by Isaac Stormm
None had.
“It was a mission conducted by the British during World War II. The harbor in Saint Nazaire, France contained a huge dry dock originally built before the war for the ‘Normandie,’ a cruise ship which at the time was the largest in the world. After the war broke out, it was the only dry dock besides those in Germany capable of holding the Bismarck class battleships. Well, after the Bismarck was sunk, only its sister, the Tirpitz, remained. The British realized they had to knock out the dock to deny the Germans any hope they had of repairing her so close to Britain. If they succeeded, they could keep that ship pinned up in the Norwegian Fjords because she wouldn’t dare try and break out without repair facilities way back in Germany. So what they did was they took this old destroyer here, the Campbelltown, she was named.” He pointed to the rusty brown hull of a decrepit-looking vessel gracing the cover showing her bow plowing through a night sea with yellow blobs of tracer bullets streaming past it. “They packed her nose full of explosives; put Commandoes aboard it as well as several motorboats to escort it, took it across the English Channel and, under fire long before they reached the dock, managed to breach it. Commandoes got ashore and raised a hellstorm for several hours until what was left, less than three hundred, I believe, was able to get back to Britain. Meanwhile, that old destroyer just sat there, and the Germans even got to taking pictures of themselves walking on its decks. It was just some sort of weird curiosity that they didn’t understand. No one told them it was wired to explode. In fact, one of the Commandos that was captured was being interviewed in the office of one of the German commanders and being mocked for expecting such a flimsy vessel to do any kind of damage. And at that very moment, that ship went off. Blew the hell out of the dock and most of the Germans nearby. The whole facility was wrecked and never used again. The Tirpitz had to flit about up in Norway, trying to evade attack and was never a factor for the rest of the war.” He set the book down and patted its cover. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make, is that the impossible is viewed by some as probable, and willing to try. This plan, crazy and unworkable as it may sound, is their Operation Chariot. The Israelis are far more adept at this sort of thing than we are, and whether anybody realizes it or not, they may have us backed into a corner.”
“It’s too problematic. Too many things could go wrong,” Mitchell answered. “If we go over there and get caught, I could see Tehran parading our captured or showing endless pictures of our dead claiming we were committing an act of war. And jointly, with the Israelis at that. This would make the ’79 hostage taking and Desert One fiasco pale by comparison. There would be endless hearings and all the other shit Congress would bring up. Your presidency would be destroyed. Never mind that our Democratic party wouldn’t be able to get away fast enough. You’d be radioactive. Political death to everybody who’s stood by you all these years. No. No.” He raised his hands to warn him to halt. “We can’t do it.”
Mitchell acted more resolute than he’d ever seen him. A farmer’s son from Missouri, who never served in the Armed Forces, Anderson liked him for his frankness. Now, he appeared unshakeable. Which caused Anderson worry, for he thought the plan crazy enough, it just might work. That kind of a risk Mitchell never once saw him take.
Krause spoke up “I have to say my reason to back this is that we really have no other option. That’s why I am in favor.”
“Me too,” Greene said.
“Even still, maybe we could find another way,” Mitchell said.
“But how long would that take?” Anderson said. “Like Krause, I think we have no choice. I can vouch for the fact that nothing from satellites and now this plane’s report indicates a detonation took place. So the only way we will ever know for sure is to go in and see. Though this plan seems like anything could happen, the more I think about it, the more I have to buck up and side with Israel on this one, even though I don’t like it one bit.”
“You know, changing the subject, I could be partisan and go on about the potential political ramifications if I undertook this mission. Right now, the Israelis got me curious. That curiosity wants an answer, Mitchell. This doesn’t change anything between us though. Your views are as valued as they ever were, probably more so. But since this morning, I’ve been battling with myself about whether this moment is real or not. If it is and we do nothing, the world changes for eternity. If we do something and fail, it will be the end of all our credibility. However, if our guys found something that proved the Iranians have joined the nuclear club...” His eyes lowered, looking at the polished wood of the desk so clear he could see his reflection. A grimace-faced. “It’s ironic. If they detonated a device and we can’t prove it, later we will go to war. If we can prove it maybe, we can stave off war. If nothing has happened and we end up losing our people over there, we face international embarrassment and loss of credibility here at home. Frankly, as bad as it may sound, that would be far easier to deal with. What I hope is that they go in and find nothing and can prove nothing happened and everybody comes home.” He bit on his lower lip and read Mitchell’s expression. Stone-faced and disagreeing. “I’m sorry, James, we have to do this.”
“Very well, Mr. President.” His voice was low and decided.
Anderson needed to press home to him why the sudden sea change from being cautious to what he knew Mitchell thought reckless. “Stay behind, Mitchell. You two take a look at the drives and get the info to the necessary people.” When they left, he said, “Pull up a seat.”
Mitchell pulled up the old hardwood chair to the edge of the desk.
Anderson looked at him for a moment almost as if he wanted him to say something first. Then he decided to begin. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“No. I think you’re basing this decision partly on emotion. Everyone in this administration who has worked with the Israelis knows what Grozner thinks of you. And that at this important moment, I think his perception of you is partly what drove your decision.”
“What if I told you that you are right?”
Mitchell’s response was still a vacant stare. At least if he widened his eyes a little bit, he could’ve measured the impact of his words.
“I’ve been accused of not taking the Iranian threat seriously and to be quite frank, botching every other international threat which ended up coming as a total surprise to us. Our allies question our commitment. Even though we still have people fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq, they wonder if we have the stomach to take extreme measures. With this act, I can at least send a message to the world that the United States has never shied away from any threat to its security. That when necessary, this administration is prepared to use force to find answers. Hopefully, it won’t come to that and things will go smoothly and not a single shot will be fired on this mission. If things go to hell, you of all people I’m going to need to stand by me. Plus, to point out where I was wrong.”
“I’ll always be there. I just feel you’re jumping into this thing too quickly based on a timeline dictated by the Israelis. We should go by our own timeline. Take just a couple of days longer, develop more alternatives that are less risky. Then on our terms we can propose them and if even if the Israelis don’t go along, I will stand right by you because it was our plan.”
“And you’re probably right. This time I have to be more open-minded, though, and view things from other perspectives, and yes, the Israelis are one of them, and it’s also those authoritarian Islamic countries we call our allies. They’re already worried about inroads Iran has made with the Iraqi regime fighting against ISIS. They’re worried about Shia cooperation between them. Every other week, I have ambassadors from those countries asking me why I continue to let the Iranians put advisors into Iraq. I have to tell them that we’re there too. And it’s an Iraqi choice. And that we will always have their back… No, in this one instance,” he patted the desk with a finger, “I have to believe the sooner we’re on the ground there, the better. By doing so, we will have the upper hand when and if we
show the world that after all these years of public talks, false promises, and backdoor meetings, they were lying. Something I had hoped against hope they had retreated from.”
Mitchell rose. “I understand. Is that all?”
“For now. I know I still haven’t convinced you all the way; I hope you’ll think about what I said, as I’m going to need you to contact those who have to get the wheels moving on our side of this operation within the hour.”
“It will be done, I promise.”
Moreland opened the door to his office. He headed right for the instant coffee maker just finishing its cycle. He poured steaming dark brown JFG decaffeinated, scooted out the heavy leather chair, and pushed himself back in it, almost trying to recline. The coffee tingled and stabbed his taste buds in its course down his throat, almost burning him. He took another swig, played with it in his cheeks, letting the hot subside before downing it much slower to absorb the few seconds of refreshing taste. He looked at the computer monitor. The camera mounted atop it provided a secure link for one-to-one conferences back to Tel Aviv. He tapped the enter button on the keyboard, waited for the screen to boot up and present its icons. With the mouse he selected one and the green light on the camera came on.
To his surprise, there was Grozner. “Well? How did it go?”
“Based on his body language and his tone, I’d say it’s a go… He said he’d let you know by tonight.”
“Good. Good.” Grozner’s eyebrow raised in a bit of surprise. “My God, maybe he’s finally come around.”
“Reluctantly.”
“We’ll take it any way we can. I’ll put Foxmann in action. It’ll be morning here when he calls. Then I’ll notify you at home later to give you the teams’ deployment schedule.”
“Mitchell is not on board with this, I imagined him offering his displeasure after I left.”
“Let them argue. Be good for his boss to dissent. Ever since they came to power, both have been acting like conjoined twins. Indecisive and confusing to deal with. Anderson acting like a leader now will silence him. You did well, Moreland.”
Grozner turned off the screen, picked up the phone and buzzed Depth Corps office. After four rings, the tone sounded different as it rang a cellphone. “Foxmann.”
“Where are you?”
“On the border at Gaza. One of my people is coming in. Says he’s got somebody big.”
“Well, forget about it and get back here.”
“Agreed, but he’s no more than 5 minutes out. Let me see who it is and I’ll be gone 5 minutes later.”
“Doesn’t he have a radio?”
“It was found. Their cover was blown. Had to make a landline call. He’s being tracked.”
“Alright. No more than 10 minutes then get on the chopper. Everything is a go. I want you to start getting your people.”
“One of them will be coming out here.” He squatted on the wood floor in the small vacant room in a single-story house some 200 meters down an incline on the Israeli side of the border. The curtains were drawn, and, unlike others nearby long since abandoned, the house remained under ownership of a young couple who worked during the day and, given the last war of the tunnels in 2014, were only too happy to have the government choose their dwelling to strike back. Due to its proximity, the Army dug a tunnel into one of Gaza’s storm sewers that ran under a street a few hundred meters away. Careful camouflage with weeds kept its connection to the sewer walls hidden due to the fact that they were notoriously rampant with unkempt spots of invasive flora due to Hamas dedicating every piece of money and equipment toward building reinforced shafts to hide weapons. A cleanup remained long overdue and unlikely to happen in the near future, so the cramped conduit was used every other month to infiltrate teams.
A hurried whisper in Hebrew sounded beneath him. He shined a flashlight and saw the burr cut top of one of his men, Timothy Yetan. He was motioning someone toward him. Heavy footsteps sounded quick echoes in the distance. They tromped through spots of water and grew louder as the team raced through the tunnel. Foxmann heard something heavy fall. The footsteps started again, faster in speed.
Foxmann’s man raced up the small ladder. Two grimy and scratched hands, a face, mud smeared in spots on its thick black beard emerged. A figure, clothing stained and dripping brown stepped away, followed by another, whose face was sodden too. Their movement uncurled a stale odor of mildew and sweat throughout the room. The two reached down and pulled up another under each arm. This one wore a blue pillowcase over her head with hands cinched together behind with a zip tie. They drug her off to the side, her bare feet leaving a smudge of brown on the wall.
“That was too close.” Captain Gil David hoisted up. Foxmann moved to set the cube of false planking over the square. He then scooted a green throw rug with his boot to cover it.
“Look who we have here,” David gripped the top of the pillowcase and yanked it off. A tangle of curly brown hair fell to hide most of the face.
Foxmann reached out and with both hands parted it where the eyes were, pressing the hair back. His instinct told him this was no Palestinian woman. Her features, attractive, with a slight square jaw, petite nose, lips and pale freckled skin indicated European.
“Who is she?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Foxmann ran images through his mind. It became somewhat clearer though still trying for a certain place and name.
“The UNICEF representative.”
Now he knew. He had spoken to her some months back when she requested escort to Gaza to distribute educational materials and monitor the U.N. schools. It was a farce from the get-go. The world had seen the videos of what went on in these schools with the Palestinian children reciting their vow each day to destroy Israel and speak of the great martyrs of suicide bombers they longed to emulate. Shown these embarrassing scenes, the U.N. never even bothered to answer Israel’s accusation of looking the other way. They always knew and didn’t care about the anti-Semitism. Now here was one of theirs caught red-handed showing the innocents in Gaza city how to destroy Jewish lives with the greatest possible violence.
“Your name. I’m afraid I don’t remember.” No need for questions now. He kept his tone level and clear, trying not to sound confrontational. “Please tell me so we know who to contact.”
“My name is Julia.” Her accent said Britain and he recognized it a bit Southern, maybe from London. “I was kidnapped by your men out of my bed. My partner, they killed. You have no idea the trouble this will cause for your country. Kidnapping a U.N. official here on—“
David grabbed a clump of hair and bent her back. She grunted and gritted her teeth to counter the sudden pain. As he stared down at her with hateful eyes, he said, “Why don’t you just cut the shit? Explain this.” He snapped a finger and one of the men pulled out a cellphone. He pretended to fling it and its cover came off revealing a small rectangular piece of gray putty with a gold wire embedded in it. “I’d say just enough plastic explosive to take off the side of a head.” He shoved it in front of her eyes then tossed it to Foxmann. He released her, and she snapped back into place. “We found fifty of those under her bed in a suitcase underneath her clothes. Her lover, who slept beside her and will never wake up again, went for a pistol under his pillow.”
“What do you have to say to this?” Foxmann held up the phone, still keeping it cordial.
“The… man who was killed.” She struggled, lips moving, trying to produce the words. “He forced me. Wouldn’t let me leave unless I covered for him.” She fumbled for another sentence. “He allowed me to live only if I kept getting things. Cellphones—“
“Don’t forget birthday cards.” David pulled a crumpled piece of thick paper from a pocket. He opened it, revealing a sliver of plastic explosive smeared to where it would appear the card concealed it. On the cover was a Hanukah greeting under a gilded menorah. “We found two boxes, about fifty phones in one and five hundred cards in the other. All wired and ready for distribution.�
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Foxmann knew how they worked. The explosive connected to a sliver of wire from a thin battery, the kind watches use. Connected to the cover, it detonated once the victim opened it, usually no more than a foot or two away from their face. The result ended up severing one or both hands and it was hoped, blinding them. Mossad had used such methods for years, and many a Hamas or P.L.O. target could be found in Gaza or the West Bank in such fashion, except he knew Mossad used electronic means to detonate. Regardless, he understood what David implied. “Who is it?” he asked her. “Someone’s working in Israel sympathetic to you. If you tell me now, things will go much easier for you. If you don’t, well, let’s just say a U.N. member vanishes in Gaza and is never heard from again.”
“I told you. I was a victim.”
He sensed the agitation rising in her. He probed a little further. “Or we will contact the British and tell them they have a terrorist working for the U.N. Your name will be all over the cover of newspapers in your country. Tell me, do you have family?”
“I have a four-year-old son who lives with my parents when I’m overseas. They support what I do. I only help the Palestinians try to survive the occupation.”
There we go. An opening. “Our occupation, as you call it, is nothing more than a measure of self-defense against a people who lost a war, was sold out by their Arab neighbors, and ever since have been lied to by their leaders about who’s really to blame for their suffering.” The bait was tempting.