A Touch Of War: A Military Thriller Novel

by Isaac Stormm

  “Bingo. We’re heading for the Red Sea. From there, the Ospreys will take you in. There is going to be a pretty large contingent of troops there so you won’t have to worry about not having support for the missions you may have to undertake. Again, I wish it were better news but this shit’s unraveling fast.” The captain started to leave then turned. “I’ll see that you guys are well fed before you’re sent off.”

  Tel Aviv

  1:09 P.M.

  “Foxmann, I have to admit you got balls, asking to lead this team,” Grozner said, “but you’re needed here more.”

  “I understand that, sir, but when I took over Depth Corps, I was specifically told by the Defense Minister that I would have leeway over how deep my involvement was. That included leading missions.”

  “Well, since you pulled off Iran, I’ll release you to go on this one.”

  “Thank you. I’ll leave at ten thirty tonight.”

  “Unless something else comes up of course.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Beirut

  “We have lost all ability to control the drones.” Zarin threw his headphones down. “We can’t even use them for short range with a tablet or smartphone.”

  “We can find another signal,” Itaya suggested.

  “Won’t do any good; they work only on a specific wireless frequency that took months to tweak. We can’t just switch over, takes too much time.”

  “Then this place is useless. I am useless. There is no more work for me now.”

  “I’m going to return to Syria, then Iran and report to Rustani on what promise we showed with our project.”

  “Leaving by car is the only way. The Israelis have been attacking the mountain passes for any kind of traffic going between the two countries. You may have to walk partway on foot.”

  “So be it.” He got up and rubbed his face free of the hours spent in front of the computer. Disappointed? Beyond that. But he did feel relief at what had been accomplished. He had helped kill many Jews which made him especially proud. They put the fear of Allah into the Israeli heartland and forced the entire city of Haifa to evacuate and that all was due to his drones against their air defenses. He knew now Israel would reenter Lebanon and likely push for the capital. He knew it might be a success since the Israeli Air Force remained intact. If they did, the greatest battle of the entire war lay ahead, likely to be fought in Syria.

  Somewhere over Saudi Arabia

  3:47 P.M.

  The two V-22s maintained their speed of 220 knots despite the bumpy turbulence throwing their occupants about. Since leaving the Gettysburg, their northeast trek included two refueling rendezvous, skirting a small storm system, and the endless stretch of tan featureless terrain, as flat and far as the eye could see.

  How people ever decided that such a barren land offered possibilities intrigued Carlson as he bounced in his seat, feeling the approach of airsickness. He’d never thrown up in an aircraft before and he kept telling and reassuring himself he wasn’t going to now. That queasy lightheadedness refused to go away though and he knew as well-practiced as his body was at surviving difficult encounters, it still had a limit. He tried not to think it would rear itself here. He’d never live it down.

  He got up and held his stomach and headed for the cockpit. He tapped the pilot’s shoulder “What’s the ETA?”

  “About ten minutes. Sorry for the ride. The currents are rough out here.”

  He nodded like it was no problem and eased his way back to the seat.

  A sudden gust knocked him into Mustin’s lap, pressing the man against the fuselage. “Sorry. Damn it.’ He pushed himself up and slid over into the empty seat.

  “Wonder how Huffman is doing,” Mustin asked as if the embarrassing encounter didn’t faze him. “They took him to Germany, right?”

  “I believe so. From there, he’ll go back to the states.”

  “I hope we’re not going to be like the Brits were in North Africa during WW2, driving around in Jeeps hundreds of miles looking for threats. I checked it out online. Ghawar is a big bitch. It’ll take a division at least to cover its size.”

  “I wonder if the Israelis would be so bold,” Carlson said.

  “I just hope everything quiets down while we’re there.”

  The V-22s began their descent toward what first looked a giant olive slab amidst the tan environment that quickly began shaping itself into individual tents then a long gray rectangle which was the airstrip. They vectored a little to the left and lined up for the tarmac. A slow tip of their noses upward slowed them continuously and their massive propellers transitioned to helicopter mode, engines angled 90 degrees vertical. They touched down in unison amid a gaggle of twin-bladed Ch-47 Chinooks, and began winding down. The rear ramp opened up and the blast furnace-like heat of the desert slapped everyone in the face.

  “Home sweet home,” Carlson chided.

  Lod Airbase

  10:27 P.M.

  The ramp of the C-130 began to rise, and the team watched it filter the hangar’s bright openness into a black void, sealing shut. On board were 22 men, three six-man teams and one four-man team led by Foxmann. None knew the objective of the other as they would be dropped off at different intervals during the flight. Each had a different mission unrelated to each other. Maybe that was why no one said anything between the 130’s taxi and takeoff. Only when they leveled out at 7,000 feet did conversation start to be heard.

  Foxmann, David, and his teammates, Namir Segal and Michael Lehman, sat in the front going over each other’s gear making sure everything was in place. They looked like typical Beirut citizens with a T-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. They had a backpack on their laps that contained their weapons. After they jumped, they would bury their chutes and be picked up by a car which would take them to a safe house inside Beirut. There they would learn the latest from the government official which they only expected to meet in person once. From then on, it was communicating like when in Iran through the tablets. If they got caught at any time, they were instructed to use something they’d never carried before. Cyanide capsules.

  “I hope we find the bastard behind this… get back some for Haifa,” David said.

  “My guess is we already know who it is but just need to confirm it with our eyes,” Foxmann replied, his guess nothing more than that at the moment, but still developing.

  “We got fingerprints off him. We thought he was dead…But, we didn’t recover the body. We were in a hurry, remember? So, he somehow survives our assault on the first drone op center. Only thing we can do now is live with knowledge that we committed a grave error. Plus,

  nobody ever requested us to bring him back,” David said.

  “No. Another error. But as you said, we were operating on a timetable.” He opened his pack and checked the silenced Glock 43 pistol, a diminutive weapon carried by all members of the team. Easily concealable with six 9mm hollowpoints, they were to be brandished only in emergency. This mission was about finding information not securing a hit. Besides, Grozner only gave them two days to find something before they were extracted. Not enough time, he knew, but they would try.

  Before long the loadmaster came back and opened a side door, the shrieking wind shutting down conversation as the first team lined up. One threw a smile and a thumbs up toward Foxmann who repeated the gesture. One after another they walked to the doors edge, pivoted on a foot and leaped into the blackness. Ten minutes later, the next six-man team performed their exit. Then it came time for Foxmann’s team. They got up, pulled down their goggles, adjusted their harnesses, and checked over each other’s gear. The backpacks were attached to their legs and they would release allowing them to unravel and hang when the main chute deployed.

  Foxmann was first. He nodded at the loadmaster and leaped out, the cool night air a deafening whistle in his ears. As the blackness cloaked him, he saw the plane getting tinier by the millisecond. Then he was alone, that whistle still deafening and him imagining where the landscape was
. The chute automatically pulled at 1,500 feet and he let go of the backpack and clutched the risers. A gentle breeze blew him in a slight forward motion through his descent and, sensing the ground coming up, he pulled down the risers with all his might, letting the air gather and billow the chute, slowing him.

  Almost.

  The ground caught him and jerked his feet out from under him and he crashed hard, rolling and dragging a few feet before the chute collapsed. He stood up and began pulling the chute toward him, winding the lines. He wrapped them around the chute compressing it into something the size of a small backpack.

  He lowered his NVGs and searched the area, seeing the others on the ground performing a similar task. He trotted over to David and the others came toward them. Taking a knee, Foxmann drew a breath and said, “Our ride is over there.”

  Now less than 100 yards away with its motor idling, an old Volkswagen minivan, which hadn’t been there on the way down, awaited. A man wearing a dark hijab stood in front and opened the side door.

  The men were up and crouching while they ran. They raised the goggles and boarded the vehicle and stuffed their chutes and backpacks behind the back seats. The man closed the door and ran around to the driver’s side.

  “He one of us?” David asked.

  “He surely is,” Foxmann responded. “Got the beard and mannerisms down like the most dedicated Palestinian. Yet, he was born in Tel Aviv, as Jewish as anyone. Gentlemen, I present Jerome, our manager while we’re here. He’ll get us anything we need.”

  “I’m going to take a different road just in case somebody’s trailing us,” Jerome explained. “Seatbelts on, it’s going to get bumpy.” He swung the wheel hard right just as “bumpy” left his mouth. The van raced down a grade then jumped a small rise, bouncing its occupants to the ceiling. Another hard right and they were climbing. And climbing. The headlights bounced over every little bump upwards. Then for a second, gravity left. And the van slammed hard over the crest, the brakes squealed in protest and the van bounced hard one more time, before the headlights steadied right next to the lane markers of a different road.

  “There. That should do it,” Jerome said chuckling. “Sorry if I scared you.”

  “No…Problem,” David said, drawing some more chuckles.

  Foxmann’s stomach receded from his throat and he took a big swallow, and rubbed the sweat off his brow. He looked at his watch. Little more than eleven minutes passed since deplaning. He watched the occasional car pass and hoped he’d see the skyline soon. Beirut was still active even though the sky above belonged to Israel. People still carried on their daily business into the night as all cities did.

  “Big news. But not about the headquarters’ location. It’s about who is in it. It’s the one Tel Aviv calls the BeeKeeper. He is very much alive and soon to leave Lebanon.”

  A sense of urgency rose in Foxmann. “When? Did you notify Tel Aviv?”

  “Yes. Of course. You were already in the air when the news was received. We transmitted it just before you jumped. We know the time he is departing and the route. Even the color and make of the car. Oh yes. They can no longer send signals to the drones. That is why he is leaving. We have informed Tel Aviv of this as well.”

  “Still nothing about the drone command center?”

  “None. Other than its located around or inside the city limits.”

  Foxmann’s thoughts turned back to the BeeKeeper. If they could take him alive, a bonanza of untold riches in intelligence awaited. The primary target didn’t seem so important now. Could they change missions? Would Tel Aviv permit that? Would they be that flexible? Doubt it.

  He produced the tablet and pressed the icon.

  “Request permission to change targets. The drones are out of action now.”

  “Something to that effect,” Grozner paused then added, “I know what you want. Absolutely not. I want that command center destroyed.”

  “If we go for a target that we don’t know where it is, we could be at it for days. If we get the BeeKeeper, we can get him and the target in far less time.”

  “Foxmann, Metzer and the Joint Chiefs will be pissed.”

  “They’ll get over it. We have the opportunity now to strike a decisive blow. One that will have a telling effect on the enemy much greater than blowing up a building that may or may not be occupied.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t let you take him alive.”

  “That’s a risk worth taking.”

  “Jessy.” Another pause, this one several seconds longer. “I’ll have to resign as prime minister if I give you the go ahead and something goes awry.”

  “It may not come to that. But I’ll resign as well if something goes wrong. Time is wasting, Ariel. We both just put our asses on the line. Do we have it or not?”

  “Alright. Alright. You can go after him. I’ll have to explain to Metzer your plan. It’s on you now.”

  “Thank you. I’ll need air assets.”

  Resignation was going to be the easy part if they made a mistake. His career in the Army would essentially be over and he would live with that stigma on his record as long as he walked the earth. “We go after him. God help us if we fail.” Enough talk. he started to devise a plan to grab him without killing.

  “He doesn’t leave for about five hours. I’ll set course for the road he’s on. We’ll get there ahead of him.”

  Foxmann punched up another frequency. “Metzer, I need a drone to watch over us later on. Get it into the air. You’ll receive the coordinates in a few hours.”

  “This plan. I’m not sure…”

  “Trust me.” He didn’t want to beg like with Grozner. “I’ll have one available. Also, have a chopper stand by to pick us up after we do it.”

  “Done.”

  “How are we going to do it, Jessy?” David asked.

  “Ambush. That’s the only way. If he has escorts, they’ll have to be taken out. That’s what the drone is for.”

  “I’ll take us into the city a little ways, “Jerome said, “Then change to a new road. I won’t take you to the safe house. Not enough time. I know good terrain to set up an ambush.”

  Foxmann began formulating. It would be nice to have some high ground and he knew the ground between Lebanon and Syria mostly meandered in short jaunts up and down. Once they selected the ambush sight, he would station the van on the road looking as if it had trouble. Two men placed with it could give a signal for the vehicle or vehicles to slow down. Even though it was a war situation, a driver in dire need of help might suffice. When they slowed, if the drone was needed, it would take out the escorts. If there were none, they had what was probably three to five men to deal with depending on what vehicle was used.

  “What if your friend has a guard ordered to shoot him if they detect something amiss?” Jerome said.

  “That’s the risk.”

  “Isn’t that pretty shallow?”

  “It is what it is.”

  The twinkles of Beirut’s skyline appeared before them. The van kept at a steady pace passing through the outer district. Jerome made his turn down a narrow single lane road taking them between blocks of dilapidated apartments. They came back on the road rather quick, topping a rise of pavement then turning. The whole entrance and exit from the city took just 15 minutes. All the while Jerome’s eyes darted to the side mirror making sure nobody had their tail.

  Foxmann scratched the scruff forming on his cheeks. He was serious about resigning if this failed. He knew Grozner was as well. It wasn’t just simple frustration talking. Ever since Iran, everything that could go wrong in a conflict had. Not once though was he going to start doubting his ability to pull off a mission. He’d die first.

  Jerome nodded at the windshield and the darkness beyond. “I pulled some special ops in this region back during the 2006 incursion. Hezbollah had their shit together then. Much like now. Only now they’re even more disciplined. The drones were a stroke of brilliance. Does this guy have anything to do with them?”

 
; “He came up with the strategy.”

  “For security, I guess, that’s why they didn’t tell me. I was just told he was high up. I see why you want him.”

  “It may not change anything but he’ll be a gold mine of intel.”

  “I figured Tehran would be trying tooth and nail to get to Syria so they could strike us. Any reason why they’ve stayed so far away?”

  “That’s still a mystery. The Iraqis are sheltering them, giving them all the fuel they need. Baghdad still hasn’t declared a pact with Tehran. They’re playing both sides.”

  “Unless outer forces are at work,” Jerome said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, this is just a hunch. But ever since this whole thing started, I know of one entity that has nothing to lose and everything to gain.” He looked over and in the darkness flashed a smile for Foxmann. “The Russians. They come out ahead no matter who loses. See. They have priority over the oil deals in Iraq. They’re friends with Tehran and they’ve been busy taking out secular resistance groups in Syria. A strange symmetry, but it’s feasible.”

  The suggestion caught Foxmann by surprise. But he was right. The Russians would come out far ahead of whoever finished second in this war, though Intel had not reported any Russian personnel or hardware being shipped into Syria or elsewhere in the region. Granted, in the air they had about 30 strike aircraft, and on the ground they had a small Spetsnaz detachment raising hell on behalf of the Syrian government, but nothing more of note. The sea lanes also remained quiet of Russian supply ships. “I’ll take note of your assessment,” he said.

  “Now back to the task at hand,” Jerome said, “Our weapons. I forgot about that, I carry a Russian Makarov pistol, plus I have an AK-47 with two extra magazines under the back seat.”

  The AK would be alright, but they were woefully underarmed for a roadside ambush. What if they had to pump the thing full of holes? Pistols would have to do. Which meant they must move quicker when the moment arrived.