A Touch Of War

by Isaac Stormm

  He embraced her, the smooth warmness of her cheek brushing his. Their lips touched. He knew right away it wasn’t the welcoming ‘How was your day, dear?’ kind. The lightness of the touch told him something was on her mind.

  “We need to talk.” She scooted the basket out of the way and headed to the table. He walked to the microwave, unwrapped the food in its butcher paper and set it in the microwave. Fingers beeped its keypad for the appropriate cook time and he shut the door. The machine’s heater started and he caught a whiff of the refreshing smell of linen from the basket. He pulled the chair and sat down at the head of the table next to her.

  She propped a cheek on her hand. “So, how was your day?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t complain. Had some business to take care of. That’s why I didn’t come home for a couple days.” He pulled the tab on the Coke, and took a short gulp while it fizzed. “How were the fireworks?”

  “Fireworks or rockets?” she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “It was her first time in the shelter. She was nervous and kept asking where you were, and were the rockets going to hit you. She held her ears most of the time. I don’t know if any hit the ground.”

  “None did. In fact, it was a drone.” The microwave beeped twice. He scooted the chair out and went to pull the door open. Then he just realized why she seemed spooked. “The Iron Dome missiles’ trajectory took them over this area.”

  “Yes. In the shelter I began to wonder when Tel Aviv will really get hit again. When they’ll outsmart us or just get lucky. What will happen if we can’t stop them?”

  “Hold it.” He sat back down and pulled the wrapping off, taking a quick bite, then washing it down. “She’s going to have to get used to the possibility of the alarms sounding and spending time in the shelter. We have to let her know everybody will be alright.”

  “She’ll believe you more than me. I want you to be the one—”

  “We’ll both sit her down and tell her.” He had the feeling she was concerned beyond the rockets. She was breaking out with the Army wife blues. The never ending battle with absent husbands and the great secrecy guys like him practiced. Worse, he held the top job where such secrets flourished and became actions. Even more so than the MOSSAD.

  “You know, ever since you took this job, you’re gone much more than I imagined. I know when we married there was always going to be some routine that I had to follow. And I don’t mind, except I miss you sitting in the living room with a drink watching TV. You could do that when you were with the Sayaret Matkal because of your rank. With the authority you’ve been given, surely you can pull some arms and get some time off.”

  He took another bite and reached over to rub her cheek. “Maybe sometime soon. The country is going through some strange times, and I have to be up to my neck helping it get through this.” He wanted to smile and needed to. Instead, he gave a little wink as she wiped of a spot of chili from his lips. Now came the time to talk to Sarah.

  Washington, D.C.

  Secretary Mitchell stood before the desk and looked over the couple of single-spaced pages that gave an after-action report of Thunder Saber. Once he finished, it confirmed the feeling he’d had all along. It never had a chance. “After reading this, what was your impression?” He handed it back to the president who laid it on his desk, looked over it briefly again, then set it aside.

  “Close call,” he said. “Never much believed in it myself. Just a waste of resources and an international incident we’ve got to cover up.”

  “If it turns out those crystals are radioactive, their protests aren’t going to carry much weight.” He sat down and clasped his fingers together and twitched them as if he had a nervous tic.

  “Maybe so. But there still will be a lot of convincing to do.” He rubbed his forehead, concentrating on the futility of Thunder Saber and the intriguing nuances of the Iranian proposal. “I’m confused as to why they would want to start negotiations now. You think they are they hiding something?”

  “My own guess is, yes.”

  “Grozner doesn’t think we would read into the Iranians’ ploys. Yet unbeknownst to him, I will admit something before you and the world that may shock you.”

  “All ears.”

  “He has me.” He wondered how Mitchell would take it. “Believe it or not, I’ve been more on his side than you might think. If those crystals are radioactive, I will stand shoulder to shoulder with them at the United Nations. If not, well, we can look forward to more long hours of trying to bargain with Tehran and I got to keep coming up with reasons the Israelis shouldn’t attack. Even so, there might be just the slightest glimmer of hope they’ll give in, and the first thing I’ll demand is they reduce the twenty-four day notification to inspect their facilities. If they can do that then yes, we’ll do business honestly.”

  “But if those negotiations don’t really accomplish anything, shouldn’t there be a deadline on when to use military action?”

  “Just like Gulf war ’91?” The January 16 deadline allowed military action to begin against Iraq after they refused to comply with the U.N. deadline. The attacks started less than 24 hours later. “Might not be a bad idea. I think we could get a few nations. Britain. Maybe some in mainland Europe.”

  “If we could get the Saudis and other Gulf states aboard, it’d be quite formidable.”

  “No diplomacy can do that,” Anderson said. ”No way they’d want to see themselves allied with Israel. So we have to rule out every Arab country.”

  “I’d still like to talk to them.”

  “Go ahead,” Anderson shrugged. He admired Mitchell’s spunk. That’s the main reason he plucked him out of Congress. He was behind numerous bills involving national defense and got several through due to his persistence alone.

  Mitchell rose and went to the door just as the butler opened it, letting Vice President Mason in. The two exchanged greetings in passing and the door shut.

  Anderson turned on the monitor. Up came a tree with the vice president’s name above a layout of every Secretary in the cabinet, Directors and members of the Joint Chiefs arrayed in two scrolling columns. All he had to do was touch one and that recipient received electronic notification to answer. The world’s most efficient pager, he thought. Rube Goldberg for the 21st century.

  “Joe, I got a proposition for you. Sit down.”

  Mason took Mitchell’s chair, crossing his legs for what might be a lengthy discussion.

  “We’ll soon know the results of the Iran mission,” Anderson began. “If they’re radioactive, I’m going to schedule a meeting with Secretary-General the day after tomorrow and be there myself. I know Grozner will be there. It’s only fair we show solidarity. No one knows about it but you and James. I needed to tell you in case something happened. I also want you representing the country to the Arabs if James can get things clicking.”

  “What about the other troubles we have out there?” Mason inquired. “ISIS, Iranian dominated Iraq.”

  “The airstrikes will continue. We can threaten an arms embargo against Bagdhad, to deal with the Iranian influence. We’re supposed to sell them more F16s. Their order can get suspended indefinitely and since we still have their money, we oughta get some more pull.” The Iraqis bled corruption. No one in the government really governed if there was money to be made pretending to. It was a cancer started long before the last U.S. forces pulled out. A coalition government was the only solution and a fantasy. Iraq, when all was said and done, would splinter into three-halves catering to religious or ethnic ways. The Kurds in the north and east, the Shia south and east and Sunni in the west. Unfortunately, the road to this realization threatened chaos beyond that experienced up to now. And it was going to happen no matter who the outside players were.

  “They’ll hammer you in the press.”

  “Then we’ll counter those congressmen with a ‘what’s your plan offensive.’ They know that if they say anything that alludes to putting in thousands of combat troops, they’ll get
an earful from their constituents. Now, that doesn’t mean if somebody has a better plan that I won’t listen to it, but it gets awful quiet because theirs involves a reinvasion. And what the hell are we debating this for, Joe? We don’t have much of a damn choice.”

  “I concur,” he agreed.

  He didn’t want to get snippy, but the sour taste that region gave him always did. There was no way around it. It was his albatross around the neck. Heavy and pulling him down into the mire. He vowed right then and there to stay afloat.

  “I’ll let Mitchell sell it. I’ll call the Speaker of the House when it comes time. He’s a firm but fair man. A whole lot easier going than the bastards in the senate.”

  “You sound like Nixon.”

  “Except Nixon’s arrogance is what brought him down.” Anderson grinned and rolled his fingertips continuously, like a nervous wave on the desk. “I’m neither arrogant nor paranoid. He also didn’t face a world as uncertain as we do.”

  “And men will become faint out of fear,” Mason said.

  “Say again?”

  “Nothing, just a verse from the Bible. I don’t know if it’s an Old or New Testament saying in the last days what mankind’s mood will be.”

  “This isn’t the Apocalypse either,” Anderson warned. “At least I hope not until it can be blamed on the Republicans.” He tapped his fingers slower. “Listen, when the Israelis call, it’ll filter from me on down. Not until every agency head is briefed will I ring Congress. Understood.”

  “Crafty.”

  “Like the bin Landen photos. Only a select few will see, and I want those congressmen that do, put on notice when it comes to secrecy. I don’t want no damn surprise questions popping up from the press for anybody in the cabinet.”

  Mason shrugged. “I’d say we can arrange that.”

  “Very good,” Anderson said, pleased at the result

  Chapter Twelve

  Tel Aviv

  May 19

  4:55 A.M.

  He lay there looking into the infinite dark. The door was closed. In the adjacent hall, not even the rays of the soft, but weak, night light snuck under the door jamb to define shape for anything. Foxmann wanted it this way, closing it after Anna was asleep. He wanted no distractions for the three hours or less rest he managed up to now.

  The future looked eventful for Depth Corps, he thought. Opportunities awaited to show just how capable they were, compared to the other Special Operations units, even the Israeli ones. The next major step was to spearhead the assault into Iran that he intended to lead. No more stealthy ways. They planned to fly right through the shattered remains of the country’s air defenses after the aircraft knocked them out, and land near a mountain outside the city of Qom. Beneath the mountain lay a nuclear enrichment facility that may be measured in miles. He shot some numbers though his mind about time on the ground. He wanted no more than thirty as there was a division-sized unit with less than an hour’s drive. Wishful thinking. They needed at least an hour. Given the unknown size of the target, if things went well, take out the site’s security quick, blow the blast doors to breach, and secure any workers. Next came the critical important part, grabbing any intel, blowing the control room and the centrifuges. How many centrifuges? Conservative estimates said maybe a hundred. Other estimates went up to three thousand. If it were the latter, he’d need more units than just Depth Corps. His old group, the Sayerat Matkal, might provide perimeter security, while they worked inside. Each of the Corpsmen would be equipped with several small explosive charges linked to a remote detonator. He’d blow it himself once the place was cleared and the helicopter was taking off. If there were glitches, the explosives would have back up detonators synchronized to explode at a specified time.

  Qom was situated 97 miles to the Southwest of Tehran. Something stumped him just then. Fuel bladders. Like the Americans had in the operation to rescue hostages in 1980. They’d need C-130s to land and offload the cargo. That meant more personnel and a stern guarantee from the Air Force that no antiaircraft guns or missiles could interfere. Impossible. There must be a better way. And it forced him up in the bed.

  He looked at the clock. 4:58. Two minutes to its alarm. He pressed the button to stop it, went to the closet, got the green duty uniform, and shut himself in the bathroom. There, taking off his pajamas, he thought over the new plan, trying to mentally solve the numbers and margins of error that existed to carry it out. Nothing changed on the way they would assault the mountain. Just how they got in and out of the target area…C-130s. Yes. Why didn’t he think of this before? Three aircraft could carry all the men. Desert dune buggies could also go. Strapped to them would be even more equipment including explosives. It was quicker, more dangerous, but he reckoned not any more than the helicopters, which involved transporting them slowly via air to Azerbaijan. Yes. The alternative sounded much better. He planned to sell it today no matter what the lab said of the crystals.

  He finished buttoning up his shirt and opened the door to see Anna standing there.

  “I’ll fix breakfast,” she said, yawning and stretching her arms. “Biscuits?”

  “Yes. With jam,” he said, perked up and alert. He followed her into the hall past Sarah’s bedroom, skirting the living room furniture, and turned on the light.

  “I will tell you about all this someday.” He knew the non-disclosure agreement he signed long ago in the Sayeret Matkal prevented him from doing that. He was going to break it though, when the right time came. He trusted her just as much as his men trusted him. She would tell no one. But he needed to make sure enough time passed by and that he reminded her several times prior to its lead up as to what the penalties were if someone found out.

  She nodded, yawning, breaking the seal on the can of biscuits. She scooped out the five lumps of dough, lining them up on a tray then put them into a small toaster oven. “Coffee?”

  He got up and switched on the pot. The premixed formula began to spew its warmth in bursts before a steady heat brought it up to temperature. Retrieving the jam, thoughts passed to the day’s business. Wait for the lab results. Then wait for Grozner’s order to Depth Corps to prepare to attack Iran. If, as he suspected, the lab results were positive.

  Those crystals stymied him. A few grains of salt determining the fate of nations. Why were they radioactive salt? Why not dirt? He couldn’t come up with anything. He wanted to study the subject more. If they detonated an atomic explosive in a salt mine, he needed to know the reason. He set the jam down, got a cup, and poured himself the fresh liquid. Taking a gentle swig kept it from burning his lips. Anna said something, but he wasn’t listening. Now this was a new subject he wanted to find out all about. The reason the Iranians used the site. There could be a thousand different ones. No. Too complicated. The answer to this one he was sure was the simplest of all. As the day progressed, he planned on knowing it.

  Then she said it again, her voice a little higher. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “No. What was it?” he said, just a little embarrassed.

  “I said we should go to the park this weekend. Pack a lunch, stuff like that.”

  “I should be able to get in on it.” He hoped she wasn’t irked by his faulty attention span. So he set the cup down and went to look at the biscuits, watching their tops start to turn to a golden crisp.

  “You know I was just thinking. It’s been a while since we’ve been to the park. It’ll be fun watching her.” She turned off the oven, and pulled out the tray with a mitten. “She’ll probably want to take one of her friends though.”

  “I don’t mind.” He shook his head. He needed to see his iPad before he left for the day; he wanted to Google some random words that might lead him to why the salt mine was used. Somewhere on the Internet was the answer.

  “You still want all five?”

  “Yes.” He watched her set them on a plate and took them from her to the table. She reached into a cabinet and retrieved cereal and a bowl. She shook the cornflakes to make sure
there was enough to fill to the rim. She added just enough milk to sop the flakes and sat down, as he parted the biscuits, rubbing the jam in.

  He needed to ask her. He’d been putting it off the entire week. Couldn’t get the courage. So he did without thinking. “You have second thoughts about me and this job, don’t you?”

  She raised her brow, surprised. “It comes with the territory,” she said and downed a spoonful. “However, I have to admit when you were in the other unit, you seemed more attentive.”

  He didn’t need that, but that’s how she saw it. He knew he gave off the wrong signals. “This new job has taken some unexpected turns, of late.” He bit into the sweetened biscuit’s layers, letting its warm taste fill his mouth. He swallowed quick, then continued, “I thought I knew that when it was offered. The responsibility is a challenge, but I’m meeting it.” He sounded like a recruit reciting his oath. How juvenile, he thought. And foolish. That’s not going to help, and she was always damn good at reading between the lines to see that something big was up. She did this back in the 2006 Lebanon incursion and pieced together that he had been in combat from the start, infiltrating days ahead of the main assault. How? Because he spoke about his authority, and he seemed distant at times. And to his shock, at this very table, she ended up telling him of what his mission likely was and when it started. Not because she was privy to secrets, but because she reads up on the Sayeret and came to read any signal he gave off. “I’m not that good of a liar, am I?” he confessed.

  “No. So you must have been—”

  “In a battle? No. That I will promise you.” He needed to throw her something to ward off her probes. “I’ve had to travel throughout the country these last days, checking the combat status of units.” He hoped that did it. “Some are not making the cut, and I have to find out why.