by Isaac Stormm
The imam arrived at the Prince’s shoulder “But, what of the nuclear explosives, Excellency?”
“Yes. What of them, Colonel?”
“We are searching now. It is difficult as the Israelis have wired doorways with explosives. We will find out eventually.” He then realized he might be dealing with a timer on the devices that could detonate any moment. He had no choice, but to wait until the last Israeli died or surrendered. If he was wrong and they did exist, he hoped it would be destructive enough to vaporize them all so he didn’t have to live to see failure.
The Black Hawk arrived 15 minutes later. He decided he wanted to be inside the mosque if something did happen. He also located his adjutant who was safe and sound. As the two of them boarded, another Black Hawk wheeled in to take away the Prince and imam for now. They watched the bird land as their chopper headed out over the steaming rubble.
Looking down, it was going to take years to rebuild this place. He figured as long as the mosque had survived, there would be plenty of volunteers to work in the holy city. Thoughts of that were for another time and the Black Hawk slowly flew over the southern portion and began to set down in the courtyard. The last tendrils of the CS tear gas curled and disintegrated in the rotor wash. Al-Bashir stepped out and the commander of the aerial assault took off his mask and saluted, to which Al-Bashir returned. The man tugged at Al-Bashir’s arm and pointed him into the ground floor hallway as the chopper’s engine began to wind down.
“We have a small group of Zionists cornered in a room in the northern portion,” he pointed. “No more than four or five. The rest are all dead. We keep offering them safe treatment but they only respond with gunfire. I wanted you to personally make the decision as to what we are to do.”
“I’d like to try my hand at speaking to them.”
“This way then.”
The air was still infected with traces of the gas that made everyone’s eyes heavy and watery. The journey was almost blinding, but no one donned a mask. When they arrived at a turn in the hallway, several of the black uniformed commandoes were lined up on either side preparing to breach. Al-Bashir waved the point man aside and placed himself at the head of the group. He heard movement beyond the doors.
“Israeli soldiers,” he said in messy Hebrew dialect, “I am the commanding officer here. I am giving you a chance to save yourself. I wish to speak with your commanding officer.”
“In a minute,” came the reply.
He kneeled down on one knee. The rest of the men stood at the ready.
Several shots rang out. He watched the doorknob turn. Then another shot.
“Breach,” he ordered. “Hurry.”
He moved away from the door. The point man on his side placed a small explosive charge then moved the rest of the group back.
The door exploded inward like a giant hand slapped it. The twin assault teams entered the opening simultaneously and moved quickly to the other end. No gunshots.
Al-Bashir peeked around the corner. Three men lay sprawled with a single gunshot to the temple, blood trickling from a tiny hole in each. One with the top portion of his head missing spewed blood from his mouth where a pistol discharged. Pistols lay beside each body close to their hands. Their carbines slung over their shoulders.
“Masada,” one of the commandoes said.
Al-Bashir nodded. “That’s the way they’d want it.” He knelt down and looked into the eyes of one staring lifelessly at the ceiling. These men were good. His had paid dearly discovering it. He wanted to find their leader.
The ground shook underneath him. Something exploded. They went out into the hallway to see. “That was from underground,” Al-Bashir said. Smoke began turning around a corner toward them. From it, a commando came running.
“We’ve located something,” he said, out of breath. He caught a second wind and continued. “Downstairs. It was booby-trapped. Killed two men. It appears to be large backpacks of some sort. Like nothing I’ve seen.”
“Show me,” Al-Bashir said. He and the commandoes formed a line behind the messenger and went to the downstairs opening. It was still spewing smoke. A light was on.
He started down the stairs carefully. Taking light steps. He reached the bottom and saw the remains of the two men. They had no arms or legs and their trunks were like reddened and mashed meat, unrecognizable as human.
His stomach knotted up and he fended off throwing up. He waved the smoke away and coughed. He saw the outline of the two packs and went over to them and kneeled. He looked at the readout. It was counting down, past six minutes and twelve seconds.
“My God, are they real?” the assault commander said.
His gut feeling was yes. His doubts all but disappeared. “Get your people out of the courtyard and the mosque. If it’s just explosives, we’re safe. If it’s nuclear…We’ve got no time.”
Al-Bashir began backing away, eyes still looking at those decreasing numbers. The assault commander barked an order and hurried out the door. Al-Bashir was turned around and already running beside him down the hallway.
They burst into the sun waving their arms and yelling “run” to the astonished Black Hawk pilots who stood stunned. An Abrams tank got the message and wheeled on a tread and headed out. Then the ground element deciphered what was happening and its officers screamed retreat. The courtyard resounded with the clopping of combat boots and all the gates started flooding with men and vehicles trying to get away.
The air went from choking to hot. The smoldering buildings gave off terrific heat and he could taste it in his mouth. Hell itself. He heard someone calling for him as he covered his mouth and coughed several times. He saw the ground force commander running to him, himself battling a coughing fit. “What?” Al-Bashir said, between coughs.
“Some got away. An all-terrain vehicle during the assault. Disappeared into the city.”
“Their leader. I know it must be him. We have to find him.”
“You expecting a desert extract? How could they get a plane in?”
“My friend, look around you. They got planes to eradicate part of this city. They can still find a way to get one into the desert. But I don’t think that’s what they’ll do. They expect us to look for them. But we won’t look where they’d like us to. We’ll look directly where they actually are. And that is evacuation by sea. Get a message to the Air Force about my suspicion. We’ll get them. It’s only a matter of time. And I hope I get to see their commander face to face again.” Then he remembered to look at his watch. Just over a minute left in the countdown. He sat down in the middle of the road, placed his palms on his knees, looked at his watch again, closed his eyes, and prayed his message would get to the Air Force and that he’d be alive some forty seconds from now.
They were two hours out. They’d stopped in the desert to get a view of the detonation 30 minutes into the drive, but to their chagrin, saw nothing. His attempt to raise Tel Aviv met only static. It had to have gone off, Foxmann reasoned. They should’ve seen it though. Unusual. And there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He didn’t want to stay still any longer than necessary, so they drove on, until GPS motioned them off the highway and into the desert. The terrain here was mostly flat, however, the sand swirled like giant cobras around them, biting them with grit. Foxmann could see nothing but the steering wheel in his hands. From the hood on, everything was yellowish and blowing, the perfect weather to get lost in. He didn’t care if it stayed this way to the coast. Such wishes vanished when they emerged back into the sunlight, with some moderately high ridges ahead and no sign of the sea.
“Over these ridges and we should see the water. I estimate about twenty more minutes driving,” David said.
They didn’t hear it until it was too late. The vehicle upended, throwing them clear, showering debris upon their hapless bodies. The TOW missile impacted a little behind, but was still powerful enough for its blast wave to do the work.
Foxmann stopped rolling amid the debris. Burning embers of what was once the
ATV stung his exposed flesh. He opened his eyes looking skyward just as the chopper passed over him, its rotor wash blowing the burning matter off his skin. It climbed slowly into the sky and went into a broad turn to observe the damage it caused.
Foxmann raised up. He saw David staggering toward him still holding his shoulder. He hollered something that Foxmann couldn’t hear. He hollered it again. Arms scooped Foxmann up. He got his legs working and whipped around escaping the man’s grip. It was Talbert, face blackened and bleeding in spots.
“We got to go, Jessy. He’ll be coming back in again,” he yelled.
Foxmann’s brain was still trying to process what happened. Once he saw the slender fuselage and desert tan of the Saudi AH-1 Cobra, he knew death would arrive shortly.
He stumbled on his feet and fell into the clutch of Talbert’s arm. His legs didn’t want to work. Talbert was half-dragging him when his adrenaline kicked in. Talbert released him and both started to run. “Get to the ridgeline,” he called. Turning to look for David, he saw him fleeing the other way. The chopper was closing now, its motor drowning out all sound. Its three-barreled 20mm cannon spit a line of tracers across David’s path, kicking sand all over him. Foxmann turned as he ran and saw the chopper rush over David and claw for altitude. Then it flipped its nose skyward and wheeled around on its tail to start back.
“Gil, come on.”
The chopper bore in.
Gil David disappeared in a 20mm sandstorm that lasted no more than a second and when the chopper passed, Foxmann saw him lying facedown. Motionless.
Now he had to get to the ridgeline. Talbert was a few feet ahead. He sensed the chopper coming in again. He stole another look and saw it banking toward them. He also saw he was approaching a small outcropping of rock that he could take shelter among if he made it.
The chopper’s motor seemed to rev louder this time as it came in. Foxmann broke left as a train of 20mm shells snipped by his heels. He tripped and got back up as the chopper zoomed for altitude. Talbert was leaving him behind but he thought he could still make it to the outcropping.
He leaned forward and dug his boots deep in the soft sand which only slowed him down further. Then he tried to sprint and was more successful as his mind started to numb again with the throbbing of the chopper’s turbine.
The Cobra swooped past him, its gun belching a long continuous flame which impacted shells to the front of Talbert. He stumbled and fell down, rolled, then got back up again.
Foxmann saw his chance. He was nearly out of breath, but his legs were still pumping away. He reached the outcropping as the Cobra turned itself around again. He pressed himself behind a large boulder and speculated what the bird was carrying. He peered over the top and saw TOW missile tubes under both stubby wings. They weren’t going to waste such expensive toys on men running for their lives, though. He knew they were going to use the gun. Cheaper and less expensive. And more of an adrenaline rush. Kill them the way a hunter does. One at a time.
He saw Talbert stumble and fall to his knees again. The man pushed himself up and looked back over his shoulder, a scowl of defeat upon his face.
The Cobra bore in.
Foxmann and Talbert’s eyes met for that fraction of a second. They looked at each other for the final time just as the gun’s motor wound up and unleashed its glowing metallic stream. Talbert’s torso exploded in red chunks chewed by 20mm high explosive. Obliterated particles rained down over Foxmann, specking his uniform with small dark splotches. The remains of Talbert disappeared into the chewing earth and the chopper veered to the left, a low sweeping turn that sent it over Foxmann’s position, and he saw the pair of faces under dark visors look him over before the fuselage swung to the other side.
He must run. He didn’t realize until he turned around and dropped his glance that he was on the blunt ledge of a 100-foot incline from the plateau to the valley floor. Porous and slippery sand shifted under his boots and his footing started giving way. He leaped like a swimmer trying to clear the diving board, legs coming down, impacting hard and burying up to his knee caps. He lost his balance and tumbled end over end. The sand covered him like some brackish waterfall and he became an uncontrolled mass tumbling at high speed, unable to discern which way was up. The sand was the master and his eyes stung from the pin prick pierces of the tiny grains and the will of gravity spinning him toward unconsciousness. He covered the incline’s distance and the sand propelled him through a final cartwheel which slammed him onto his back. A dizzying gaze into the sky righted itself and he rolled over onto his elbows to try and prop up.
Where was the Cobra? He could barely hear it. Or maybe the blood pounding in his ears fooled him and it was much closer. He got up on his knees, looked up the incline and saw the three-barreled death dealer hovering above the top, pointed right at him. Behind it, sitting in tandem, he saw the crew, their blank expressions, and closed his eyes to wait for the kill.
Whoosh. The missile’s motor deafened him, it passed so close. He didn’t see it impact the rotor hub and explode the Cobra in half. The remains of the chopper shot straight up into the sky, twirling under the main rotor, chewing itself to pieces. The blades stripped free and the fuselage came hurtling down on the ledge then tipped over to fall down the incline.
Foxmann pulled his knees free of the sand and ran to his right to avoid the smoldering hulk which rolled past him spewing parts in all directions. It came to a stop leaving Foxmann baffled. He drew his pistol and started to walk closer to the wreck. The canopy was shattered and partially torn away. The mangled but unburnt corpses of the crew were thrown clear and lay a few feet up the incline. The hissing of the bladeless turbine was the only sound and he inspected the bodies, kicking both to see if there was life left.
“Jessy.” It came from the top of the incline.
Foxmann brought his pistol up and cupped a hand around his eyes to shield from the sun. It was David. He sat down on the ledge and scooted down toward him.
“Gil, what the hell—” Foxmann struggled up to meet him. David pointed behind him. Foxmann looked over his shoulder and saw five men running toward him. Beyond them, barely visible at the edge of the land that still blocked a view of the water, was the black rectangular outline of a submarine’s conning tower.
He helped Gil up on his feet and both men stepped over and around the debris field and started descending to meet the shore party.
“Colonel Foxmann,” one called.
Foxmann raised his hand. “I‘ve got a wounded man here.” He handed David over and said, “You fire that missile?”
“No, that would be the captain himself back there. Don’t know where he learned to use it, though.”
“I owe him.”
“Sorry for no transportation. We have to walk. It’s about a quarter mile.”
The team set up around David as a medic gave him a shot of Fentanyl and pressed a fresh quick clot gauze upon his wound.
Their arrival was anticlimactic compared to the captain standing there with a spent Stinger tube by his feet and another positioned on his shoulder. “Welcome to the S-21, Colonel.” He lowered the weapon and led them to the raft. They paddled about a hundred meters and boarded the dark vessel entering near the bow. Once aboard, “Prepare for dive,” came over the speakers. They took David forward to be doctored some more while Foxmann stayed with the captain.
“I’ve read about you, sort of.” He smiled. “Newspaper a few months ago did an expose on the Spec Ops of Israel. You got about a two-sentence mention. You guys are Depth Corps, right?”
“How the hell do you know what we are?”
“Educated guess. Besides they’ve been speculating it over the TV.”
“We’re Spec Ops, but that’s as far as I can go.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t get out. Now my final question…It’s gone, isn’t it?”
Foxmann dipped his head. “Yes. As far as I know, but Captain, more than anything, I lament the loss of my men. There were good men back ther
e. Better than most. If we ever celebrate a victory from this, it will belong to them and no other.” The emotion welling in him turned him away from the captain. “May I have a place to be alone?”
“Of course, my friend. You can use my quarters.” The captain led Foxmann down a narrow corridor to his cabin.
Foxmann stopped midway, turned and said, “Captain, notify Tel Aviv that as far as I know, only Colonel Jessy Foxmann and Captain Gil David survived Mecca. As far as can be determined, the rest of the command was likely obliterated.”
“Of course, it is already being done.” He continued to lead him to his cabin where he offered Foxmann the lone chair inside the cramped quarters.
Foxmann was empty. The last two days and the end result were unleashed and filling his conscious with rapids of worry and uncertainty. He still needed to ask some questions that he hoped the captain could give an answer to. “What is going on elsewhere?”
“Still fighting in Lebanon. I’d say we might head into Syria, given what’s happened. That’s the furthest info I got. Some of it may just be scuttlebutt.”
“With Mecca gone, it is now the Muslims versus the Jews. No way around it. Everywhere a Jewish man or woman or even child walks in the world, they will never be safe again.” He placed his fingers on his throbbing temples and gently massaged them. “Everything will backfire now, I fear. No one wanted it to come to this. But it’s happened.”
“Colonel, Israel is always on the bare edge of a razor blade—”
“This was supposed to be the final reckoning. One unexpected, surgical strike designed to shake the foundations of our enemies and bring an end to their offensive against us. Then both sides could try to get some kind of dialogue going.”
“Is that what Grozner believed?”
“That’s what everybody behind this believed. Including me. Though, on the front lines of this thing, I had my doubts.”
“From one soldier to another…I want to speak frank with you…may I?”