by Jack Strain
With that said, the president stalked out of the Situation Room and headed to the private residence leaving behind a collection of people whose confidence in President Wolfe was either affirmed or shaken to the core.
Dutch Schultz looked at the mix of emotions around the room and spoke almost contritely on behalf of a man he barely recognized any longer, and said, “Clearly the president is under tremendous strain folks and is not himself this morning, but we have a job to do. I want a set of recommendations on the president’s desk in the next three hours for him to sign to address how to get the power back on as soon as humanly possible.”
Secretary Dietrich interjected, “Sorry, Dutch, I just got an emergency message. There are reports of looting in Chicago, Detroit, and Gary. If this thing will take a week or two, we need the president to authorize the calling out of the National Guard and federalize them for the duration of the crisis. I don’t think the locals will be up to this.”
Dutch took a deep breath and slowly let it out and shook his head and said, “Write it up and get it over to me. I’ll see that the president signs it first thing. Keep it together folks, the American people need us to keep it together.”
◆◆◆
While everyone else walked out of the contentious meeting, Director of the CIA Nick Tomasso motioned to his boss, National Intelligence Director Daniel Cushing, and then to Homeland Security Secretary Dietrich and FBI Chief Bowman to stay behind.
As the door closed, Director Cushing was the first to ask, “What’s going on, Nick?”
Tomasso pulled out his iPad from his briefcase. He touched the screen and hit the play tab and let the others watch. One of his people had patched together a series of breaking news reports, mostly from the BBC but others as well. Three separate terror attacks in the past two hours. Suicide bombing in the famous tourist attraction of Piccadilly Circus in London, three separate explosions in Munich, and three gunmen opened fire in Amsterdam near the infamous Red Light district.
Cushing said, “Jesus Christ. How many dead?”
“We don’t know yet, but word from my people is that the London bombing was the worst of the three. The explosions in Munich broke a lot of glass and shook people up but few casualties, still don’t know much about Amsterdam. But all that doesn’t matter right now.”
Secretary Dietrich cut in and said, “Doesn’t matter? Then what the hell does, Nick?”
Tomasso didn’t say a word just raised his eyebrow. FBI Director Bowman answered for him with a tone of deep resignation. “Because this is just the beginning, right, Nick?”
Tomasso nodded emphatically and said, “Let me tell you something, my Counter-Terrorism people say they have never detected such a surge in online chatter. We need to move the threat level to its highest setting. It’s like we ripped open a hornet’s nest. My people are racking kills all over the globe, but this will get out of hand fast, and it won’t stay on the other side of the pond.”
Cushing, the tall, lanky former college basketball star, stretched out his full six-feet-six-inch frame, leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and said, “So how long before we start seeing the shit hit the fan here?”
Director Bowman answered, “It is counter-terror ops 24/7 as far as the Bureau is concerned, but it’s not enough. I’m thinking about calling retired agents to report to the nearest field office and get them back in the game.”
Secretary Dietrich arched her eyebrows at the suggestion and said, “Terrence that’s one hell of a smart move. Seriously, write it up. We’ll call people back just like mobilizing military reserves. In fact, I will be recommending the same thing across the board at Homeland Security.”
Exhausted after days of non-stop meetings and briefings, Director Cushing said in a voice full of fatigue, “Okay, Nick, thanks for the update on the new threat board. If there’s nothing else, then I’ve got to get going. I’m set to appear at a closed hearing at the Senate Intelligence Committee. Everybody wants personal updates right now.”
Tomasso was relieved to see everyone was onboard but knew they had more ground to cover. “One last thing, Dan. Is anyone going to talk about what the hell just happened? What the fuck was that? He seems like he’s losing it.”
Secretary Dietrich was reluctant to criticize the chain of command, but the CIA head was dead on. Choosing her words carefully, the former analyst at the RAND Corp said, “Look, I don’t really know the man outside of official business, but if he was a serving intelligence officer under me, I would recommend at least a temporary relief so that he can get himself back under control. Let’s face it, he’s always been a bit too quick to shoot off his mouth or some other damn social media post, but this is different. He’s not well.”
A lifetime spent in Republican political circles made Director Cushing less comfortable with where this was heading and he spoke with a strong edge to protect his Party’s president. “This is how shit leaks out in this town. It’s bad enough that Peroni probably speed-dialed the Times and the Post while she was driven back to the Hill and gave a play-by-play report of the meeting, but this can’t be coming from his own people.”
Tomasso cut in, “I’m just saying that he may not be up to what’s coming.”
“That’s not our call to make, and you know it. All of you need to handle your own operations and do whatever is necessary to prevent another attack. Seriously have to go . . . keep at it, Nick.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Acre, Israel
A small convoy of six green painted military vehicles wound its way up Highway 4 along Israel’s coastline and suddenly turned left on to Ben Ami Street to take the Prime Minister to the Old City of Acre. Considered one of the oldest cities in the world having been inhabited continuously for more than four thousand years. Christian, Jew, Muslim, Arab, Greek, French, Turk and countless others have all shed bled in Acre over the centuries.
Today was no different.
Evidence of war was everywhere. Hezbollah had struck Acre with dozens of powerful rockets. Homes, office buildings, and even a school were struck over the past four days of war. Rubble and blackened buildings could be seen at random points throughout the city. The Israeli Army used the city as a key logistics base and a major field hospital for the wounded was set up in the downtown. Acre was considered a prime target for Hezbollah planners.
The chief of the PM’s security detail was angry at the former general for taking an unnecessary risk. Twenty-four hours ago, Hezbollah landed commandos along three different Israel coastal towns and wrought havoc for three hours. They shot up civilians, blew up gas stations and power lines, and terrorized Arab and Jewish Israelis alike until police and Army reservists were able to kill the commandos. Who knew if any more were on the loose and waiting for a target like the prime Minister.
General, now Prime Minister Gideon Shalev was not a man who scared easy and like most former soldiers assumed they knew better than their security details. Shalev looked out the window and felt the adrenalin of a younger man. He was too new to politics to revel in his powers as Prime Minister. Deep down he wished to be with his fellow soldiers…sharing their dangers and the brotherhood of war that only comes when you face death with your brothers in arms.
He was lost in thought when his armored car came to a sudden and jarring stop. He could see civilians carrying their personal belongings crossing the road ahead and assumed the convoy was forced to stop on its account. Shalev was drawn to a woman leading three children in tow while holding an infant. A boy of about eight held his younger sister’s hand who he could see was covered in gauze and medical tape.
Please forgive me little ones. I never wanted this war.
Without warning loud whaling sirens could be heard throughout the city and Shalev watched as the young family took off at run for the nearest bunker. His convoy churned up a wall of dust as it sped towards what looked like an underground parking garage. Shalev hated not being in control and turned towards the back window in time to see three missil
e trails rising up to the skies, but the car dipped below the surface level as the vehicles sought out a secure place to stop.
After heading down two levels, the convoy stopped and Shalev jumped out of the car. Inside the parking garage were hundreds of people who sought safety underground. His detail immediately surrounded him, but he waved them to back off. For the next forty minutes, Shalev went from family to family and talked with his fellow Israelis, listened to their stories, and got the unfiltered truth.
Each family set up camp in their individual parking spots. Some families brought their easy to carry “Kibbutz food”, a mix of cheeses, fruits, yogurt, and pickled foods while some set up small charcoal stoves. Soon the delicious aromas of Israeli barbeque or “Mangal” filled the air as kebobs of roasting chicken and lamb were cooked.
Most were grateful to see him walking among them, some expressed anger at the Government and Army for failing to stop the rockets, but the majority understood this was the price of citizenship in Israel. Surrounded by enemies for nearly eight decades, war was never far away from their thoughts. Mothers knew their sons, husbands, and even daughters must answer the call to serve and fight their enemies no matter the cost. Most would come home, some would not and that was the burden these women carried. Now Gideon Shalev too carried this burden only his was for all the people of Israel. Few could carry this weight, but Shalev was determined to see this war to the end. His people deserved no less.
◆◆◆
An impatient General Ari Doron, Chief of Staff for the IDF, paced the walled off outdoor garden temporarily taken over by his security people, so he could brief his friend, the Prime Minister in person. He was about to yell at one of his aides again when the PM suddenly appeared.
Not one for ceremony, Shalev waved at everyone to sit and said, “Sorry Ari…gentlemen, the Hezbos decided to give me a grand welcome and rained rockets down on my convoy.”
General Doron chuckled lightly and smiled as he said, “Well Mr. Prime Minister, who’s to say if our Iron Dome battery didn’t let a few sneak by just to make an impression. Hope you didn’t scuff up your shoes getting out of the car or anything.”
After some laughs and a round of warm handshakes and embraces, all left the garden except for the two old comrades so they could talk plainly. Prime Minister Shalev started by asking, “How in the hell are rockets still raining down all over the place after nearly three days of fighting. Tel Aviv was hit by two Scuds this morning and last night three Iranian missiles got through. More than seventy dead, hundreds wounded. Now talk to me.”
Doron was drinking a hot glass of tea as the PM spoke, but his green eyes flared at the apparent rebuke from his friend and boss, and he immediately responded, “I’ll give you the same damn answer that I told you before the war started, the bastards have a shitload of missiles and that the cost would be high. You knew this going into this war, so don’t start pointing fingers at me like some pissant journalist or asshole politician that you, yourself railed against for twenty years.”
Probably still far too emotional after his experiences in the parking garage, Shalev raised his voice and spoke harshly, “That’s not an answer. Yes, I know they have tens of thousands of rockets, but for three days I’ve read nothing but reports of one stockpile of rockets destroyed on the ground after the other. Tell me what’s really happening out there.”
Angry at the insinuation that he had been inflating the numbers, Doron came to his feet and pointed at a man he has known for decades, “My men have been fighting non-stop for three days now. We have fought for every village and cave in southern Lebanon and have hurt the bastards. You wanted dead Hezbos, well guess what you got thousands of dead ones rotting all over the place. But you also got dead Israeli soldiers who are in the toughest fight since the Golan in 73 and fighting like heroes, one and all.”
Shalev looked up and saw the look of fury in his friend’s eyes and knew he went too far, so he held out his hands and motioned for the Chief of Staff to sit and said, “Forgive me old friend, our Army has performed brilliantly. I am just asked a hundred times a day about the rockets.”
Doron took several deep breathes and felt himself calming and answered, “The rockets will continue to fall, but each day we strike further north they will be less, that much I promise you. The real problem is that our Iron Dome missiles are nearly depleted, and those Hamas bastards keep firing what they have so I can’t pull any more batteries to this theater.”
“Speaking of Gaza give me a quick update on where things stand.”
Doron shook his head a bit and said, “It is rough going down there. We have the 366th and 80th Gaza Division in hard fighting. We don’t have the soldiers available, so I authorized much looser rules of engagement. The mission remains to engage and kill as many fighters as possible, to destroy weapon/rocket armories, and eradicate their tunnel systems. It’s an ugly fight Gid, block to block in places, but by the time we are done every square inch will be secured before we leave again. This time it’ll take a decade to rebuild after we are through.”
Shalev grimaced at that last thought and knew many civilians would be paying a horrific price for Hamas’ leadership decision to cooperate with the Iranians. He asked, “I know that things look much better in the West Bank. The Palestinian Authority has been more cooperative than we dared hope. Now give me an update on operations up here. It looks like the Americans really caught them off guard.”
Nodding in agreement, Doron wiped his sweating brow with an Army green rag and said, “Yes, the Americans mean business this time. Their carrier planes have been pounding the hell out of the Hezbos, and they have better bunker buster bombs than us, so I have been sending as many targets their way as possible.
But yesterday was the turning point, their Marines stormed into Tyre on the Mediterranean coast and completely surprised and routed a reserve brigade that was forming to defend the coastal highway. Then they combat dropped their 173rd Airborne Brigade in and around Qana. Our 162nd Armored Division had been taking terrible casualties along every fortified village approaching the city. The 401st Armored Brigade alone has lost fifteen tanks in two days.
But when those American paratroopers fell from the sky like armed devils and coupled with close air support they overran several key strongpoints in some rough fighting. Our reserve 401st Armored Brigade punched through this morning and is driving hard for Maarakeh. Intelligence believes there is a major cache of reserve rockets that I intend to destroy be nightfall. Our American friends promise more Marines and perhaps even a brigade from their 10th Mountain Division.”
Shalev then asked the question that every Israeli Prime Minister had to ask…what is the cost. For a nation of eight million and only six million Jews, every death is a tragic loss for the nation. Clearing his throat first, the Prime Minister asked in a more subdued voice, “Very good my friend, the plan is working, but now I must ask, what are our casualties?”
He knew his friend would have to ask the question, so he pulled the most recent numbers from a pocket in his tunic and read them off, “On all three fronts, we have lost 378 killed in action and 489 wounded. The number of civilians is worse as you well know. The last numbers my people gave me were approaching 470. Thank God the Americans have degraded the Iranians missile capabilities, but when we get leakers the effects are devastating.”
“And what about them, how many of the bastards did we kill thus far?”
“You know I don’t like counting the dead like that Gid.”
“Doesn’t matter, our people want to know. The Hezbos have nearly 50,000 fighters, so they will want to know how many will be left before we stop.”
Doron was momentarily drawn to a flight of fighter jets flying overhead, and then spoke with a serious tone in his voice, “More than four thousand confirmed dead, probably many more buried in bunkers. But your making me very nervous Gid. You had better not be talking about stopping anything, I’m not kidding. You promised we either go all the way or nothing. Is that
still the case?”
Shalev knew what his friend was asking and spoke like a soldier, not a stateman, “Ari, I told you to kill every last one of them…destroy their rockets…blow up their guns…seal up their caves and tunnels and give our people ten years of peace. Nothing’s changed. Kill ‘em all. The world can find me guilty of war crimes later. No more of our people should have to die because I was too weak to let you win. Now go my friend and bring our people the victory they deserve.”
The two men embraced warmly and left to shoulder their burden in the days and weeks ahead.
Chapter Twenty Nine
East Garfield section of Chicago, IL
Three loud thumps on the wall were quickly followed up by the loud bellowing voice of her mother, who yelled, “Will you get that child to quiet down. ‘Bout to lose my mind.”
Jada Walker thought to herself, I’m ‘bout to go crazy my own damn self.
Jada yelled right back at her mother, “Momma, watcha think I’s in here do’in? The baby ain’t had nuttin to eat since dis mornin. You be cranky too.”
Jada Walker was seventeen and like many of her friends already a mother. Same sad, tired story. Life in East Garfield was hard and though her mother tried, Jada knew deep down they would all probably be buried in East Garfield. Poverty was all around and despair its ever-present companion that felt like a layer of heavy, wet mugginess that seems to cling to you every waking moment on a summer day.
She worked part-time but with the power out her boss at the Nail Salon sent her home when she came to work today. The power had been out now for two days and like a lot of poor folks in Chicago’s most dangerous neighborhood, the Walker’s were low on food, little cash on hand, and what little local churches could do to help wasn’t going very far in alleviating the need for basic necessities of life. And the locals were getting angry.