by Isaac Stormm
“They won’t and we need you to be prepared for that.”
“We won’t get egg on our face again. Not like we did with the previous agreement. I believe this is the agreement being made the reality that it should’ve been.”
“I’m afraid of the future. That you may not stand with us when we need you the most.”
“Lay your fears to rest. I’ve given the warning to them that if they deny us anything else, we pull the team out, and make Iran accountable on the floor of the U.N. In other words, we’re still in the driver’s seat with this thing.”
“I know you will do your best. Can I have your word right now, to allay myself and my cabinet that you shall stand by us?”
The air he breathed seemed to turn cold. Bad thoughts, beyond what his mind wanted to fight waited. “Forgive me, but you sound nervous, Mister Grozner. Never heard you speak so emphatically about our nations’ relationship.” He was going to try it again. “Is there something you want to tell me, but can’t because of secrecy?”
“No, Mister Anderson. I just wanted a reassuring discussion.”
What the hell kind of hint was he dropping? “Have you heard it thus far?”
“Halfway, I think. I know there remain many questions we both want answered. I shall not pester you further.”
Something foreboding fell through his conscious. Grozner wanted to tell them something. In his own way, he gave the signals. Only he couldn’t read them. They remained garbled.
“The assurances you gave us at the U.N. and now, I will take that as enough.”
No, he didn’t, Anderson’s train of thought kept running in circles. Don’t leave me hanging like this, you’re up to something. But all he could say was, “Thank you, Prime Minister.”
“I bid you a good afternoon.”
He almost missed him saying that. His mind was so latched onto the clues that he almost forgot the farewell. “Good evening to you.” When Grozner hung up, he pressed another button. “James? It was Mitchell. What time did our inspection team leave exactly?”
“About an hour and a half ago.”
“Recall it.”
“Damn,” Grozner said to himself. “What a terrible performance. My God, did you just give it all away? Why did I sound so nervous? Mentioning the inspection team threw me off. I fumbled for words. Now he knows something is going on. I cannot stop it, though. Everything is in motion now. A few hours and it all comes to pass. It won’t be stopped. He lowered his forehead to his hand, rubbing it. The weight of worry almost drug him down. He stopped rubbing, leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. He pressed the button for Metzer. When he answered, he straightened up. “The Americans may be on to us. My concern is that they’ll try to intercept our force. It is all my fault. If something goes wrong, I will post my resignation.”
“What’s happened?”
“I may have accidentally spilled the bag. Unintentionally, mind you, but Anderson might figure it out.”
“Shall I postpone?”
“No. Nothing will change tonight nor tomorrow. We have to assume the Americans will be on a heightened state of alert and will watch the region closely.” He waited a second then went on. “We may have to come up with an alternative route.” He wanted to start cursing.
“We have alternative routes. They’ll use more fuel, and run greater risk of detection.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to. It is my fault.” His voice elevated. He wanted to walk out right then.
“Take it easy, Ariel. Everything will work out. I’ll inform the squadron leaders. As for Foxmann’s people, we’ll keep their route the same. They’re too far north for American patrols.”
He flipped up the laptop cover. “Send me the alternate routes.”
Ramat David Air Force Base
Israel
10:49 P.M.
“Please sit,” Foxmann asked.
One hundred ninety-nine men sat down in rows on the warm and smooth hangar floor. Foxmann looked them over. All faces were blackened, smeared with grease paint. They were kitted out with everything they’d been carrying over these many weeks. On their heads they wore bicycle-styled ballistic helmets. The side portions were exposed with headphones and boom microphones. A night vision goggle was attached to the helmet’s front and ready to be flipped down. Grenades, both the high explosive and stun type, as well as plastic explosives and breaching charges, fitted in custom attachments on body armor that matched their uniforms. Also attached were the multiple magazines and blow out kit, Leatherman tool and spare compartment for their flashlight which was tonight mounted on the railed forearm of their weapon. On their backs were small day packs which contained a Camelbak water reservoir and extra ammunition.
They lay the MK18 carbines on their laps. Each one had the suppressor attached. Their aimpoint red dot was backed up by a 3x magnifier which folded out of the way behind the sight. A foregrip let them use their thumb to activate the tail switch of the flashlight.
“For the last time.” He was met with applause and chuckled at their humor. He’d already lost count of how many times they’d been through the mission briefing since arriving at 5:30.
“I want you to raise your hands and give me answers this time,” he exhorted. “Who secures the landing site?”
“Able detachment,” they all responded in unison, like the fight cry of a sports team.
“After we arrive at Qom’s western fence, how many detachments penetrate?” One person this time.
Up went a hand from the back, “One detachment.”
“What do they do?”
Another hand went up in the middle. “Takes out guard tower and any guards on the ground and breaches fence. Once clear, the rest follow through the holes in the fence.”
“Who clears the buildings?”
“Five of the ten detachments.”
“Where do we shut the power off?” Qom had three power substations isolated from any other power grid.
“In building by mountain entrance. In building next to barracks. Final substation in mountain is allowed to remain on while we plant charges.”
“When do the vehicles come in?”
“After the successful breach of the mountain’s reinforced door.”
“How do we get out?”
“Through same holes in the fence unless an alternative egress is needed.”
He paused a second, nodding. “Well. You’re as ready as we can make you. Nothing left now except to see the mission through.”
A thunderous applause went up.
“Remember, you are the bricklayers for Depth Corps. All those who come after will have you to thank. Failure will not be tolerated.” He turned away for a second then turned back. “God be with us.”
Engines wheezed to life behind them, though barely heard through the massive door.
Foxmann pointed to someone by the hangar switch as if to say “You’re on.” The man pressed a button and the giant door began to part. Coming into view were the large silhouettes of C-130 Hercules, facing away from them with their cavernous rear cargo doors opened and a dim light shining from within.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
The men leaped to their feet, no matter how loaded down they were. They exhibited a spryness played over throughout the centuries of men eager for battle. Not only that, they were the Spartans of their era, the best of the best, whose game is war.
Foxmann picked up his MK18. Somebody tapped him on his shoulder.
He turned and saw Grozner there. Expressionless, but it looked like he had tears welling.
“I wanted to see you off. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not,” Foxmann replied, slipping on his gloves.
Grozner extended his hand. The weight of the moment made Foxmann pull his right glove back off. Flesh to flesh. He gripped the man’s hand tight and shook it for several seconds. Then he smiled and put the glove back on.
“Good luck, my friend.”
“I’ll see you t
omorrow.” He tried to slay whatever emotion Grozner might be feeling to make him sound sentimental. He put his helmet on, turned and walked briskly out into the dark air, rife with fumes and the stern wind blowing over his face by the engines. He caught the end of the men and waited at the cargo door, watching the other two shut theirs. Then he walked up the steep ramp passing by one of the vehicles, then two, then three, multiple straps securing each. He sat down in a canvas webbed seat, or what the Air Force called a seat, looked around the hold and saw his men seated, silent, and looking straight ahead. Not a single one trying for conversation.
The loadmaster walked up the ramp which sounded a deep buzz as it began raising. The night disappeared around the edges of the ramp as it closed and then it locked, shutting out the decibels of the props making them become a dull, almost relaxing, tone.
The taxi lights came on. A mixture of amber and red pulsations on the wings and the fuselage. The chocks were pulled away and the first, Foxmann’s bird, began to ease forward.
Foxmann felt the earth moving underneath him, a slow almost walking pace off the ramp. It continued another minute then he felt it turning onto the runway.
“This is it,” he yelled out.
The aircraft strained forward and Foxmann felt the ground beginning to rush by faster. It stayed this way for several seconds, then it jumped into the air in a shallow climb, gravity pulling at him as it banked a little to the left to circle the base until the other two joined it in echelon formation. Then, the trio made one more wide circle and shut their lights off, rumbling onward toward the Mediterranean.
Foxmann pulled up his rifle, checked the red dot, flipped the magnifier up behind it and pointed it toward the ground. Yes. Everything was zeroed out from 25 to 250 meters.
Washington, D.C.
The Situation Room
8:03 P.M.
Everyone was there. The cabinet that convened when Iran detonated the bomb sat straight up in their chairs, looking at the screen at the end of the table featuring the Middle East. Suddenly, it zoomed to just a few countries with Israel on the far left and Iran on the right. Syria and Iraq were the focus of the discussion.
James Mitchell began the narrative. “The most likely routes for their penetration would take them through northern Syria, northern Iraq where I suspect once crossing the border with Iran, they would break off into several smaller groups. They would focus on what we have identified as five major targets, all of them related to the nuclear program. The suspicion is, after hitting the targets, they may very well recover in Azerbaijan. It might be far out, but it is viable nonetheless. The question is, Mr. President, that we have aircraft capable of intercepting them based in Syria and in our carrier out in the Persian Gulf.”
“We try to stop them, I have a feeling we’re going get into one hell of an air battle. From what I know about Grozner, he’d try to push on through us.” He contemplated. “But, if he changed his mind, we might prevent World War III.” He paused again, shaking his head. “God, I wish I wasn’t here right now having to make decisions like this.”
“It might be the best course of action,” Mason added. “If we did have to battle them, I’m sure it would at least turn them back no matter what the outcome.”
Anderson tapped his cheek with a finger, eyes looking down. It might as well have been a hammer. That’s what it felt like. A pressure he knew John F. Kennedy struggled with during the Cuban missile crisis. Nonetheless, he must be resolute. “All right, this is what I propose. I want our planes in the air regularly, which means we’ll have to have to do it in shifts. So, I want this done for the next forty-eight hours. I’d at least like to be able to pick them up before they were in Iraq. That would give us enough time to warn them continuously, and they wouldn’t have so far to go if they had to turn back.”
“If there’s nothing we can do to stop them, and they do attack, I like to recommend beforehand, moving one of our carriers from the med into the Persian Gulf,” Mitchell said.
“See to it.” He knew he needed to contact Grozner and warn him about what they were going to do. He needed to be as diffusive as he could be even if the jets were already in the air. Let him know he lost his secrecy.
“I predict his explanation will be one of playing dodgeball. But, at least he’ll know we’re up there too,” Seth Greene said.
“I’ll do it right here,” Anderson explained. He raised the laptop screen and looked squarely at the little round hole in the top. He turned the computer on, waited a minute for warm-up then typed in the code requesting Grozner.
“Mister President? This is Grozner. What can I do for you at this late hour?” There was no image of Grozner on the screen, just his voice sounding through the speaker.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Prime Minister. But there are a lot of us on edge right now. We are convinced that you’re going to strike Iran at any moment.”
Grozner chuckled. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t you want to start inspecting again?”
“Yes, I do. But somehow I think it will be all for naught. Just to be safe, we’re going to patrol the air corridors over Syria and Iraq. This is done as a precaution to keep both of our countries out of something I believe is not necessary right now.”
“Do as you wish.”
“Thank you, Mister Prime Minister. If such actions are underway or planned to be underway, I urge you once again to err on the side of caution.”
“I shall do that, Mister Anderson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some rest.”
“Good night and I hope you’ll take what I said to heart.”
“Yes. Of course I will.”
Tel Aviv, Israel
Situation Room
Grozner clicked the phone off and stretched his arms out.
“The man is persistent,” Philpot smiled, hoping Grozner would send one back. Instead he just looked again at the map of the Middle East. The bright red dots representing the strike force had just crossed into Saudi Arabia as per the alternative route. They’d been in the air around 20 minutes already, and were making good time. No interference from the Jordanians, the ones whose airspace they crossed into first, nor the Saudis whose land they were over at this point.
He wanted to start cursing. In his mind he already was. At himself and no one else. He caused this. The whole bloody thing. If there were many casualties, he would post his resignation tomorrow. Everyone’s future right now was in the hands of those young men at the controls of their American-made aircraft. How magnificent was it to have such men. The kind he had long aspired to be but never became. He would’ve traded places with any of them. Oh, to be young and doing this for your country, that’s what it was all about.
He began thinking about how tonight started. With the saying goodbye of Foxmann and his boys. The first reports that jets entered Jordan by disguising their voices in Arabic, that they were in the Jordanian Air Force on a training mission. The same thing when they crossed into Saudi Arabia. No one challenged them. He prayed the rest of the night went in such manner.
He looked at his watch. Foxmann had departed about an hour and thirty minutes ago. They should be reaching the Caspian Sea seven. The arrangement was such that everyone is going to be hearing how their mission went as all the others were taking place around them. This was the most important target. Grozner wanted to make sure everyone heard the action after they assaulted. Even planned on releasing clips to the news tomorrow if they were sanitized enough.
Chapter Seventeen
Over The Caspian Sea
May 24
1:48 A.M.
Foxmann finished inspecting one of his men’s go pro cameras. Each squad had a setup like this. To film for later evaluation and see if anything new could be learned. He also knew Grozner and all the other politicians and members of the Israeli elite wanted to see what they saw. He decided against piping it live back to them for they might end up seeing some of his own men dead. Grozner didn’t object over that. Absent the dead Israelis,
they would be shocked to find out that it really wasn’t like Hollywood even though they’d been told as much. The simple truth about combat was terror and excitement rolled into one with each emotion playing off the other. If you could control the emotions, which you learned how to do through training, you became formidable indeed. Able to make quick decisions while others hesitated. That was the best attribute. Often, that is what decided between life and death. Why did he have to remind himself? He knew that. Still, it was good to know everyone around him thought just as he did and were capable of making those decisions even faster than expected.
The C-130s began to form up line abreast to begin their descent. The air was clear of clouds and at 6,000 feet, they were almost ready to start their shallow dive. In this case, they were going to do something that had never been tried with an aircraft so large. They were to turn the engines off and glide the remaining miles and land side by side in the smooth sparse desert a mere one and a half miles from the plant.
The dark brown coastline slipped past below, an errant cloud low and wide covered most of it. The three planes penetrated it and held their formation. Then lights twinkled at them from the small villages dotting the coast.
No warnings about radar tracking or missile flights rang in the cockpits.
“We’re over Iran,” the pilot said over the radio.
So far so good, Foxmann thought. There are Israelis over Iran. A gap has been created in the defenses. Our jets are already in enemy airspace. Good job. Things look hopeful.
Foxmann thought back to the engineless landing. It had been a spur of the moment almost last minute decision he’d suggested after watching the Longest Day, when the British commenced D-Day operations in the dead of night with aircraft that made no sound. Gliders. They navigated these by using the outline of terrain to come to rest no further than fifty yards away from their target, a small bridge. Well, tonight was their turn.