harel said, handing Jarvis his water.

  “Of course,” Jarvis said.

  “What do you know?” Harel said, tipping a cigarette out of his pack.

  “Do you mind?” Jarvis said before Harel could light it. “I could use a break from the smoke.”

  The corner of Harel’s mouth curled up. “Okay, for you, my friend, I’ll deny my cravings. I know how you hate these things.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So,” Harel said, stuffing the cigarette back into the pack, “what do you think you know about David and Goliath?”

  Although not a student of scripture, Jarvis was a student of history, especially military history, and he knew the legendary underdog story well. He uncapped his water, took a sip, and said, “Three thousand years ago, the Philistines marched across Israel, intent on splitting the kingdom in two, but King Saul rallied his army and met them head-on in the Valley of Elah. Both armies dug in, and eventually a stalemate was reached. As was common in that day, the Philistine commander proposed settling the standoff via single combat—where one warrior’s death would decide the victory rather than tens of thousands’. King Saul agreed, and the Philistines promptly marched their greatest warrior, a monster of a man named Goliath, onto the battle plain. Seeing Goliath, not a single warrior in King Saul’s army volunteered to fight. Ultimately, Israeli’s fate fell upon the shoulders of a young shepherd boy, David, who was the lone volunteer brave enough to fight. After that, I think pretty much everyone knows what happened . . .”

  “No, no, please, continue.”

  “All right,” Jarvis said. “Goliath is fully kitted up in bronze armor, with a breastplate, helmet, javelin, and sword, while David has only his shepherd’s staff and a sling. Goliath proceeds to taunt David, but before Goliath even makes a single move, David loads a stone in his sling and hits Goliath square between the eyes—felling the giant and winning the battle for Israel.”

  “That’s right,” Harel said, nodding. “That’s the underdog story everyone knows. But it’s not the real story.”

  “Well, sure. I always assumed it was an allegory, just like so many stories in the Bible,” Jarvis said.

  “No, no, that’s not it. The battle of David and Goliath was real, but the mythos is pure propaganda. Would you like to know the real story?”

  Jarvis shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Like you, I knew the myth. Like you, I thought the story was a gross exaggeration . . . the Jewish equivalent of a ‘tall tale,’ but it turns out that the truth is much more interesting than the fiction. A couple of years ago, I heard a talk by an American Jewish author named Gladwell, who told a different story. It turns out that researchers now suspect Goliath suffered from acromegaly—a rare condition in which the pituitary gland produces excess growth hormone resulting in gigantism. But gigantism comes at a cost, including pronounced nearsightedness, double vision, headaches, arthritis, and a host of other physical ailments. In the scripture, Goliath taunts David, ‘Come to me so I can feed your flesh to the birds of the heavens and the beasts of the field.’ But there’s subtext beneath the giant’s words—by beckoning David to him instead of charging aggressively, Goliath reveals he is not as nimble and ambulatory as one would imagine an invincible warrior to be. As David draws closer, Goliath betrays himself again, saying, ‘Am I a dog that you would come to me with sticks?’ But David was not carrying sticks, only a single staff—this statement is evidence that Goliath was nearsighted and suffering from double vision.”

  “Interesting,” Jarvis s
aid, nodding.

  “Indeed,” Harel said. “And what of the preconception that David—marching into battle without armor, carrying only a sling and a staff—was outmatched by Goliath, who was fully kitted up, as you said. Here we find another misconception. In the hands of an experienced slinger, a pebble is a formidable weapon: deadly accurate inside one hundred and fifty meters, with the equivalent stopping power of a forty-five-caliber slug. So I ask you, now knowing this and Goliath’s physical liabilities . . . Was David truly an underdog?”

  Jarvis looked at Harel. How the man loved his riddles and his stories. “It would appear not.”

  Harel smiled and shifted his gaze out at the TOC below. “Which David is Israel? The misperceived underdog, or the formidable warrior who intimately understands both his own and his enemy’s skills and liabilities?”

  Jarvis considered the question and after a beat said, “Both.”

  “That’s right, both. For the world, we must cultivate and project the notion that Israel is the underdog fighting for survival against overwhelming odds. But inside these borders, we must arm ourselves with the weapons and knowledge that give us an unperceived advantage over our adversaries.”

  Jarvis nodded and turned back to the big screen. Presently, the camera feed from an Israeli F-15E was on display as it dropped precision-guided bunker-busting ordnance on the heavily fortified Fordow site. As he watched the bombs fall one after another, he thought about Dempsey and his upcoming mission into Iran. Reframing it in the context of Harel’s modern reinterpretation of the Bible’s most famous underdog story, Jarvis couldn’t help but wonder—in a face-off between Dempsey and Modiri, who would play David and who would play Goliath?

  CHAPTER 23

  Ben Yehuda Street

  West Jerusalem, Israel

  May 11

  1430 Local Time

  Dempsey held Elinor’s hand and tried his best to look casual.

  And happy.

  Casual and happy, he told himself, despite the fact that Israel had just bombed the shit out of Iran and the world was on the verge of turning upside down. The irony of the situation was that here, in the heart of Jerusalem, life was carrying on as if nothing had happened at all. Rimon Café, the trendy restaurant at the western end of Ben Yehuda where they’d eaten lunch, had been packed. The sprawling outdoor market, known simply as the Midrachov, was alive and buzzing with a healthy afternoon crowd of locals and tourists alike. Clothing boutiques, souvenir shops, vegetable stands, sidewalk cafés, and a variety of artisan stores lined the avenue. Street musicians played while beggars sat and begged, both groups vying for the pocket change of passersby. A gaggle of teens in ironic T-shirts and tight jeans cavorted by, and Dempsey immediately thought of Jake.

  Elinor leaned in and gave him an unexpected peck on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked, not liking the authenticity of his Irish accent he was using today.

  “Because I love you,” she said, smiling at him with her eyes.

  God, it felt real. She was so good at this . . . too good.

  He squeezed her hand. “I love you, too.”

  Sorry, Kate, he thought to himself, feeling a pang of guilt. But she had divorced him—and he had since widowed her—and anyway, Kate was with Steve now . . . so what did it matter if he played lovebirds with Elinor?

  “This is surprising to me,” he said quietly to her.

  “What is?”

  “This,” he said, gesturing to the hustle and bustle around them. “It’s like yesterday never happened.”

  “This is Israel. War can happen anytime, any day. Life goes on.”

  “Makes sense for those who serve, but for civilians . . . It’s just strange.”

  She leaned in close and whispered. “Focus. Your accent is slipping, and now is not the time for this discussion.”

  “Sorry,” he said with a guilty smile. She was right. He was off his game today. He’d received language training at the Farm, but his performance had underwhelmed all his instructors. Eventually, they just laughed at him and said that an Irish accent was probably the only one outside his native speech he could hope to pull off. Today, he couldn’t even execute that one.

  “Don’t make me take you lingerie shopping again,” she teased.

  “Oh God, no,” he said and laughed. “Anything but that.”

  He felt his shoulders instantly relax. Her comedic timing was impeccable. He looked at her and marveled at her craft; she was so consistent, so “sealed inside” her NOC. She made it look easy, turning her legend on and off like a light switch.

  “I have the package,” Daniel said over the comms channel, snapping Dempsey’s mind back to the mission. “He’s east of HaHistadrut but appears to be on schedule.”

  Today’s operation was a live-capture mission, meant to simulate and prepare for the kidnapping of Amir Modiri in Tehran. He went over the details quickly in his head. The plan was to disappear the target in broad daylight by herding him into an alley where an SUV was waiting. Grabbing someone and forcing them into a car wasn’t difficult for someone with Dempsey’s build, but pulling it off in broad daylight without being noticed in a crowded public place—well, that was something altogether different.

  He was a door kicker, not an illusionist.

  Still walking hand in hand, they passed a group of Korean girls singing and wearing matching green T-shirts bearing a large Christian cross across the chest.

  “I have eyes on our tango,” Grimes’s voice said in his right ear, where the micro-Bluetooth earpiece sat invisible in his ear canal. He spied the Tutti Frutti gelato shop next to the alley fifty meters to the east. They’d arrived early by nearly a minute.

  He stopped and pulled his new “bride” close, looking down into her eyes and smiling. Having the curves of her body pressed against him was distracting, and he immediately felt a stirring. “How are you enjoying the afternoon, love?” he asked, much more pleased with the easy Irish lilt he heard rolling from his mouth this time.

  “It’s been wonderful, but suddenly I’m wishing we were back at the hotel,” she said with a seductive grin, pressing her pelvis firmly against his.

  “Package is fifteen seconds out,” Grimes said with a hard edge to her voice. Was that jealousy he detected? No, no way. That stupid kiss in Annapolis had him overanalyzing everything with women now. He shook it off.

  “Since we’re here and I know how much you love gelato,” he said to Elinor, “perhaps we share a cone of gianduia and then head back to the hotel for the real dessert.”

  “I almost want to skip the ice cream,” she said and bit her lip as if deciding. “Almost.”

  “Why choose? I promise you can have both.”

  He took her hand and moved toward the gelato shop, just as the “package” rounded the corner. In reality, Agent Rouvin was playing their target today. They hadn’t made it three paces toward Rouvin when sirens began to wail. The sound immediately sent a shiver down Dempsey’s spine, reminding him of air-raid sirens in iconic, old British World War Two movies. Elinor tugged his hand, deviating immediately from their previous trajectory. The crowd around them began to morph, tourists and locals becoming immediately and obviously distinguishable—with the locals moving briskly for cover while the tourists gawked and mulled about in clusters like lost sheep.

  “Incoming rocket attack. Positive confirmation,” came Daniel’s voice over the wireless.

  Elinor looked skyward, and Dempsey did the same. Streaks of white smoke raced up across the sky, originating in clusters to the north and east—only a handful at first, but then the handful became dozens, and the dozens became hundreds.

  “Oh my God,” Elinor breathed, and then yelled, “Mission abort. Move to cover.” She jerked Dempsey toward the other side of the street.

  “You’ve seen this before?” Dempsey shouted as they ran.

  “Not like this. Never so many.”

  “Are those incoming rockets, or is that the Iron Dome we’re seeing?”
>
  “The Dome,” she said, referring to the IDF’s defensive missile-interceptor system. She was moving toward a shop with a blue-and-yellow sign beside the door, clearly designating it as a bomb shelter. “But to see so many Tamir missiles going up—it means hundreds of rockets are incoming. Pray it performs as advertised.”

  Dempsey had heard whispers about Israel’s new high-energy laser system, but last he knew, the Iron Beam and David’s Sling were both still under development. When he’d questioned her about it earlier, she’d explained that the Israelis were building a “layered” defense system that covered the complete spectrum of enemy missile threats. The Arrow II and III were designed to shoot down high-altitude ballistic missiles; David’s Sling was built to intercept cruise missiles; the Iron Dome targeted short-range missiles and rockets; and lastly, the Iron Beam—a directed energy weapon—was intended for small rockets and mortar shells. The battle management center at the heart of the system was very sophisticated, capable of analyzing the trajectories of hundreds or even thousands of incoming rockets simultaneously and projecting impact points. The system automatically prioritized each threat and only engaged incoming projectiles with the highest probability of hitting populated areas.

  “How much incoming ordnance can the system handle?” he yelled.

  “Don’t know, but looks like our enemies are hitting us with everything they’ve got.”

  “Could they overwhelm the system?”

  Before she could answer, the earth shook, and he felt and heard the whump of a large explosion nearby. A fireball erupted skyward in the background over Elinor’s left shoulder.