A Touch Of War: A Military Thriller Novel

by Isaac Stormm

  “My village follows the laws. We have not broken any.”

  “Then as village elder, you recognize your responsibility to your people, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you must come with us.” He barked another command and Majheed felt his shoulders stretch back, wrists clasp together as handcuffs secured them. He trembled, feeling his legs become as water, wanting to slip out from under him. His knees almost bent, but he caught them, not wanting to give Zarin the satisfaction of knowing just how much fear broiled inside. He would not be coming back, he knew that. He looked at Lela who didn’t have tear one showing, just a look of confusion. His daughter and son-in-law showed no emotion either. Nor did anyone else. All of it because of tales told by others throughout the years that the greatest way to fight Tehran when defenseless was to show no emotion.

  “If you will.” Zarin motioned with his fingers. “I’m leaving half of this detachment here. If tomorrow I don’t have that missing man or guerilla, you will all be shot on the same hill at the same location as the other guerrillas.” They started to move Majheed away.

  Majheed’s daughter rushed to Zarin’s side. “Please, sir, he is telling the truth. Take me. He is too important for this village to lose. I am just a simple woman. I am willing to take any punishment you have in store for him if you’ll let him stay.”

  Zarin looked down at the ground. Rubbed his boot toe in the dirt. “You are very brave.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Bring him back here.”

  Two men held him under the shoulders and walked him to stand beside his daughter.

  “This woman is offering herself in your place. I take it she’s your daughter.”

  “Yes.” He could see her chest heaving, fear gripping her. She spoke the words without thinking.

  “Your bravery will not go unnoticed. I’m afraid your father knows much more than you. So he must now go. But do not worry. I promise to speak to you tomorrow, if we have more questions.”

  “Please! I know things even he doesn’t about the guerillas you’re looking for. They didn’t come here but I know that before they were killed, they had a mission here.”

  Majheed didn’t understand. His daughter. What do you know? In the name of Allah, what are you saying? Have my warnings about Zarin gone unheeded? Are you going to betray your people? Or are you just being clever? You do not know this man. He will see through your lies.

  “I see, so you spoke to them at some point?”

  “Two days ago. I happened to be searching for berries in the forest. There were many of them. The man who led them, Cyrus is his name, asked me if he could bring his men into the village for some food and rest. I told them we couldn’t so I gave him my berries. It was not enough to feed all his men. But he thanked me afterward, and told me we were living in a momentous time. An event had occurred which he could not mention. He had information that would be the downfall of Tehran.”

  Majheed realized she was telling everything that Cyrus had told him but placing it in the forest instead of the village and making her the solitary witness. She had to have overheard them speaking at some point.

  Zarin listened and appeared to give a slight nod, tuned into her tale. “Go on.”

  “He bade me farewell and told me not to repeat what he had said. Not long after that, he was killed.”

  “This woman cares about you deeply, old man,” Zarin said. “So much so that I will take her and leave you here on the chance that she is telling the truth. Either way, we will have the final answers by tomorrow.” He motioned to one of the men, who with a key twist caused the cuffs to clank open.

  Lela yelled as her mother’s hands were placed behind her back. One of the villagers tried restraining her as she twisted to break free. Lela ran to her and gripped her waist, murmuring unintelligible words through her tears.

  Another nod from Zarin and a soldier grabbed and hurled her to the ground. Her mother didn’t bother to look back at her as Lela began to wail. Majheed struggled to keep his emotions. And now he could do it no longer. He fell to his knees and Lela placed her head next to his, both sobbing, as the outline of the mother and her captors disappeared.

  He knew she would not return.

  Chapter Nine

  Azerbaijan

  10:45 P.M.

  An Israeli guard stood beside the structure. A 1992 Ford Aerostar, its white paint, if one could call it that, was faded to a pale yellow in spots where beneath, colonies of rust flourished. Its side windows were blacked out and it sat next to the hangar with its rear door open. It was hard to believe that inside was a miniature communication suite among the most advanced in the world. It occupied the rear cargo area and back seats. Once in business, a small black satellite dish would be placed on the roof.

  Foxmann had expected more. Maybe a spacious basement inside one of the buildings on the base. Such might be expected in one of the most important missions in history. This set up, though modern, just didn’t fit the profile. Martin assured him it was all part of the plan. Mobility was just as important as communications.

  Martin sat down in the back. “Ever take up the habit?” he asked as he flicked his zippo lighter open and lit up a Marlboro. The orange tip glowed brighter as he drew in a deep breath and discharged the smoke through his nostrils, filling the interior in a kind of halo-shaped cloud.

  “No. Bad for the lungs. Not good in the business I’m in.”

  “You guys put your ass on the line and risk getting tortured, beheaded, mutilated, whatever the latest thing is with your enemies, and you’re worried about your lungs?”

  “Yes. I want to be able to breathe without a machine when I get old.”

  “I had a grandfather that smoked from the time he was fourteen to the time he died. He was ninety-seven and didn’t need a machine to breathe.”

  “He’s a rarity. I had one that died at sixty-two and smoked all his life as well. Needed oxygen the last five years and took the mask off so he could take another drag.”

  “To each his own, I guess.” Martin nodded at the radio. “Pretty slick, huh?”

  “How many times have you used this gear?”

  “This particular radio, never. I did get a chance to familiarize myself with it. Your people delivered it yesterday. Your equivalent of a station chief, I think. He left an operator who’ll be here any minute. I brought one from the states who’ll do the same.”

  “Everything in Hebrew?”

  “Of course. But I think we got it figured out.”

  Foxmann knew how to use it too. He also knew a similar version had been cancelled by the U.S. in 2012. They called it a Joint Tactical Radio System, ground mobile version. Featuring a tablet-size display and able to use the Internet, it was ultra-flexible, and could communicate over several different wavelengths in total security from one to four channels in the 2 MHz to 2 GHz frequency range, making this the most advanced military radio in the world. He imagined it went through numerous guards before it arrived here with a priority level equal to the team.

  “Jessy.” It was David. Foxmann turned to him. “We’re ready.”

  “Move this thing into the hangar after we depart,” Foxmann said.

  Foxmann and David walked to the hangar entrance to get a look at the finished product. The Stealth Hawk was being pushed out into position under the glare of a single large halogen light forming a bright area on the tarmac as if to showcase the rare bird. The pilot walked from behind the tail. Before he opened the cockpit door, Foxmann called him.

  “Open the cargo doors. I want to see something.”

  The pilot leaned into the cockpit and flipped a switch. The large doors began to ease back. Then Foxmann saw the seats. They were arranged with four across the back against the engine firewall, and four facing out each door. The ones by the doors needed to go. The SEALs on the bin Laden raid removed them for weight purposes. Given that they would be operating high in the mountains, they needed to follow the same precaution.

  “R
emove the seats,” Foxmann pointed. “Not needed.”

  Ashford nodded to the crew chief. The maintenance crewmen then retrieved their wrenches and went to work twisting on the many bolts securing them.

  “I should’ve thought of that, Colonel. I’m glad you did,” Ashford said.

  Foxmann looked at his watch. Departure time was less than five minutes away. He needed to see the men. He headed for the hangar with Martin in tow. There stood the rest of the team muttering in Farsi. All had their gear on and were checking their weapons. Bolts clanged shut on loaded rounds then hands made movements done hundreds of times past, ensuring the gear was tight and straps taut.

  “Go turn on the radio. I need to do a check,” he told Martin.

  “Say it in Farsi?” Martin asked.

  “Yes.”

  Foxmann turned on the tablet and pressed the home button. An icon in the shape of a speaker appeared large and centered on the screen. He touched the talk button and requested a radio check. Martin came back clear without any crackle.

  “Reading you on frequency seven dash four”

  “Confirmed. Switch to emergency frequency eight dash nine. This is Perseus requesting a radio check.”

  “Got you.”

  “Good to go, Colonel,” Carlson said, looking at his tablet, requesting the same. “Repeat,” he called to Martin. Once confirmed, Carlson placed his back into its protective case.

  Foxmann was never one for speeches. He never gave them to any of his men before they headed off into their operational areas. These men were professionals, they knew what was expected of them. Still, given the weight this mission carried, he felt something needed to be said.

  “Apart from my people, I know the Americans. Your nation has been essentially carrying the ball for the world in the war on terror since 2001. Sure, Israel has been fighting terrorism since its inception. But never on the scale you had to. All of us have seen friends die and have wondered when will this come to an end only to have this that dwarfs everything we’ve ever done rise up in front of us. For this, our two countries have become one and will stay as one until we see the task through to the end. And whether that ends on the information you bring out or what comes afterward, we’ll be locked arm in arm through it all no matter what the outcome. I wish I could come up with something else inspiring but that’s all I have.”

  “That’s all that’s needed,” Carlson said. He saluted. The others followed.

  Foxmann returned the salute. “Let’s get this thing over with.”

  Without a verbal command, they all lined up behind him and he led them toward the chopper. The seats were removed and he stopped to let the men pass by.

  Carlson and David were the first aboard. They helped Quinn and Foxmann in and sat on the firewall seats. The cargo door began to close. Each team member offered a thumbs up as it passed by them and once it locked, a wind begin to sound from the engines as the main rotor started to turn then the tail rotor. The whine grew into a solid rush of air sounding like an industrial fan. There was no distinctive chop-chop of each turn of the rotor like other helicopters, just a continuous whirr that built up a little more, sweeping a small dust cloud in an expanding circle away from it. The bird had lights but didn’t use them. Foxmann saw the co-pilot give him a thumbs up and he nodded in return. The Stealth Hawk’s landing gear extended just a bit as the weight lifted from it then the landing gear rose and Ashford tipped the nose a few degrees down, gaining thrust. The machine swooped over the base and disappeared a few seconds later beyond the base’s perimeter lights.

  The van pulled out of the hangar and stopped, the satellite dish emplaced on its roof. Martin turned and headed for it and got in, as did the Israeli operator. Each put on a headset with a microphone attached, reached out, and closed their doors. Martin pulled a black curtain across the width of the front seats then turned on the overhead light. He turned a dial, watching the numbers on the display race by until he found the frequency Tel Aviv and Washington listened on. He punched several letters on a keyboard. A code featuring one line with a series of four letter sentences. Then he said, “Pegasus is away.”

  ‘Acknowledged.’ Came back a similar code in English.

  The Israeli followed up with the same code, giving his a telltale signature of his authorship in two random letters. A few seconds later, ‘Confirmed. And God speed’ came coded back to him.

  “Now it’s just a matter of waiting,” Martin said. If everything went according to plan, not a word would be heard from the Stealth Hawk until it safely deposited the team.

  Tel Aviv

  11:19 P.M.

  “I want to thank you for dropping by, Michael. I figured you’d be working late as well, but I have to reveal to you now that I needed someone to talk to for a short while. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the discovery of Foxmann’s people in Gaza,” Philpot retorted. “He left a message saying that he believes a UN worker sympathetic to the Palestinians is working on the inside of Israel with one of the prisoners his people took who also happens to be a U.N worker.”

  Grozner wasn’t surprised. “The UN anti-Israel? I’m surprised it’s taken us this long to catch one of them.”

  “Yes. He also suggested we start surveilling them again. Especially the ones who act as liaisons to our government.”

  Grozner puckered his lips a bit and nodded. “Agreed. This lady that they caught, would you recommend we go public with it or file a secret complaint with the Secretary-General?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. If we go public, the U.N might abandon us just when we need it the most.”

  “Anti-Semitism runs deep in that institution.” Grozner knew their past actions all too well. Almost always pro-Palestinian. “And yet they were the ones that created us. Yes, we have to keep quiet until after the evidence is presented. If by chance, there is no evidence, I’ll go ahead and personally phone the Secretary-General.”

  “In all honesty, what do you think the team’s chances are?”

  “My friend, for the moment, we have the Americans on our side. Everything is unfolding as it should, and I’m convinced once they go inside, they’ll find what we need. With that kind of clout, the world cannot deny reality no matter how much it wants to. Even if the Americans choose not to stand beside us if we strike, even they cannot dispute the rightness of what we’re doing.”

  “One hopes.”

  “Sometimes that’s all that’s needed.”

  “Did you hear that?” Philpot got up and went to the window. The wail, low at first, rose in pitch to a sustaining howl. A sound familiar to all Israelis.

  “Rockets.” Grozner jumped from his chair. Both men’s cell phones began issuing a beep when one of them was incoming. Philpot followed behind him and they rushed toward the elevator, the only two people on the floor. They pressed a red button on the console to take them 30 feet below ground level to a large hall adjacent to the situation room serving as a bomb shelter. Once the door opened, they followed behind several security guards and a woman into the brightly lit chamber which featured a single bench on either side that extended the length of the room.

  The door shut and Grozner heard the accusations. “Hezbollah,” some said as they sat down. The prime minister planted himself and wondered the same thing. Only Hezbollah had rockets that could reach Tel Aviv, a reality since the 2006 incursion into Lebanon. Al-Fajr rockets, unguided and Iranian made, with the number four model being the most ranged, gave quite a shock to the city citizens. That was before the Iron Dome. Now he imagined scores of the small rockets streaking to intercept the intruders before a single one impacted.

  “Have we got any covert missions going on right now against Hezbollah?” Grozner muttered into Philpot’s ear.

  “None.”

  Strange. In recent years, Hezbollah usually retaliated only after they suspected the Israelis at work. Sure, there was the odd rocket into the kibbutzim along the northern border. Those were usual
ly to try to bait retaliation. Nothing had occurred like that in months and in recent years, Hezbollah behaved more as a disciplined military unit than the rogue bandits who used to hijack planes, do prisoner swaps and sucker depressed Muslims into becoming suicide bombers. Why would they target Tel Aviv on an Independence Day other than to announce that they were still around?

  Outside, a thin trail of white smoke tipped by an ocher light streaked low above the city. Another followed it on nearly the same trajectory. They both curved a little to the right and a quick red flash from one of them indicated a hit no more than 300 feet above the ground. The other missile raced beyond, curved itself into a loop and self-destructed.

  In a few minutes, the siren sounded again. All clear. The beeping phones began in the shelter, all forming a strange cadence like chirping crickets. All Israeli cell phones had similar tones prescribed by the government to warn them to take cover and when the danger had passed. The beeping stopped almost at the same time and they all rose and headed back out the door.

  Once back inside the elevator, Grozner wondered aloud. “What was that? A couple of rockets just to rattle our nerves, I guess.”

  “Don’t think so.” Philpot was looking at a text on his phone. He worked the keypad, Grozner hearing it ringing to a department. He heard a female voice answer on the other end. “What was it?” Grozner didn’t hear the answer just Philpot’s “Thank you. Get back to me.”

  “And?”

  “Wasn’t rockets. Something else much slower. It landed outside the city. We’re dispatching a forensics team to find out what it was.”

  Grozner could only guess the second culprit, “Drones.”

  “Perhaps,” Philpot replied. “I don’t think it’s the usual toy store style variety, though.”

  Iran

  May 17

  12:34 A.M.

  Hills and tundra streaked by less than 50 feet below. The terrain appeared as varying shades of green through the pilot’s 4-tube night vision goggles as he manipulated the joystick in tiny measured movements causing the Stealth Hawk to rise and descend in an instant. The control panel was also a dull green and quiet. There was no flashing light indicating a radar sweep or infra-red track. The geography, as well as the choppers own attributes, had shielded them since passing the border some forty minutes ago. Along with a steady speed of 110 knots, and pretty much a straight course, the landing zone approached quickly and the overall journey seemed anticlimactic which everyone hoped it would be.