A Touch Of War

by Isaac Stormm

  They all nodded.

  “Setup,” he said to his spotter. They ducked under the window and the spotter set down his scope and pulled out a black sticklike instrument. A miniature periscope. He eased it to the side of the window and manipulated it left and right.

  “I see him,” the spotter said. “Easily over 700 meters distance.

  Going to be a challenge with this one. He’s on a roof.”

  The sniper pointed his weapon offhand at the wall, raising the scope to eye level. In another robotic move, he stood up still looking into the sight then moved beside the spotter and twirled on a foot exposing himself. The rifle belched its supersonic round, and the sniper reversed his moves as the periscope emerged again. “Got him,” he smiled. “You’re not going to see him. He went down behind a wall.”

  Foxmann looked at the sniper with reassuring eyes. “Good job.”He headed off toward another one of the windows, crouching down each time he passed a vacant one. He hurried back up into the minaret, sat down in his old position, turned on the tablet and looked at the map. If the shit hit the fan, he had to find a way out of here. The topography of Mecca was that of a jammed together city where buildings ran into each other and its huge population saw just about every room occupied. To get out on one of the streets was impossible. The perimeter saw to that. Even if they blasted their way through, all that lay beyond the city was the barren desert and the Red Sea. He favored the latter, figuring a submarine would have an easier time making a rendezvous than helicopters or a transport plane flying hundreds of miles through hostile territory to land in the desert. The only problem was that there was no transportation. None of these areas were within walking distance. It really did seem a one-way mission with the only outlook, a capitulation by the Iranians and Arabs. He had often wondered what it was like to be at Masada with the Romans coming over the top. He couldn’t help but have it nip at his brain now.

  An icon flashed in the upper left corner of the screen. It was Grozner. “You have done an impressive job so far, Jessy. I commend you and your boys on their lethality.”

  “I know it’s not been thought through and that it was not mentioned at the meeting, but I want to find a way out of here, if possible.”

  “That will be up to you, we only planned for the endgame.”

  “We either walk out because the war is over and they met our demands, or else we die here. I understand that. I think, though, my men would like to know there might be another way that they could live.”

  “We will help you any way we can.”

  “Thank you but I’m afraid there’s not much to go on from what I’ve been seeing.”

  “If things go south in a hurry, I’ll move heaven and earth to see that you get an airstrike. It might buy you some breathing space. And permit a way out.”

  “What is going on on the diplomatic front?”

  “Well, there is no diplomacy. The United States has been blanketing Iran with air attacks. It’s needed. It keeps the Iranians under pressure. They’re helping us more than they know. Iranian forces are still moving through Iraq, however.”

  “What about the Saudis?”

  “All units have stopped their advance since you’ve landed. We know you’re having an effect.”

  “Forgive me for asking a stupid question, but are we attacking them?”

  “We are holding off and are going to give them a chance to meet our demands. If they are not met, we will attack them after you’ve set the nuke timers.”

  Foxmann breathed in another heavy gulp of air. Even without the humidity, his exposed skin was almost numb from the heat. He hadn’t noticed that in the ops he’d done prior to this. Maybe it had something to do with the desert’s proximity. “I needed to tell about our K.I.A. Milton Rabinowitz is his name. Please inform his family.”

  “It will be taken care of. I promise. Until next time. Goodbye.”

  They needed some surveillance. “Meet me with the micro drones in the courtyard.” If he wanted to play cat to sniper’s mouse, the tool of choice was a miniature drone like the ones they had with a fuselage length and width of just 6 by 4 inches. Differing little in looking like a large beverage can, this item had an ultra-sharp camera mounted in it which could zoom in up to 12X as it rode aloft on its single propeller upwards to 1,000 feet in altitude. There, controlled by tablet for up to 30 minutes duration, it was practically invisible to the naked eye. Perfect for rooting out nuisances.

  Four men met him near the Grand Kaaba, taking some shade partially under a zamzam. They carried armfuls of the machines and set them down on the pavement. “We will send them out about 1,000 meters distance. Have them follow a rectangular search pattern twice, then bring them back in and launch another along the same path and search pattern. If a sniper or anything else is detected, pipe it through to my tablet as well.” He assigned each one search grids to the north, south, east and west then headed back inside.

  He’d forgotten how many damn times he’d gone up these stairs since arrival, but whatever it was, it began to tell as his footsteps slowed and became heavy, almost shuffling under the labor. He sat in his old position, pulled out a charger, and inserted the plug into the tablet. Outside, four micro drones sped aloft away from the mosque then went vertical, climbing and disappearing into the blue.

  Al-Bashir wiped the sweat from his eyes, rubbing the ache away from peering through the binoculars. What he did not know is that the micro drone headed west was already starting its search pattern almost directly over his head.

  The first feed came through on the tablets. There was speed, altitude, distance, and direction numbers in the upper left hand corner as well as a battery charge signal in the lower left. As the camera panned slowly in a 360-degree circle, he caught a glimpse of two men crouching on top of a roof. The drone operator did as well and zoomed in on them. They stood out in their desert camouflage uniforms against the eye blistering white paint though the edge of the rooftop concealed them from anyone’s line of sight.

  “Sniper team west, northwest. Distance 730 meters,” the operator called. This was Foxmann’s detachment and the sniper team he met while making a visit earlier sprang into action. They manipulated their periscope, singling out the rooftop which seemed like it was stacked on top of many others due to the line of sight.

  One of Saudis peeked over the roof edge with just his forehead and eyes visible. He wore no cap, instead he had a spotting scope. He used a honeycomb Killflash cover over the glass to prevent glint. The sniper stood up and backed away from the window and placed his crosshairs far over the target using the Christmas tree like range markers that descended from the bottom of the crosshairs. Satisfied with the range, he held his breath, slowing his heartbeat. The scope stopped its minute rise and fall as if on an ocean and steadied on the head which seemed to sense it was being zeroed and ducked. The sniper drew in another breath and held the heavy rifle as steady as if he were a concrete monument. The target popped back up, eyeing the distance through his spotting scope. He turned it left then right looking for threats. He turned it left again and lined up on where the sniper’s window was. He saw the shadow of his killer the moment a round belched from the 24-inch barrel. It traveled in a rainbow trajectory steadily losing speed and altitude. It struck the Saudi above the left eye and passed through his brain, the shockwave ripping parts of it off its stem and exploding a six-inch hole out of the back of his head. His body leaped up and twirled once then collapsed into a crimson puddle.

  Another shot rang out behind him and across the courtyard. Another target discovered and eliminated courtesy of the drone flying the easterly trek. Foxmann watched the man who was a sniper instead of a spotter bleed out with a wound to his neck. It ran down to cover the cradling arms of his spotter in thick dabs of red. The man laid his partner’s head down and slithered away on his belly.

  “Excellent,” Foxmann called.

  “We got more to the north 847 meters. The feed showed four men laying prone behind the peak of a
rooftop. It was two teams of snipers, each one with a spotting scope. The long guns the shooters had looked to be more Barrett M107 .50 calibers. Evidently, they had not yet learned how to deploy them because an astute sniper would be double the range and easily out of harm’s way from the Israelis.

  “Use an AT missile to take them out,” Foxmann ordered.

  At the northern face of the mosque, a GILL crewman listened to the directions of the drone operator. He ticked his sight a little to the left trying to make sense of the hundreds of rooftops before him. He settled on one he could barely see. And he certainly couldn’t see any snipers. A luck shot.

  “Hold it,” A sniper coming up to his left said. He stood back from the window steadying the rifle on his forearm and looked in the direction of the missile’s trajectory. “Can’t see anything.”

  “I’m shooting blind,” he said, disappointed.

  “If you think you have the target, take it,” Foxmann said.

  That was all reassurance that he needed. He pressed the fire button and missile exhaust momentarily blinded him as it launched from the tube. It tracked a circle around his crosshair then exploded against a rooftop.

  “Negative hit. Close. Right 50 meters and you got him,” the drone operator informed.

  He placed the tube back atop the mounting studs and slowly shifted his aim right to where he thought was 50 meters. It looked like a similar rooftop, so he pressed the trigger. The missile streaked in a straight line to explode in a shower of sparks against the structure.

  “Affirmative. Good kill,” the drone operator responded.

  Foxmann watched the atomized remains of the sniper team pool in a large red puddle. It was just parts of two men, like sides of beef. He’d seen the other two blasted off down onto the street. Such destructive energy that emanated from the missiles like the Gill were impressive if they could be seen in the open. Most of the time, though, they were reserved for tanks and bunkers which didn’t display their deadliness quite as well.

  With a spreading of an index and middle finger, Foxmann brought up the feed from all the drones in four separate windows. It was all clear for the rest of them. He mused about how long it would take the Saudis to realize they were being watched from the air. Probably already scanning the sky.

  “A satellite feed?” the adjutant asked.

  “No, not quick enough.” Al-Bashir swept his binoculars almost vertical hoping to catch whatever it was that killed his men. For the moment they had an advantage that he could not match, not until he found out what it was.

  “We want your permission to mount an attack,” he heard behind him. He turned and saw Mecca’s Chief of Police approaching. “I have permission from the imam. I just need yours.”

  “You shouldn’t be meddling in this, trying to tell me what you are going to do without consulting me first. No. No attack in the day.”

  “When?”

  “After it’s dark. I am already formulating a plan.”

  “Good. Let me tell you mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tel Aviv

  Situation Room

  June 1

  3:56 A.M.

  “You know, at first I really doubted they could do it so easily. Remind me to never question our armed forces again.” Grozner leaned back in the chair looking over the live feed from the different helmets in Mecca. “Foxmann doesn’t know this but I have given permission to show snippets of combat taken by the helmets to the public. I want them to know exactly what our men are facing and why they are doing it. There’s nothing that could be more compelling.”

  At least he had control over it. The previous films that went viral were of the body bags laying side by side on a street in Haifa. A dead mother wearing a gas mask and clutching her infant in a corner of a sidewalk café, and the crying survivors of a gas attack pleading for their government to do more. Such chaos had already done in his chance for continuing as prime minister, he figured. Once this was over, the population would have a reckoning, searching for scapegoats. The leadership in power was naturally going to be the one that stood out. The ones everybody could point their fingers at.

  Metzer walked into the room.

  “What are you doing back here?” Grozner asked.

  “I needed to show you something.” He picked up the remote for the big screen. “May I?”

  He brought up the international feed from different news stations throughout the west. He stopped at BBC International. There, he saw a wide shot of thousands of people in Trafalgar square. “This is most disturbing.” He looked at Grozner.

  The sound rose and it switched to a reporter with a microphone surrounded by Middle Eastern looking men. Arabic language came from most as they tried to speak into the mic at once. Then they heard one speak broken English. “To wage Jihad,” he said. “I want to go to Mecca and be a warrior for Allah. That’s what we’re all here about. The Jews have played their final hand. All of Islam is rising up to cut it off and we will certainly annihilate them.” An arm of someone off screen reached in and pulled the microphone over to themselves. “Death to Israel! Death to Israel!” he shouted, and throngs of others joined in. The reporter pulled the mic back and with a glum looking face said, “As you can see, the square continues to fill up with very angry Muslims. The police are out in force, but no major incidents have been reported, yet.”

  “Look at this one,” Metzer switched over to a feed from Paris. Covering the entire Champs Elysses along with hundreds of stalled cars, more people waved banners and chanted in Arabic. “Death to Israel!”

  “Our taking of Mecca has ignited Jihadi feelings in most Muslims in the west.” Metzer explained. “It’s like this all over Europe. They want to go to Mecca. To fight us there.” He looked down and shook his head. “That’s not all. I’ve heard from reliable sources, the Dome of the Rock will be taken tonight and sealed off from outsiders. I’ve ordered our forces to stand by to storm the place if necessary.”

  Grozner stood up, eyes boring into the screen. “Unforeseen. But not unexpected.” He rose, pushed his chair up and walked right out of the room without saying another word.

  Metzer rushed out to be beside him. “Ariel, the Muslims no longer see us as a distant threat. We’re right in their backyard with our actions. I know we expected kickback but this is a global Jihad brewing.”

  “We will defend ourselves from any threats. And I’m really not worried about what you showed me.”

  He grabbed his elbow. “Then maybe this will alarm you. Our sources are saying the Palestinians may rise up with the largest attempt at an intifada yet. They also may have the ability, thanks to smuggling, to utilize drones.”

  “Not likely. We have uncovered dozens of tunnels recently. We can handle their drones.” He walked on and Metzer said, “But they may have poison gas.”

  That stopped Grozner in his tracks. He turned around. “The Mossad again?

  Is that where this comes from?”

  “No. Duvdevan. They’ve interviewed more prisoners. Rumor has it they may have set up a cell phone network that can control drones. Remember the cellphones Foxmann’s men recovered? They were sent by the U.N. who probably doesn’t know what their end use was to be. Either way, it opens up the possibility of using individual cell phones to control drones.”

  Grozner looked at the wall, seeing his pale reflection on its glistening whiteness. “Have we increased patrols?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have every confidence that our forces can handle anything the Palestinians can throw at us. However, if they were to use poison gas, I would not hesitate to evacuate Gaza and the entire West Bank. Kick everyone out once and for all. Does that course of action sound strong enough?”

  “But would the cabinet allow you to do so?”

  “Probably not. So at the moment we just have to look at it as a possibility.” He turned and walked on, leaving Metzer behind to wonder what was going through the prime minister’s mind that he seemed to dismiss growi
ng threats.

  Grozner only wanted to deal with now. The rabble gathering in squares and streets across the globe was just that, a rabble. He knew they were no immediate threat to travel for Jihad, that was the forces that were already in Mecca. Besides, the Saudi military was too professional to let agitators come and affect their plans. So for now he would dismiss them.

  Riding up the elevator, the door opened to reveal Michael Philpot standing alone with a folder under the crook of his arm. “May I see you?”

  He motioned to follow. “You telling me a new threat too? Because if you are, Metzer already beat you to it.”

  “It’s a threat, but not against the state. It’s against our people abroad.”

  “Go on.”

  “Jews abroad have no protection. We’ve picked up communications from the Iranian embassies instructing sleeper cells to attack not only the people but their businesses and homes. There’s nothing we can do but warn them which is what I need your permission to do.”

  “Of course. Immediately.” They headed into Grozner’s office. Philpot took his phone and gave Grozner’s permission to the press. The prime minister unbuttoned his suit and took off the jacket draping it over the back of his chair. “You know, there’s one thing I can’t figure out.” He sat down, rolling up his sleeves. “Why the Iranians haven’t hit the U.S. yet? They are about to do much more damage than we did, and no sign of sleeper cells or anything else rearing their head.”

  “I suspect it’s only a matter of time. I wonder if Anderson would still have the backbone if it got too rough domestically.”

  “My faith in him has grown somewhat. I doubted him at first, but he’s shown remarkable courage, knock on wood. Probably doesn’t have a choice now.”

  “Ariel, there is one more thing I want to propose to you. We started Operation Archangel with a realization that our men may have to be sacrificed. That’s a hard pill to swallow, so I have instructed MOSSAD to explore the different avenues of how to get them back in case things deteriorate. I wonder why Moshe Dayan never explored any such possibilities.”