A Touch Of War

by Isaac Stormm

  The photos they were shown in the op room depicted a series of dugouts topped by tin roofs and surrounded by HESCOs. It was Spartan looking with sleeping quarters apparently underground. It also appeared desolate as there were no standout features in the surrounding terrain. Just a hill and endless similar terrain profiles. He didn’t envy the guys who stayed there months at a time. The boredom alone could kill. Plus, that awful patrolling of that terrain had to add an extra amount of hatred for the place. Bless those choppers. But, what he heard next floored him.

  “You guys will be flown to Israel by V-22 Ospreys, it’ll be a straight shot, no landing for fuel. From there you’ll board a C-130 we have waiting. You’ll fly over the Sinai and HALO in one mile from the site.”

  Dramatic? Like a movie script. “Since the place is held, why don’t we just chopper in?” Carlson had to hear the explanation on this one.

  “None available,” Kohler replied. Simple as that. “You will drop one mile to the west so you can approach the enemy from the back. There is a narrow road that you’ll follow up to the entrance gate which has been blown. They should be holed up in these emplacements here.” His finger pointed to a line of roofs nearest the HESCOs. “They’re not going anywhere and neither are our people. It’s a Mexican standoff that we’ll break.” He looked at his watch, then sighed. “You’ll leave in thirty minutes.”

  Carlson’s stomach started to gurgle. Not from indigestion but from a gnawing of uneasiness. Something wasn’t right, and he would find it out there in the desert.

  Beirut,

  Lebanon

  7:30 P.M.

  “One of our units has hit the Sinai. But they are bogged down and can’t complete their assignment.” Itaya handed the printed sheet to Zarin who studied it closely.

  “How many men?” he asked.

  “Twenty-two.”

  He handed it back and sat down behind the monitor. Now comes the time for the real action.” He smiled a kind of devilish grin of somebody with a dark secret. Only his secret was about to unfold. All the chemical warheads had been mounted in the Al-Fajr 4s, held in reserve. The final readout just came up on the screen of the last battery, signaling they were ready. But they would start the offensive with conventional explosive Al-Fajr 4s.

  “Commence the attack.” He hoped the Israels heard him for the message was broadcast over international wavelengths. Anyone with a radio might’ve heard.

  From all over the Southern parts of Lebanon, hundreds of launchers comprising over 5,000 missiles oriented themselves toward the Israeli border. Some were on ubiquitous white Toyota pickups, others on Soviet era ZIL heavy duty trucks and others on stationary launchers carefully concealed from the sky. When they heard the command, all of southern Lebanon seemed to howl like a great specter straining against its shackles, its mouth agape letting the most mournful wail spill into the air. Fiery exhaust plumes seemed to leap from the earth heaven bound in steep arches that would take them to their final destination: the many villages and kibbutzimthat lined the Northern Israeli border. These would be self sacrificial to draw the iron dome into action, expending as many Israeli missiles as possible.

  Sirens howled all across Northern Israel. No one saw the rockets coming, just the Iron Dome interceptors streak in thin strands of white upward to the contact points. White puffs appeared several miles up as they hit the first rockets in their dives. Bits of metal rained down to the earth as the first catches were successful. As was the second and third. Then, the Iron Domes began to run out and urgent calls pleaded for resupply.

  In their shelters, the Israelis took cover as the first rockets made it through, hitting unoccupied pieces of ground to ripple in swaths across the landscape. A moment’s respite, then more rockets plunged earthward. No strands of the Iron Domes crossing the sky. The border of Israel lay open and naked to their onslaught. And the land filled with more explosions and shrapnel scorching through the air.

  “Welcome to their offensive,” Foxmann called out to the others sitting at the table in the situation room. “We’ve got successive waves of rockets, hundreds possibly thousands, pouring down on northern Israel right now.”

  “Okay, gentlemen this is Hezbollah’s response,” Grozner said. “Let’s get all the air’s assets we’ve allotted for them into action.” He typed a coded message into the laptop and pressed enter. “Our Northern Forces are mobilized. We’re going to go across the border.”

  “This is going to be big.” Foxmann tapped his pencil on the table. “My hunch is they’ll try to use up our stocks of missiles. By the way, do we have a sufficient resupply of Iron Domes?”

  “I was told we have an ample supply ready,” Grozner said.

  “That’s not going to mean much to those that might get hit.”

  Grozner waved his hand to disregard the statement.

  Hezbollah Headquarters

  Zarin looked at the display seeing rows of numbers start to diminish. “What is this?”

  Itaya looked closer then nodded. “Ah, that’s the missile batteries, all seven hundred and thirty-eightof them, reporting in real time on how many have been launched.”

  “I don’t like it. Too easy to hack. Have them report only after their supply is used up.”

  “Sir, please excuse me, but every channel has been tested for security. I assure you we are safe from that.”

  “I will trust your judgment, then. It is your responsibility.”

  “Have confidence in our capabilities, Colonel Zarin.”

  He could’ve disagreed right then. But that would start an element of friction between the two. So he chose to keep quiet. If heads were going to roll because of some slip up somewhere, it wasn’t going to be his. He surveyed the rows of numbers again watching them slowly countdown. He mentally guessed from the stock it would take about one hour for the first batch of high explosive rockets to be depleted. Then they would start another stock and still another, overlapping them to make it seem like one giant wave of destruction raining down.

  USS Gettysburg

  11:45 P.M.

  The twin rotors of the MV-22 Osprey twirled a thunderous beat and the ungainly looking aircraft shot straight up into the air. Its passengers’ stomachs fell to the floor and Carlson felt his fall further. They rose to 300 feet and stopped midair, slowly moving forward as the rotors made the transition to level flight. Soon, they were passing 200 knots indicated airspeed, the steady chop of the rotors reassuring that they were in airplane mode.

  Before boarding, Carlson made an inquiry about the latest position of the cloud and was told its arrival over the U.A.E. was imminent. By the time they were HALOing, it would have already made Saudi Arabia. He imagined the sheer terror that the populations were going to experience and not a damn thing could be done about it. That was the worst part. There were no such doomsday prepper groups in the Middle East save for the Israelis.

  Carlson shrugged it off. He checked his oxygen mask, manipulated his goggles down over his eyes and made a quick check around the cabin which was bathed in a red light for better vision. He found everyone else fondling their equipment, occasionally looking at each other usually with a nod or a smile. That’s why he loved the Special Forces. The professionalism was always top class no matter where they were, or their situation. They never gave up and he was proud to claim that trait as one he earned as well.

  This particular mission seemed a typical op involving hostages. Go in, kill the bad guys and extract to safety. Carlson always knew though the old adage that the best plans go up in smoke the moment the action starts. It was their job to see it remained as close as possible to what was discussed. He didn’t fancy being in two close calls in less than 24 hours.

  Hezbollah Headquarters

  Zarin looked at the display seeing rows of numbers start to diminish. “What is this?”

  Itaya looked closer then nodded. “Ah, that’s the missile batteries eight of them, reporting in real time on how many have been launched so far.”

  �
��I don’t like it. Too easy to hack. Have them report only after their supply is used up.”

  “Sir, please excuse me, but every channel has been tested for security. I assure you we are safe from that. “

  “I will trust your judgment, then. It is your responsibility.”

  “Have confidence in our capabilities, Major Zarin.”

  He could’ve disagreed right then. But that would start an element of friction between the two. So he chose to keep quiet. If heads were going to roll because of some slip up somewhere it wasn’t going to be his. He surveyed the rows of numbers again watching them slowly countdown. He mentally guessed form the stock it would take about 1 hour for the first set of Katyusha’s depleted. Then they would start another stock and add the longer range rockets with conventional explosives.

  The first stocks reached zero, and he scrolled down to the other stocks. He hoped the longer range rockets wouldn’t run out so fast. He wanted to take it slower before the chemical warheads were used and, hopefully, the Israelis sent in ground forces.

  Allah, just don’t let this place get hit. It was not out of the realm of fiction that it could happen.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tel Aviv

  May 27

  12:05 A.M.

  “We haven’t been able to get home since it started,” the old man said to the reporter. “I have children and grandchildren all in this shelter with me. We’ve never seen anything like this before.” He was bleary-eyed with a touch of red around his pupils. Anyone could see that he had been crying at some point.

  The reporter moved the microphone to his lips. “That’s how it’s been here on the border. The rockets relentlessly trying to shower the inhabitants with explosions. None have made it so far. But the populace here wonders how long the Iron Domes can keep up their pace. We were only able to come out briefly when the barrage subsided. This is the first time since this all started.”

  The sirens began to wail again. People scurried about behind him.

  “As you can see, it’s beginning again. That is the conclusion of my report. From a farm just a few miles over the border from Lebanon, this is David Douglas, BBC.”

  Foxmann turned the station. Nothing but ads. “I wish they’d show that Mayor again. The one who’s running for his reelection, claims Grozner’s policies caused this.”

  “Did he see it?” Philpot inquired.

  “Yes. He went ballistic. Got on a chopper and headed for the guy’s location. He wants to confront him.”

  “The optics of that might help him. People want their leaders to know what they’re going through. Him being at ground zero will show that he cares.”

  “Yeah, he probably calculated that.”

  “Damn right, if he was smart.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Through it came Houser.

  He rubbed his temples, appearing to battle some thoughts. “I hope Ariel Grozner is smart enough to know we’ll look upon this as nothing more than a photo op.”

  “Is that your opinion?” Foxmann asked. Houser was always political, never faltering to question any movements by the Likud as anything more than carefully planned theater.

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is have all the bases been covered?”

  “Please explain.”

  “The duration of this rocket attack is over four hours of thousands of rockets. Do you think this is a separate opening of a much bigger phase or is this more last gasp measure with Hezbollah depleting their stocks?”

  “I’ve always anticipated a ground campaign when responding to attacks of this magnitude,” Foxmann growled. “We’ll go in just as we had before and wipe them out.”

  “Do the losses in 2006 play a role in your decision-making?”

  “Of course. Even more so with the prime minister.”

  “Then I take it frontal assaults against heavily fortified positions are now out of the question, are they not?”

  “I’m not permitted to give certain things away. But rest assured we learn from that.” In southern Lebanon, you almost always have to go in a frontal assault. They didn’t have the Navy to land anybody on the coast.

  “And of your command? Are our Special Forces actively reconnoitering new avenues of approach that we’ll take?”

  “Mr. Houser, rest easy. We’ll have all the bases covered, so to speak. All we are waiting for is the word and I anticipate it will come not more than 48 hours from now.”

  “Let me be frank with you.” He cleared his throat in a forceful rasp. “Something is fishy. The fact the Iranians didn’t respond immediately got me to thinking. They have something up their sleeve. Surely you’ve anticipated that?”

  “Our latest intelligence says they are moving forces across the border into Iraq. But none across the Euphrates and Tigris rivers yet.”

  “Waiting for reinforcements?”

  “I would assume that.”

  “When are we going to hit them?” Rothstein asked.

  Foxmann suspected he was trying to pry out course of action info. It wasn’t going to work.

  “The prime minister has not set a time yet.”

  Over the Sinai Desert

  12:28 P.M.

  “One minute out,” the co-pilot called.

  The rear ramp of the C-130 began to part revealing nothing but infinite blackness. Carlson would be the first out and he took a quick look and saw the tiny twinkles of stars just visible through the cloudy haze. He pulled his goggles down, and hooked up his oxygen mask. He took deep deliberate breaths checking his heart rate and bringing it under control. He glanced back and saw the silhouettes of his men packed behind. Everything okay. Then he heard “Go” and leaped out into the night. The rest followed. He kept his legs apart and arms positioned almost in a surrender gesture— palms out close to the head—to stabilize himself. He sensed the frost forming on his goggles and just a smidge of cold coming through. Nothing serious as he fell below 15,000. Past 12,000, then 10. The frost wore off. The cold warmed a little and he tasted the dry parched air hovering over the Sinai. Falling past 5,000 his entire body became one, enveloped in the heat then his pack burst open releasing the chute. A quick yank and his head snapped forward, his body absorbing the sudden slowness. Then he was floating, able to discern outlines of slopes and even ridges. The black became gray and he looked up at his hands grasping the risers then down to see the ground coming up fast. He pulled the risers with all his might and the chute seemed to stop him in midair before his boots slammed into the ground. The knees buckled, absorbing the shock and then he was moving forward, taming the billowing chute as it flapped along the sand.

  The others came down in a pattern not more than 200 meters around him. He rolled the chute up, set it down, and took off his helmet and goggles. He reached into his pack and pulled out the ballistic helmet with the NVDs already attached and fitted it on his head, pulling the chin strap secure. He looked around and saw the others converging on him and he rose to one knee and waved them over. When all were accounted for, he pointed straight ahead. “It should be over that rise there. This place is high enough we’ll have to scale up its side. Maybe sixty to seventy feet.” He estimated range to be one and a half miles. He brought his MK18 up into the ready position, burying the stock in the crook of his arm.

  “Move out,” Seger whispered.

  Northern Israel

  12:56 A.M.

  The shrill voice of the siren pierced the night. The bright red motors of the Iron Dome batteries streaked overhead a few seconds later. One could see the result of the interceptions now. The missiles slammed into the Katyushas at a closing speed over 2,000 miles per hour resulting in a blossom of red and white streamers looking like the fireworks seen on Independence Day. They were hitting them closer to the ground. The debris showered over the sparsely populated land while its inhabitants huddled in their bomb shelters.

  Except for Grozner and Mayor Abramovitch, the one that had accused him of playing politics earlier. Both forsook shelter and just st
ood in silence next to each other with eyes peering skyward as a string of intercepts exploded across their field of view.

  Grozner turned to him. He seemed more than a little jumpy. But Grozner didn’t care. “As I was saying, Mayor, a man would be a fool not to come and visit his constituents at a time like this. We don’t need to alarm the people by making partisan allegations.”

  “The allegations? I stand by them.”

  “What would you do? I mean, I flew down here just to confront you and show you’re wrong. I think I’ve convinced your citizens of at least that.”

  “Do you know my history, Mr. Grozner?”

  “No. Enlighten me.”

  “My family was here long before yours emigrated from Europe. I fought in the Six Day War as well as the Yom Kippur. I was decorated for my bravery, and I became a good judge of men. I found politicians the easiest. The only problem I had with you is I didn’t go far enough.” His eyes squinted like they were trying to bore a hole through Grozner. “You have a personality conflict. Inside you your soul is tormented. You’re worried about if you measure up enough. You don’t know the sting of battle and you can feel it when men with my perception talk with you. It is a guilt of inadequacy because you are around men all day who outshine you just by standing next to you.”

  “Maybe so. But having been around them I learned and though you may not agree, I am an effective—”

  The explosion lifted their bodies and slammed them down on the ground. Grozner’s ears popped and he tried to shake off the moment. He started to wipe the grass off his pants when he was tackled by security. They lifted him aloft holding him as if he were on a stretcher and started running, the sound of the rocket’s impact still chiming in his ears.

  He breathed in and out heavy gasps of air, the thought of choking caused him to cry out. “What…What happened? Tell me wha—”