A Touch Of War: A Military Thriller Novel

by Isaac Stormm

Mitchell rose and took Anderson’s hand. “Why the handshake?”

  “For luck.” They’d need it, he figured.

  After Mitchell left, he rang up Ambassador Moreland. It was too late Jerusalem time to do it direct. “I’ve got a message I’d like you to relay to your boss. Tell him I’d be willing to put an Israeli agent on the inspection teams so that he can have a direct line to the inspections.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” the Ambassador said, hurry apparent in his voice.

  The two hung up and Anderson thought from Grozner’s viewpoint for a moment. The state of mind was scary even to him. One, your ally is pushing you to do things peacefully. This, after you had to be dragged kicking and screaming through the Obama years and now knowing that everything may be tenuous depending on how you react these next few days. He pitied the man, and thanked God he wasn’t sitting in Tel Aviv with that on himself. Fool, he thought again. This could just as easily bite you in the ass only maybe he just didn’t want to admit it…yet. Eternal optimist. He’d always figured that was the best way in politics, even in messes like this. How would his legacy be if he didn’t produce results on this? He pictured his presidential library with the accomplishments in the Middle East the first words to greet visitors and scholars wanting to study his era. He felt satisfaction grow in him, that optimism which he’d practiced believing years ago when he first ran for office. Yes, I will see this thing through to success. To hell with the doubters. I will see it through.

  Beirut, Lebanon

  11:35 P.M.

  Zarin paced back and forth pausing only to move the blind back with his finger. He peeked out the window seeing only the massive facade of similar windows of the hospital off to his left. In the main field of view and connected was its parking garage, lit and filled with the night shift‘s cars. The dull lighting of its interior showed someone walking to a vehicle and there was a short transit bus dropping off several wheelchair bound patients who rolled themselves toward the elevator. He made out only the back of their heads, but their sprightliness in movement told him they were young, and he wondered if they were victims from the 2006 conflict. He knew war played no favorites and for a brief second, he never allowed anything longer, a bit of sadness welled up in him for their situation. Civilian casualties were the unfortunate side effects of conflict since time began and he doused the feelings with his resoluteness that more important things took precedence over the maimed, for their own good.

  He picked up the bottled water and took a long fulfilling swallow. This new room was four doors down the same hallway as the first one was. It belonged to the building’s head of security who traded without argument and moved into his earlier room.

  He was satisfied with everything thus far. The adrenaline rush of tonight’s exercise had worn off and he sat down on the couch, feeling the pull of sleep start to touch him. Another swallow and his eyes drooped a little more. The lamp next to him was still on and he glanced at it and lay his head on the arm rest. He had just enough energy left to cap the water and relax back into the plushness which was so unusually comfortable, it felt more like a cradle.

  The light went off. And he didn’t remember reaching for it. He awoke surrounded by dark. How long was he out? Looking at his watch showed 1:07 a.m. He reached out, unable to see his hand or anything else defined. His senses came around and he felt for the lamp switch, finding its stubby contour and twisted it on. It was already on. The light didn’t work.

  He leaped up and ran for the bedroom. He scraped the door jamb feeling it as a razor across his stomach. Pain shot up his torso and he stumbled to the mattress. He reached for the bedside table and turned its lamp on. Nothing. He pressed his palm onto the holstered pistol lying beside it and withdrew the weapon. He moved up against the wall and scooted to peer around its edge looking toward the door that faced the lobby. He couldn’t see it. Crouching down, he let the pistol lead him into the living room. Light appeared around the rims of the blind and he pulled it back seeing the hospital still lit. He released it and felt for the couch. He put his knees in the seat and positioned the pistol over the backrest.

  The door pounded, like someone slapping it with an open palm. Then a heavier rap from a pair of knuckles.

  “Colonel Zarin, come to the door. Quickly! Hurry!”

  He didn’t recognize the voice. It pounded again. Then the sound of metal tinkling. Something was working the lock. The door shot open and he ducked, the flashlight beams just missing him to spatter on the blind.

  “Colonel, it is Itaya. The Israelis have come,” the voice pleaded.

  Recognizing it, he raised up over the rest, pistol pointing at the flashlights. “What is happening?” he called.

  “Colonel,” someone shouted back. It sounded like Itaya. “You must come, quickly. The Israelis are here!”

  Zarin leaped over the rest. “Get me out of here.”

  Itaya tugged at his arm. “Yes. Yes. This way.” He shined a beam down the hallway. Shadows of men flitted about. They took off running, rounding a corner toward the stairwell. They rushed through the already opened door, their footsteps echoing off the walls. Guided by Itaya and the other man’s beam, they continued their descent. Zarin’s view was dizzying from the stairwell’s cork screw turns. They flew out onto the lower floor into more light beams and someone’s hoarse voice shouting what sounded like orders. Or warnings.

  They sped past the barrels of AK-47s pointing forward and light beams streaming on either side of them, wielded by turbaned security. Seeing the outside, they emerged and slowed into a midst of men who took them by the arms and led them to a waiting vehicle. Zarin felt hands shove him hard furthest over in the seat, the bulk of Itaya knocked against him before he could right himself. The door slammed and he saw two men in front, the driver and a guard. The wheels hopped and squealed pressing him back. He grabbed for the back of the front seat and looked behind. The street was filling with lights from more men joining the gathering crowd. As the vehicle picked up speed, Zarin noticed Itaya on the phone, his voice stuttering through commands. He put the device away and turned to Zarin.

  “Did they stop them?” Zarin asked.

  “I don’t think so. We are still sweeping the building. The head of security. They took him.”

  “Important mouth to get talking about the place’s layout,” he supposed. “Anybody killed?”

  “My friend, let me correct what assumptions you may have. They didn’t want him. They wanted you. Your old room. They must have eyes within the building who sold you out. They were just late in getting the location fixed.”

  The car lurched around a corner. The tires squealed in protest. It righted itself as it moved onto the highway.

  “What happened to the security?” Zarin asked, his voice competing with the racing engine.

  “Killed. Every last one of them. Rest assured. it won’t happen again.”

  Not good enough. Zarin wanted more. “The next safe house. I will choose it.” He couldn’t do any worse and didn’t care if it insulted Itaya.

  Itaya didn’t bother looking at him as if to question. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”

  “Homs, the airbase. I want to go back there, until a better plan emerges. Do not contact me by phone. Send a courier.”

  Zarin glanced out the window, the street light shadows racing by shark -swift began to lessen and he concluded they were nearing the countryside.

  The car slowed and turned left onto a darkened road, its lights bouncing as it ran over a series of potholes.

  Itaya pulled out his cell phone. Zarin didn’t bother trying to listen.

  “Colonel… The building is no more.”

  The Israelis hit it again once they realized their mistake. No need to guess how. Aircraft.

  A thought sent a razor of tingles up his spine. They could have been watching for their departure. “Pull over, now.”

  The driver glanced back waiting for Itaya to give the order.

  “Yes. Do it.”

&nbs
p; Heavy on the brakes, the car turned onto the shoulder.

  “Send another one. I will wait here,” Zarin said. He opened the door, not waiting for the reply.

  Itaya exited, and he leaned into the window to speak to the driver. A second later, the car’s engine gunned at once, spinning it around in the opposite direction, spraying them with dust. Then it squealed loud, the engine touching the maximum RPM, leaving the two men in the darkness.

  Zarin had a hard time fathoming it. Minutes ago, he was sound asleep. Then the tussle to get him to the car. The speedy journey that dropped him and the leader of Hezbollah off on the side of the road like two lonely animals abandoned by their owner.

  Itaya worked the phone. “We will have new transportation in a few minutes.” He seemed to recoil in shock from something the speaker blared into his ear. He shook his head. “The building is gone,” he added.

  Israelis realized who they kidnapped was the wrong person and they had an orbiting aircraft ready to take the place out should trouble arise. The laptop is gone, as well as his personal belongings, he surmised. He did something at that moment he usually never did. He wondered how many of the Hezbollah fighters were dead. Not that he really cared. Just wondering how good the Israelis were at high body counts.

  “Don’t you worry, Colonel.” Itaya pressed more numbers on the keypad. “We will retaliate for this crime,” he sneered.

  “Only not with the drones.” Zarin was quick to cut him off. “We must not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “My men would not want that way. They want to be martyrs and enter paradise. Not sit behind some screen miles away. You don’t have to worry about that, Colonel.”

  They heard another vehicle off to their right. It was close. No lights on. Itaya walked out into the road and waved his hand. The lights blinked twice. Itaya motioned them it was safe to approach.

  The silhouette of a minivan grew in detail. Zarin stepped onto the road and the side door was already open. He and Itaya entered where they were met by a masked figure with an AK-47, muzzle up, finger on the trigger. Neither said a word.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tel Aviv

  May 23

  9:04 A.M.

  “Damn it.” Grozner looked closely at the post strike photograph. Nothing was left of the building and charred bodies were visible among the rubble which looked like a wart amidst an otherwise normal Beirut neighborhood, save for the blasted out windows of the hospital and school.

  “I wonder if we killed some innocents,” he said.

  Foxmann knew Grozner was worried about another rocket offensive. Even if they hadn’t killed any, it wouldn’t be long before the retaliation started.

  “We have enough of the Iron Dome to cope with what’s coming?”

  “Yes,” Foxmann replied.

  “Very well. I expect them to be punctual and start before nightfall.” Grozner brought the photograph a little closer. “Think Itaya is in there somewhere?”

  “We’ve been monitoring radio communications. Nobody important has been mentioned. So it’s up in the air.”

  “A shame because this was part of a new plan. We knew the Iranians sent the BeeKeeper to advise Itaya. Our response was to eliminate him. They strike at us, we reveal to the world what their intentions are, how Iran was behind it all. Which they are. Meanwhile, we launch our attack on Iran while we’re getting hit ourselves. Makes going to war against Iran more difficult for the world to criticize us over.”

  “Maybe.” Foxmann didn’t bother to share in his euphemism. He had other things in mind. “I have to go for another practice run through the shoot house. If what you’re saying is true, you won’t be so much egg in the face of the Americans. We have a better chance of justifying it.”

  “I’m going to call Anderson. Let him know what we did. Explain the Beekeeper’s presence.”

  “Any change from tomorrow’s event?” He knew no specific time for launching the attack on Iran was finalized.

  “The final decision will be made this afternoon. Be back here by four. I’m calling in everybody.”

  Homs Airbase

  Western Syria

  2:28 P.M.

  Itaya wrote at a furious pace. “This is how we will start our offensive with the Zionists. The same as in 2006.” He seemed to show pride in each pen stroke. How archaic and effective it was. A simple piece of paper protected by our prayers will rain hell upon them. “And now we can even use drones.”

  “Without the proper infrastructure in place, you must not use them,” Zarin informed. “We mustn’t play our hand just yet. I also must request this most difficult of choices.”

  Itaya looked up, his pen resting on its tip ready to resume the next moment.

  “You cannot launch an offensive. You have an enormous supply of rockets. A few dozen fired won’t matter. Wait until we have enough drone operators in place. Then we can launch an offensive that will allow us to exploit our gains.”

  “That is madness. We cannot wait—“

  “You must, my friend. Call Tehran and tell them of my suggestion. They will agree to the same thing. No rocket offensive. It will be a waste of resources.”

  “If I do not give the order, my fighters will view me as indecisive. Do you realize the impact of that on my position? Talk will start. Then it will grow into a chorus demanding I be replaced by someone who will pull the trigger.”

  “Nevertheless, you must bear the burden this time. Far greater things await us.”

  He laid the pen down. “My fighters will never view me the same again.”

  “They will if you receive the order from Tehran. Find me a phone.”

  Negev Desert, Israel

  1:14 P.M.

  Foxmann kept low against the wall. The five men behind him were evenly spaced at the same height. He peered around the edge of the rough brick. He lowered his night vision goggles and scanned the area which looked like a wide hall with a length of about 20 meters with a closed door at the end. He raised a finger, then another and then counted them down. Two. One. He leaped around, bringing his weapon up next to his chest, the muzzle pointing toward the door. The infra-red illuminator on it showed a bright green round dot. When they reached the door, he pulled out a small square of C-4 plastic explosive with a timer and placed it just above the lock. He set the timer and moved back several paces, crouching again. A quick pop and the door rattled free, barely open. The men, still evenly spaced, followed him through the door. A silhouette shot up in front of him. The dot leaped to it. His fingers stroked the trigger, firing twice into its head. Not breaking his stride, he raced across the room which appeared to be used for storage to the next door and pasted another charge. He let it blow and pushed open the door. Two silhouettes sprung up in front. Microseconds it took his brain to identify them as noncombatant. His finger slacked on the trigger. Another to the left. He didn’t shoot. Another silhouette leaped up further away, outline partially obscured by the noncombatant it was holding hostage. The dot swung to its head and he fired twice, the recoil absorbing into his shoulder harness. He gave the target no thought and passed toward another hall with wooden crates on either side. His aiming dot was joined by the team members’ beams, steady and unwavering under their short deliberate breaths, ready to train onto targets.

  He heard other shots off in another part of the building. He gave a single second’s thought to it. The other team was pushing toward the centrifuge room from the right. At the end of this hall, another door would let him into the same area where the rows of machines stood. They reached it in under five seconds. Another charge and cover behind a box.

  The seconds ticked away. Nothing.

  “Another charge,” he called. A man ran up to the lock and secured another beside the faulty one. He slid back behind Foxmann and the door exploded, slamming it inward, banging it against the wall. “Let’s go.” They rushed through the smoky haze onto a platform lined with railing and stairs descending onto the main floor which was massive, its dimensions riva
ling an American football field. A control room spanning one of the walls overlooked everything. They raced down and spread out, each man running down a row of centrifuges. More shots at targets that Foxmann couldn’t see. He saw a silhouette raise next to the door on another platform and centered the dot on its head and held, seeing no markings or outline showing a firearm. He then leaped down the stairs as a door shattered and the team plunged through. Foxmann turned a corner at the end of a row of machinery and saw still another team on the main floor spreading out taking on more rows. Behind him, more operators flooded the platform, some leaping over the railing. They veered left heading for another nest of machines.

  The lights shut off. A slap at his helmet brought the NVGs down. Through the green hue he saw the darker outline of the men pressing charges against the centrifuges. He picked out one and counted off. One… two… three… Then the man moved to the next one. One… two… three. He selected another to monitor the same thing. No more than three seconds spent per machine.

  “Centrifuge room clear,” came the radio. Control room clear. Storage rooms clear.

  Foxmann pressed the mike closer to his lips. “Target secured. Bring the rest in.”

  He pulled up a sleeve and looked at his watch. Five minutes from entry to clearance. Fantastic.

  “Jessy, we need to show you something.” It was David. He led him off the floor through the control room and behind into a hallway where crates were pushed away from a locked door. They were stacked up and had hidden it during the initial clearance.

  “Get back, stack up.” The five men got behind him, weapons pointing down so as not to sweep each other accidentally when they lunged forward.

  His weapon drew upon the silhouettes springing up on either side of the man wearing glasses and earmuffs. He didn’t flinch as the 5.56mm rounds punctured the targets just inches away from his shoulder.

  Three more sprung up behind him. The team’s guns fired simultaneously. The targets rocked as the high speed hornets perforated them. Two per head, five per torso. Perfect patterns spreading no more than an inch per cluster.