Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The air-raid sirens were screaming at them to move, and she could hear people racing through the halls and yelling for others to get moving. For the first time she realized she and Chris were not the only ones who had taken advantage of the quiet to try to get a bit of sleep and some fresh air. Lexi grabbed her watch, her Bible, and her purse and dragged Chris from bed. He grabbed his glasses and a bottle of water off the nightstand and followed her out the door. They raced down the darkened hallway, but even before they got to the stairwell, they could hear the explosions, one after another.

  And they were getting closer.

  PALMACHIM AIR FORCE BASE, ISRAEL

  Real fear was palpable in the IAF’s battle management center near Tel Aviv, code-named Citron Tree. Too much was happening too fast.

  The Israeli Air Force’s premier missile defense command was now tracking inbound rockets and missiles from the north, south, and east, but nothing terrified them more than the possibility of a direct hit on the port city of Haifa and on their country’s nuclear power plant at Dimona. The only system that could stop these particular missiles was the U.S.-funded, Israeli-designed Arrow defense system. But hitting all five missiles simultaneously with 100 percent accuracy and fewer than three minutes to spare was going to push the limits of everything they’d trained for.

  The watch commander wiped his brow, knowing there was no margin for error. He and two of his senior deputies were fixated on wall-mounted flat-screen monitors displaying incoming telemetry from all five missiles being tracked by the Green Pine fire-control radar system. High-speed supercomputers updated the precise location and trajectory of the missiles in real time and issued five separate defense plans. The commander scanned the recommendations, approved them, and immediately barked orders that they be followed, locking in the target solutions and setting into motion a sequence of events that would either save or seal the fate of the nation.

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  Chris and Lexi raced down nine flights of stairs. They were breathless by the time they reached the bomb shelter in the hotel’s basement. But to their horror they found it closed and locked.

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Fire-control orders were instantly relayed via secure fiber-optic lines to four different missile batteries. Two were in the north—just south of Haifa—and two were in the south, just north of Beersheva. Within moments, five two-stage hypersonic Arrow missiles exploded out of their casings and streaked into the eastern sky, one after another. Seconds later, a dozen Patriot missiles shot skyward as well, trailing the Arrows to provide a second layer of defense in case any of the first-tier interceptors should fail.

  Levi Shimon stared at the monitors on the IDF war room walls. He watched as radar systems tracked the Israeli missiles lifting off and speeding toward their targets. He watched, but he could not breathe. The stakes were too high, the cost of failure simply unimaginable.

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  Lexi could hear rockets detonating up and down the street above them. There was not another living soul in sight. Breathless and panting, she and Chris pounded on the door, screaming for someone to let them in while she silently pleaded with God for mercy.

  They were trapped. They had no place else to go. They couldn’t go outside. They dared not go back upstairs. So they pounded all the harder.

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  “Quickly, come with me,” Naphtali said, motioning the ambassador to follow him out of the library and down the hall to the prime minister’s secure communications center, not unlike the Situation Room at the White House. “Up there—look—screens one and two.”

  The ambassador, flanked by several of the PM’s senior aides, scanned both screens and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The first monitor showed a digitized computer image of the upward trajectory of the Shahab missiles, lifting off from silos in northwestern Iran and arcing over Syria and Jordan. The second screen showed the downward trajectory of the Shahabs descending toward Haifa and Dimona with terrifying speed, combined with the trajectory of the Arrows and Patriots racing upward to intercept their prey.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Naphtali said, now far more formal than he had been earlier, “let me be crystal clear: if any of those Iranian missiles are carrying nuclear, chemical, or biological warheads, you’ll have the honor of being my guest as I order the Israeli missile force to turn Iran into glass.”

  10

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  Chris kept banging, but Lexi was too exhausted and frightened. She had all but given up hope when the door opened. A hand reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into the shadows with Chris right behind. Someone sat them down in a dark corner of the bomb shelter. It was hot and stuffy inside, and Lexi began to perspire. But she was grateful to the Lord for answering her prayers and grateful, too, that she was not alone. She squeezed her husband’s hand and tried to calm her breathing and not think about the panic surging within her.

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Shimon and his commanders watched as the Shahab inbound for Haifa hit its apogee about ninety miles over Damascus. They watched as it began its white-hot descent. They watched as the Arrow sizzled skyward at blinding speed and closed the gap for the kill.

  “Thirteen seconds to impact,” said a young military aide to Shimon’s right, a tremor in his voice.

  Shimon turned away. He couldn’t look any longer. He’d been present for all the early Arrow tests. Most had gone well. Almost all of the Arrows had hit their targets over the past few days. But now he couldn’t watch.

  “Ten seconds.”

  He was getting too old for this. And Shimon knew something most of the men in the war room didn’t know. These state-of-the-art antiballistic missiles were far more expensive than the IDF let on. Publicly, it was said the Arrow cost $3 million each. Actually, with all of the R & D costs included, they were coming in at more than $10 million each.

  “Eight seconds.”

  Even with American assistance, Israel could only afford a limited number. And the Arrows in the air right now, Shimon knew, were the last in their arsenal for the northern command.

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  “Seven seconds . . . six . . . five . . .”

  Prime Minister Naphtali listened to the audio feed from the war room as he and Ambassador Montgomery watched the computer screens. The computers indicated the intercept of the missile inbound for Haifa would happen first, followed in close succession by the intercept of the missiles aiming for Dimona.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . . impact!” said the young aide.

  But there was no impact.

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  Unable to see while her eyes adjusted to the near-complete darkness, Lexi fought to gain control of her emotions. Though safe for the moment, she couldn’t let herself think about what still could be ahead. She was terrified of losing Chris. They’d been married for only a week. She worried for her parents. She hadn’t been able to e-mail or call them. What were they thinking? She couldn’t imagine.

  In the darkness, Chris asked her to pray with him, but she couldn’t. She was too scared. She knew he was right. She knew she needed to turn to the Lord for comfort at this moment, but something in her rebelled. She wasn’t just scared. She was also angry with God. How could he have let this happen? Why didn’t he want her to be happy? She’d waited so long to finally be married, to finally have a husband and a honeymoon—here in the Holy Land, no less. Why in the world would God ruin it now?

  To fear and anger, Lexi now added guilt and embarrassment. This was not the way a Christian should think, she knew. And she was mortified by the prospect of Chris knowing she was going through such a crisis of faith. But she didn’t know what to do or what to say. She had to think about something else, anything else but this war and where it might lead. And inexplicably she found her thoughts shifting to Marseille Harper.

  Her best friend since college, Marseille was the woman who had led her to Christ and had been the maid of honor at her we
dding. Lexi closed her eyes and could see Marseille helping her with her makeup and hair before the ceremony. She could see Marseille dancing with Chris’s brother, Peter—the best man—at the reception, and she remembered wishing Marseille showed even a flicker of interest in her brother-in-law, who Lexi was certain was a perfect match, but to no avail. She could feel Marseille giving her a hug as they said good-bye at the reception hall just before Chris and Lexi were driven off in that gleaming silver Bentley to a bed-and-breakfast for their wedding night before leaving for Israel the next day.

  And then a thought Lexi would have preferred to stay forgotten popped into her mind. It was Marseille who had asked whether it was really such a good idea to go on a tour of Israel right now. Lexi could still hear herself scoffing at her best friend and telling her not to be such a worrywart. What Lexi wouldn’t give now to have really listened, to have gone to the south of France or to Santorini or another one of the Greek isles, as Marseille had gently suggested.

  But suddenly Lexi was pulled back to her current, grisly reality by the shrill voice of an older woman shoving a gas mask into her hands and telling her to put it on right away. Lexi did the best she could in the beam of the woman’s flashlight. Chris, she noticed, had his mask on, but as he helped her put hers on, she began to panic. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. This thing was suffocating her, and her heart began to race out of control.

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  No impact? How was that possible? Had the Arrow actually missed its mark?

  Shimon could see the red line of the computer track, designating the flight of the Shahab, crossing the blue line, which designated the trajectory of the Arrow interceptor. How could that be? What had gone wrong? He tried to contemplate the horror facing the 600,000 souls living in and around Haifa.

  But before he or anyone else in the war room could say anything, he saw two green lines—each designating a Patriot missile—converging on the red line.

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  Naphtali’s stomach tightened as he pounded his fist on the console beside him. Nineteen miles above Damascus, the first Patriot had sliced past the Shahab, missing the Iranian death machine by less than twenty yards. But just moments later, the second Patriot clipped one of the Shahab’s tail fins and exploded upon impact. The fireball could be seen throughout all of northern Israel and was being broadcast live on Israel’s Channel 2 by a camera crew on “missile watch” on the Golan Heights.

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Cheers erupted in the IDF war room, and Shimon imagined the same thing must be happening in the prime minister’s communications center in Jerusalem. But what neither Naphtali nor Shimon nor any of their aides realized was that while the body of the incoming Shahab had vaporized upon impact, the warhead itself had not been destroyed but was simply knocked off course. Too small to be picked up by radar, the warhead hurtled downward without a guidance system and without warning. There were no more Israeli missiles in the air to stop it, and even if there had been, there was no more time.

  Descending faster than the speed of sound, the warhead spiraled wildly over the Golan Heights and crossed over the Jordan River and the Sea of Galilee, heading for Tiberias, on a crash course for the city’s tallest hotel—the Leonardo Plaza.

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  The sound of the explosion above them was deafening beyond belief.

  Lexi instinctively covered her ears with her hands and curled up in a fetal position, pressing hard into her husband’s side. But that was only the beginning, as a series of additional explosions, each as horrifying as the first, was set into motion. Everyone in the bomb shelter was screaming. The ground beneath them shook violently. So did the walls and the ceiling. But after a few moments, everything grew quiet, including the guests and the hotel staff crammed so closely together.

  For Lexi, it was too quiet. Something was wrong. She could sense it. Something evil was coming. She was soaked with sweat. She couldn’t breathe in the gas mask. Her claustrophobia was kicking in. Everything in her wanted to jump up and bolt for the door. With or without Chris, she had to get out of this hellhole, out of this tomb. It was too hot. Too humid. Too cramped. She needed fresh air. She needed to run. She tried to pray but couldn’t. She tried to remind herself of Bible verses she had memorized, but in her rising panic her mind went blank. She was gasping for air and hyperventilating in the process. Unable to take it anymore, she sat up, pulled away from Chris, ripped off her gas mask, and sucked in as much air as she possibly could.

  She wasn’t thinking about whether the air was contaminated with lethally toxic chemical or biological fumes from the Iranian missile strike, and she wouldn’t have cared if she were. She couldn’t wear that thing for a single second more. She couldn’t imagine how Chris or the other tourists or any of the Israelis could keep those blasted things on. But no sooner had she ripped off the gas mask and felt free than she saw Chris jumping up to help her—maybe even force her—to put her mask back on. Then she heard the groaning of the concrete and steel and rebar above her. Her eyes went wide. So did Chris’s. She tried to say something, but her mouth was dry. No words would form. She knew what was coming, but she couldn’t warn anyone. And even if she had, what good would it have done? They had nowhere to go and no time to run.

  Chris continued to try desperately to convince her to put her mask back on, but she adamantly refused. Then came the roar she had feared most—the entire twelve-story hotel above them was beginning to implode.

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  Naphtali watched as one by one the Israeli Arrows found their marks.

  In rapid succession, four Iranian ballistic missiles were successfully intercepted. They exploded in stunning fireballs that lit up the skies over the Hashemite Kingdom’s historic capital. In the prime minister’s communications center, all eyes were glued to the monitors, and Naphtali knew that in homes all throughout Israel that still had power, families were huddled around television sets in their bomb shelters. They watched the live images and the video replays. They began to cheer and cry and laugh and breathe again. None of them yet knew about the tragedy in Tiberias. They were simply desperate for some good news, and now they had some.

  A visibly relieved and smiling American ambassador tore himself away from staring at all the video screens and scanned the digital clocks on the wall. It was now 7:32 a.m. in Jerusalem, 9:02 a.m. in Tehran, and 12:32 a.m. at the White House. Then he turned to Naphtali and stretched out his hand.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Prime Minister. I think it’s fair to say on behalf of my government that while we regret and oppose this war and want you to bring it to an immediate end, we are certainly glad to see you and your team successfully defending your people, especially using technology we helped sponsor and develop. Hopefully we can ratchet this thing down very quickly and get back to talking peace.”

  Naphtali took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. Then he took the ambassador’s hand and shook it firmly. “Dan, nothing would please me more than to bring this war to an immediate end. I’m not going to surrender in the face of genocide, but please tell the president if he can find a way to shut the Iranians down, I would be very grateful.”

  “I will certainly convey that to the president, along with the rest of our conversation.”

  “Thank you. It is always a pleasure to spend time with the American ambassador,” Naphtali said.

  But just as the prime minister was about to show the ambassador out, his military aide cut him off. “It’s the defense minister again.”

  Naphtali took the phone. “Levi, what’s wrong?”

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “One of the Arrows missed.”

  “What are you talking about? I just saw—”

  “No, sir. We still have an Iranian Shahab-3 ballistic missile inbound for Dimona.”

  “But we just watched on the monitors. I thought we got them all.”

  “I did too,
but apparently we missed one.”

  “What about the Patriots?”

  “They’ve missed as well. We’re about to launch another Arrow, but it’s the last one on the launcher.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “We’ve had too many incoming missiles. My men are scrambling to load more missiles, but they’re not miracle workers. It takes time.”

  “How much time?” the prime minister demanded.

  “More than we have.”

  Shahab means “meteor” in Farsi.

  True to its name, the final, unscathed Shahab-3 blazed across the morning sky like a shooting star at seven times the speed of sound, leaving a trail of flame and smoke in its wake. Having reached its apogee over the northern deserts of Saudi Arabia, the last of the Iranian death machines now began its sizzling descent toward Dimona, hell-bent on genocide. Three Israeli interceptors had already missed it, and all that stood in its way now was one last Arrow, locked and loaded but still awaiting an order from Tel Aviv.