by Isaac Stormm
He let the heat of the sun warm his chest. He needed to call Anna and break the news to her. She'd have to go to the festivities alone. He had done this time and again but he’d never missed an Independence Day event with his family. It was one of the few times he could leave the job here and just be a husband and a father.
What a lie.
He knew he never left it. It was part of him. He turned away and went to the desk. He scooted back the chair and sat down, looking over at the picture on the wall of himself, wife Anna, and four-year-old daughter Sarah, which he strategically positioned so that whenever he felt down or concerned, like now, he could look across and be assured of better days ahead. He rubbed his chin, feeling the start of stubble which he noticed occurred faster when he had to think of something he could not resolve. And that was if what Grozner had told him was true, this ground which grew as much with the blood of Jews as with rain from heaven, now faced a threat far greater than when the Romans scattered them into the world nearly 2000 years ago.
Quite a plateful for somebody barely a month into his job. He was six two, average build but a little on the wiry side. His face was thin with a nose that looked right at home making him look more like a philosopher than soldier, but he was made for moments like this. Like when he was a boy growing up in North Carolina, under the eyes of his American Gentile father and Israeli Jewish mother. Often playing protector of his younger friends from bullies, he caught the service bug early and joined the Civil Air Patrol when he was a teenager. The campouts provided the fun moments, apart from the arduos hiking trying to find downed aircraft one too many times. These travels, seeing the human form crushed, burned, or both, into grotesque shapes amid twisted wreckage tempered him when as a man he would see, and be responsible for, far worse.
He attended college at Wake Forest on an academic scholarship, where he joined the R.O.T.C. and climbed the chain of command while becoming fluent in his major-Military History. After graduation, it set him up for the next big move in life, heading to Israel on the wings of his dad’s job, which saw the family relocate to a moderately affluent subdivision in Tel Aviv. Here, before they even settled in, he left to join the army and applied as an officer. He decided to go infantry, which he did for four years, guarding and patrolling the area around the Golan Heights, the undulating hills of which Israel annexed after the 1967 war. It was boring and he wanted more.
He was recruited as a Captain into the Special Forces, Sayeret Matkal, and immediately knew it was for him. Selected for cross-border operations more times than he could count, he became fluent in Arabic first and then after hours studying Farsi, could speak it like a native. His linguistic skills came in handy when targeting Iranian advisors to Hezbollah in Lebanon or working undercover as a Palestine Liberation Organization operative in the West Bank which, if he had a full beard, he could pass convincingly as a resident. Back in Lebanon he also helped take down PLO combatants which left a sour taste in his mouth. Taking them down often meant entering their family homes and taking them in full view of their wives and children. They often didn’t kill them, but when they did, it bothered him and the others. They didn’t fashion themselves killers and certainly would take offense if someone accused them. It was an undeclared war waging since 1948, but it didn’t make it any easier and he wanted something different. In 2006, the incursion into Lebanon to hit Hezbollah, provided him with his first continuous combat service, which saw him awarded for taking out a high ranking operative who coordinated the murderous ambush zones that held up Israeli tanks and infantry. When the conflict ended, there was plenty of dead Hezbollah but Israel had little more to show the world than that. And hushed whispers in the ranks spoke of defeat at their hands.
Then he received word that a new organization in the Special Forces called Depth Corps was being created. He jumped at the chance, and reveled in the new mission statement of expeditionary operations beyond Lebanon, the West Bank, and Gaza. He hand-selected many of the current members as deputy commander and the one in charge of personnel additions. Then one year into the job, the opening to become commander occurred and at his men’s urging, he applied. And to his surprise, he was chosen. They gave him all authority. They gave him a code name: Perseus. And they gave him future responsibility for the most special of operations ceded to him by the government. Now it had all come full circle and he thought he’d have to pinch himself twice to convince himself here he was with the biggest calamity in his lap.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Yes?"
The knob turned, and in stepped Major Nero Betzer, Depth Corps's deputy commander who Foxmann had appointed for the position. "You got a minute?"
"Yeah. Sit down. I need to ask you some questions."
Known only by his first name around the unit, he looked as if he had a perpetual tan, darkened even more by his olive drab uniform. Five foot eight, curly black hair and a nose perfect for his modelesque face, his appearance belied his intensity. Like Foxmann, he was all business if not inquisitive.
"When are you going to get these damn things replaced?" The chair’s wooden back and stiff upholstery with lumps portrayed the austere nature of the room better than anything else.
"It's necessary to keep people alert," Foxmann said, a half-truth. "Besides, you'll need it because there's been some new developments that we need to keep our eye on."
Nero leaned forward, arms folding over his thighs. "Grozner again. He got you worried?"
The response took Foxmann by surprise. "How the hell did you—"
"Everybody in the unit knows you’ve been visiting him lately. We figured it out a few days ago when you left right in the middle of your speech, remember?" Foxmann resisted an answer, instead letting Nero confirm it. "No one, not even General Morris, can get you to like that . Correct?"
He didn't bother to respond. "All I can say is, this unit may become, shall we say, quite active in the coming days.”
"Something big," Nero said, scratching his cheek. "Since we only do short jaunts with small teams into Lebanon and Syria, and Iraq is currently not one of our problems, I assume it's their neighbors to the east. Iran."
Foxmann nodded, knowing that was all that was needed.
Nero's heart appeared to sink, he looked down at the floor then fixed on Foxmann's expressionless face. "Dear God.” He shook his head, mouth stiffened with concern.
"A few hours ago. Seismic stations picked it up. At this point, Grozner is worried, after talking with the Americans, that they may not be reliable."
"But can we afford to be alone this time? I hope Grozner can get the message across to them.”
"That might be all we have at this point. Anderson's been removing America's footprint from the Middle East ever since they left Iraq. Now, with the caliphate established and the Sunnis and Shias killing each other in great big bloody batches, I don't think he nor the American people have the stomach for something that could be far worse." Foxmann mused for a moment. "We may be at the crossroads. The defining moment for Israel will be what occurs in the next few days." His eyes lowered, looking through Nero.
Nero offered a counterpoint. "Alone then. Whichever it may be."
"Spoken like a true patriot." A smile lifted from the edge of Foxmann's lip. "But I have a feeling that this unit is going to be called to action possibly within hours. I know you didn't want to hear that, and I hope I'm wrong. But I have a feeling Grozner is going to be compelled to provide more proof to Anderson. By the way, have you heard anything else from David?"
"Coming back this evening."
Gil David was third in command of Depth Corps and at present working as a liaison to Duvdevan, the unit that operated undercover in the occupied territories. They had been waging an effective counterterror campaign against Hamas for years, and had stepped up the effort further in recent weeks due to an increase in rocket attacks against the kibbutzim's that hugged the boundary fence between the two peoples along the West Bank and Gaza. Foxmann also knew the Iron
Dome system, the last layer of Israel’s three-layer anti-missile system, nullified over ninety percent of Hamas’s rocket barrages, making what was once a threat little more than a nuisance. Still, there was the matter of how Hamas kept getting an ample supply and a real fear they might create a guidance system for the rockets that would allow them to fire multitudes and have some of them evade Iron Dome. It was for this reason Duvdevan, and now Depth Corps, kept busy, and David was the best man for the job.
“I’ll be there for the debrief,” Foxmann said.
Nero rose, shooting him a quick nod. “I hope you have better news then.” He started to exit then turned “By the way, this may be the wrong time to ask it; do you think there’s still a chance we will be able to attend the celebrations tonight?” He chuckled.
“If we can move heaven and earth.” A whimsical smile grew at the corner of his liip. Nero shut the door. Foxmann looked again at his wife and daughter. The picture was absent of him, just as he had been absent at his daughter’s birth because that very day, he was egressing into the outskirts of Beirut, Lebanon in Arab disguise just after he had assassinated a high-level Hezbollah commander. Though not really a member of the inner ring of the terrorist group command structure, his fortunes were expected to rise rapidly after the bomb Foxmann’s team planted in his mentor’s car detonated that morning as he made his daily trek to go to work at a bank which served as a front funneling Iranian money into Hezbollah’s coffers. He had played a similar role taking out Sheik Ahmed Yassin in 2004 as the wheelchair-bound Hamas leader left a funeral procession. Again dressed like the natives, he found himself looking out of the top floor of one the thousands of graying, dilapidated apartment buildings that crammed Gaza, and, using a handheld laser designator, painted a beam on the back of the man’s chair upon which a Hellfire missile plunged down. A burst of flame and smoke and the old man, along with his bodyguards, disintegrated. Now Hamas made sure to never reveal a leader of the organization in public again, requiring Israel to put more feet on the ground and increase electronic eavesdropping to confirm the leadership, which they did. No further action occurred. The Knessett adopted a hands-off policy unless Hamas struck Israel, which it had on many occasions since 2004 with its indiscriminate rocket waves. The soft approach backfired, the Hamas leadership became wise and much like a ghost, appeared and disappeared with alarming frequency, hiding among the sympathetic three million Palestinians lusting for Jewish blood, waiting for the right moment to take advantage of something, anything they could pin on the Jews.
He picked up the receiver and instinctively began dialing before catching himself pressing the last two numbers. He needed Anna. Wanted to tell her, knowing full well he never could. Despite the fact that when she asked him, knowing she’d always be rebuffed, he found through careful words, ways to convey his feelings. She knew there was a tender side wanting to come out and that was what duty always suffocated. All the better, he surmised. You don’t want to know what I’ve done. He set the receiver back down. It rang. He switched on the intercom. “Yes?”
“Jessy, there’s a meeting scheduled for seven p.m. tonight at my residence. I need you there. Philpot has a plan. He needs your input.” He sensed he was there in the office with Grozner.
“Seven p.m.” He heard the man hang up. He picked up the receiver again and dialed. It rang four times before a recording of Anna’s voice spoke. “Damn it.” No chance of making it tonight.
Prime Minister’s Office
“How many squadrons for the actual mission?” Several numbered units, along with the types of aircraft assigned, appeared on the flat screen display sitting to Grozer’s right.
Air Force Chief of Staff Micah Bayer placed his iPad down on the man’s desk. He had the same image as the prime minister and maneuvered his finger to highlight the units requested.
“The 107th, 119th and the 201st squadrons, each with twenty four F-16 Sufas. A photograph of the jet appeared beside the squadron rundown. “And from the 69th, twenty five F-15 Ra’ams.”
Grozner knew enough to guess that the F-15 was the spearhead. It possessed the greatest range, greatest payload and best capabilities. “These will go in first, I assume.”
“Yes. However, all units will hit their targets with a deviation of less than one minute.”
“Our plan B, again.”
“We’ve determined it’s feasible. All it needs is your authorization.”
“And the cabinet’s. I will not attempt this without a consensus.”
Bayer nodded. “Of course.”
Grozner’s eyes scrolled over the units, highlighting each one with a mouse and looking at pictures of their commanders. He had already gone through this drill time and again over a year ago, and noticed a couple of the squadron commanders had either transferred or retired. He was reassured that the leader of the 69th, the overall commander of the strike group, Amir Kadish, remained. “I know his family. His grandparents went up in smoke at Treblinka, along with mine. Our survivors immigrated to Israel just in time to fight for independence,” he said, looking at Bayer.
“Once they take off, you and I just become spectators. The fate of our nation will ride in those cockpits."
Bayer reassured him. “They’re our best. They’ll see it through.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to sound suspect, Micah. I just wish it was different times, that’s all. Where a man like me was not the one to send our people out on such a dangerous job.” He rose, motioning to him. “Come here, I want to show you something.” They walked to the window that looked out over Tel Aviv. Hands in his pockets, Grozner tipped his head toward the city skyline. “Out there, millions of Israelis are going about their daily business. We found a way to act normal after all we’ve been through. Everyone in this part of the world would like to finish what Hitler started. Yet, we shrug it off and do only what a just and civilized people are capable of doing. Do you know what that is?”
Micah seemed curious. “No.”
“Living. That is what separates us from them. That is what we try to impress upon the rest of the world, but they refuse to hear it. It’s ingrained in their nature to despise us, even though were a reflection of Western civilization, stuck out here in an ancient outpost surrounded by a sea of hatred. When this mission goes off, the world will condemn us while silently breathing a sigh of relief that we had the courage to act, just like in Iraq in 1981. Remember what Reagan said when told privately what we had done?”
“He said boys will be boys.”
“Yes. The stakes weren’t as high then. And Reagan was far more sympathetic than Anderson.”
“He will have no choice but to join us if the strike occurs.”
“Don’t be so sure. My gut feeling is he will allow the United States to participate in a limited number of military actions against Iran, then try to get a cease-fire as soon as possible like they did in Gaza. Meantime, the Iranians will filter their military into Iraq, inflame the Shia population there, and pledge a jihad toward Jerusalem.”
Bayer stepped in. “Won’t ISIS mess up their plans?” He was referring to the Sunni Al Qaeda offshoot who surprised the Americans by raising an army to take over most of Iraq, squandering all the blood spilled by their soldiers for seven years.
“Hopefully. There is something that’s… I don’t know, I thought about this over the years.” He paused for a moment, and looked down at the carpet. “No.” His tone darkened, becoming almost silent. “They could never do it.”
Bayer waited for him to speak. Instead Grozner smiled, “No matter. Just thinking back to my days in the Air Force when we ran worst-case scenarios. One of those we ran was by Moshe Dayan just after we won independence. Everyone who looked at it thought the man was generalizing too much.” He shook his head as if waking himself from a trance. “Anyway. No matter, just musings from long ago.”
Bayer wished the man completed the thought. He’d been in all kinds of war-game scenarios himself, and had never heard of Moshe Dayan’s propo
sed secret mission.
“Make sure you notify our contacts and get the wheels moving in Azerbaijan. We need all of our weapon and fuel supplies in place when our planes land. I want them on the ground there for the shortest time as possible.”
“I’ll see to it.”
The White House
Oval Office
“Sir, I think you need to see this.” Krause handed the two pages over to Anderson and sat down on the sectional couch facing his boss. He’d known about the reports for some time. Rumors really. The C.I.A had been reluctant to pursue them so he used the N.S.A. and their confirmation startled even him.
“Son of a bitch.” Anderson’s brow raised. He read quickly over the single-spaced page, seeing Mitchell’s name framed in parentheses at the start of each line and quotations of his sentences. The recipient of his words held an Arabic name, someone he’d never heard of. At the rate he read, it looked as if he was glancing. The darting of his eyes said otherwise. He absorbed it all, flipping the page over its staple and reading down partway where the printout ended in random words giving the appearance of a code “How long have they been listening to us?”
“Ever since Mitchell met with the Muslim Brotherhood about fourteen months ago. That’s him speaking with Saleem Adwan. He was one of the moderates we tried to use some influence on.”
Why did the Israelis do it? He knew an unhappy Egypt overthrew the Brotherhood in 2013, due to the faltering economy and its attempt to institute Sharia law, the rigid and restrictive interpretation of the Quran that bordered on slavery, especially among women. Members of the sect fled the country or went into hiding. Some of the prominent ones, as he assumed Adwan was, found themselves under arrest. Regardless, he knew their numbers remained large enough that their return hovered like a specter over their society. He suspected that at the time, the Israelis were keen on finding out any dealings in case the U.S. cozied up with the ones whose president once said that the Jews were descendants of apes and pigs. His repeated assurances to the Israeli ambassador’s phone calls apparently were ignored. He had promised them their security remained paramount and their fears were baseless. They didn’t believe it. “I will raise this with Grozner today.”