A Touch Of War: A Military Thriller Novel

by Isaac Stormm

  20 minutes later

  Al-Bashir stood on a massive golden rug that seemed miniscule by the mosque’s cavernous architecture. Imam Hamsi emerged from behind a curtained doorway.

  “I know why you’re here, General,” he said. “I am appalled at what the Zionists have done. And I’ve spoken to more than one general today. Even remnants of the royal family have been calling me. All of them with one request. Allow the mosque to be stormed. But I didn’t fancy talking to them as much as I did you. For its security is your responsibility. Now, do you have a plan to take back the mosque? If you do, tell it to me. If I like it, I will approve the lifting of the ban on violence at the premises.”

  “What I am proposing involves a lot of men and material. It can lead to great destruction if not careful. I’m proposing a joint attack from the air and from the ground. Simultaneously, we assault from every direction led by our Special Forces. They will be supported by armored vehicles. If we maintain speed and surprise, we should be able to reach and clear the area relatively quickly. From that point on, it is just a matter of finding their explosive device and disarming it.”

  “It sounds competent and professional. But if the Jews are serious and have the place wired to a nuclear explosive, there is still a possibility they could set it off before the mosque is cleared.”

  “I know. That is the risk we must take. But this plan is the best we’ve got at the moment barring some sort of surrender.”

  “Which we can expect the Jews never to do. May I share a bit of history with you?”

  “Of course, Excellency.”

  “Back during the Roman times, a group of Jews they called zealots took control of a remote mountaintop fortress called Masada. You know the story. But somehow I have the feeling that those Jews at the mosque consider that their Masada even though to do so is blasphemy in our minds.” He paused for second, rubbed his lower lip with his finger. “Masada fell and the Jews committed suicide. But the fortress itself remained intact. That is what all of the Islam expects to happen, that any damage be minimal. I know you cannot guarantee that though, can you?”

  Al-Bashir shook his head. “Surely Allah will guide us with his wise hand. It is his place we are taking. He must listen to our prayers and see this through to the end.”

  “I know he will, my friend. That is why I am giving permission for the use of violence within the mosque. It is done so with reluctance, I must add.”

  “We will fight carefully. Only Jews will be the targets. We will close to face them within feet of each other. Or even inches. We will be careful.”

  “May Allah be praised.”

  9:47 A.M.

  The Gill gunner watched the M1A2 tank pass the streets between one set of houses then another. It stopped in the middle of an intersection and turned 90 degrees on its treads to face the mosque at a distance of about 800 meters. “Want me to take it out?” he asked.

  Foxmann wondered if they were using this guy as bait. To see how far out their weapons could reach. He thought about it for second then said, “Yes. Go ahead.”

  The crosshairs centered on the blocky front of the tank. The missile ejected out of its launcher and raced through the sky at approximately 650 miles per hour. At the last second it veered upward firing its double charge into the top of the tank. The hatches blew and jets of flames shot out of them. Men clambered out of it on fire from head to toe. They leaped away from it trying to roll to extinguish the flames but they died before they could get any momentum.

  Foxmann observed the wreck through his binoculars. It continued to burn in ever higher spumes of flame. The burning bodies of the crew formed smaller pyres nearby. “That’s all from us for now. You take over the next shots,” he called to the minaret next to him.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Go get some more rounds.”

  “Fools.” Al-Bashir raged. He pounded a fist on the hood of the car. “Who gave the order for them to expose themselves?”

  “No one. They acted on their own,” the exec replied.

  “I want snipers on all those minarets. Make it impossible for them to fire from them.”

  The exec began making calls on the radio.

  The two men brought up another two tubes and set them against the wall. They took one and affixed it to the Gill’s mount. Satisfied with their progress, Foxmann told them he would leave for a few minutes. “David, meet me in the courtyard.”

  The sun cast long shadows of the two off the massive walls. They looked entwined as they walked.

  “It’s going to get a lot worse. I’m worried about snipers. So make sure you keep your men staying in the shadows. The minarets are the problem for them right now. I feel they’ve already got permission to storm this place. The minarets would be the first to go if they do.”

  “Can I be frank with you, Jessy?” David looked down, momentarily lost in thought.

  “Always.”

  “What do you think the chances really are? I mean of bringing this whole thing to an end and getting out of here safely?”

  “That’s better as a two-part question. I think our chances are quite good that we could stop the war. On the other hand, our survival I have to leave up in the air. I’m going to venture a guess that in planning for this thing long ago, survival was an afterthought that was thrown in at the last moment.”

  “That’s not very comforting.”

  Another jet roared in the distance. This time it sounded like it was closing. Before the two men could part, an F-15 flew over at no more than 200 feet altitude, afterburners blazing as it pulled up the moment it cleared the courtyard and climbed like a rocket into the blue, spewing red streamers of flares to ward off missiles.

  The two men headed back to their former positions. “Something might be coming up right now,” he hollered into the mic. Metzer replied, but he couldn’t really hear even though the walls of the minaret sheltered him from the still strong but fading noise. Once it dissipated, he stopped halfway up the stairwell and said “Repeat.”

  “What the hell was that?” Metzer insisted.

  “F-15, probably doing some reconnaissance.”

  He continued upstairs into the minaret where the two men looked through different kind of scopes trying to detect any movement. No, he was right, this was likely a recon mission.

  The F-15 wheeled around on its left wing and descended into a 30-degree dive again. It almost broke the sound barrier as it passed over the courtyard and stood on its tail and shot straight up. It almost looked like the pilot was putting on a show.

  Al-Bashir watched the bird climb to a point where it was just a vague gray dot in the bright blue sky, then disappear.

  “We should have some good photographs relatively shortly,” the adjutant said.

  Al-Bashir looked at an aerial shot of Mecca on his tablet. He pinched his finger to zoom in close and get a good look at the Grand Kabaa. Of all the things that they may destroy when they take the place back, the Grand Kabaa had to be spared no matter what. He thought of the different ways he would be killed if it was. Beheading was too good. Hanging like a criminal was more likely, right after he had been tortured for hours for failing the Islamic world.

  An image came up on the tablet. A beautiful crisp picture taken from above the courtyard.

  “Ah, yes. Excellent work,” Al-Bashir said of the F-15’s high-speed pass.

  He looked over the photograph looking for the slightest signs of damage to the mosque. It appeared the Israelis took care not to destroy anything. He could care less about carefulness. He knew word would be coming down on high to resolve the situation as soon as possible.

  The phone rang. The adjutant picked it up and handed to him. ‘The brigade is taking their final positions. All is ready.”

  Al-Bashir mused for a second then said, “Excellent… Standby.” He handed the phone back, tapped the tablet and looked at a map of the city. The brigade had formed a perimeter that surrounded the mosque at a distance of 500 meters from its gates. V
ehicles stayed out of sight and soldiers took up positions inside the buildings.

  Al-Bashir knew that the Israelis would’ve suspected something like this. He didn’t know if they expected an attack right now. It didn’t matter. He was going to commence a ground attack from six directions. Everything would be formed up within the hour. And simultaneously led by vehicles, infantry would close in on the gates. Once they breached them, they would flood the courtyard and zamzams as rapidly as possible. Once they completed mopping up, they would declare an all clear, and Al-Bashir would enter the premises. He was going to grade how safe the attack could be against the vital structures of the mosque. If he found anyone had used excessive force and resulted in damage that he felt didn’t need to be, he planned on executing the man there in front of all soldiers.

  He scrolled through some more pictures on the tablet. Then satisfied with everything, turned it off, and folded its protective covering back over it, leaving it on the hood. He raised the binoculars back up. “I figure a thousand men should do it,” he said, sighing.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the adjutant remarked, “but you don’t seem too enthusiastic about the assault.”

  “Unknowns is what’s causing my pain. The Israelis are more heavily armed than usual. A lot of our soldiers are going to bleed on the streets.”

  “They are willing.”

  Al-Bashir looked at the adjutant like he had just been insulted. “I’m aware of that. I just don’t want it to be in vain.”

  “The Jews have no chance.”

  “Neither do we if they really have a nuclear weapon. It will all be for naught if after our sacrifices, they set it off.”

  “Allah will bless us.” The adjutant’s response seemed more like that of an ignorant child than a well-educated chief of staff.

  “You sound much like a yes-man.”

  “No. Just one that has tremendous faith in you and our country.”

  “I’ll try to make that faith justified. You know against the Israelis, the Arab armies of the region have typically had a bad time. They never learn from their mistakes. But I have. I read everything that I can find on the Jewish state and their method of war. I learned their tactics. And I know that in the end if we are not exactly precise in our dealings with them, we will lose. But I do not intend to.”

  The satellite feed was coming through. Foxmann looked at it and realized it was just as he suspected. On its pass barely ten minutes ago, it spotted the cordon of vehicles. Nothing surprising. Foxmann reckoned they were licking their chops preparing for an advance. Or, on the more unlikely side, they were going to wait the Israelis out.

  “You’re seeing what I’m seeing?” he asked Metzer.

  “Yes. We’ll take care of it. I’ll have an airstrike within the hour.”

  “Negative. Too many civilians.”

  “Now’s a hell of a time to be compassionate.”

  “No. Just thinking of the pictures that would be played over television. They probably have forbidden any evacuation.”

  20 minutes later

  “General. Our forces are in position. They await your orders.”

  Al-Bashir nodded at the adjutant. “I want the tanks at the front. Armored personnel carriers behind them. Our infantry will follow behind the convoys.”

  The adjutant spoke into the phone. Some quick Arabic sentences and he hung up.

  Around them they heard the heavy motors firing up. Al-Bashir didn’t bother to look around. He planned to watch the assault from where he was, with the phone in one hand so he could coordinate anything that got out of sequence.

  “You hear it?” Foxmann quizzed the two men. Both acknowledged with a nod. He pulled the mic boom closer to his mouth. “Ok. This is going to go terminal in a hurry. They’re all around us. They’ll probably try to come at us at the same time.” He looked in all directions figuring the tanks would lead them in. If they could destroy them at a fairly long range, they could block the roads and disrupt the infantry’s assault. “AT crews fire when you see them. Hold fire against any infantry until they fall below 400 meters distance.” He then looked into the sky, it was absent except for a tiny blob high up approaching slowly. “We got a drone moving in from the east. Snipers, take care of it.”

  A minute later, a crack rang out and he watched the drone fall from the sky like a lead weight. It crashed on top of a building and shattered into a thousand pieces. “We got another coming in,” he heard on the radio. Another crack a little further away to the north. “Clear,” crackled from the radio.

  One of the anti-tank teams saw the first tank at nearly a thousand meters distance. It was coming in from the north and they reported it being followed by two more.

  Foxmann trained his binoculars in front of him and saw another three and still three more a couple of streets over to his left. Whoosh went an anti-tank missile several stories below him. He followed its orange flame emanating from the tail as it jinked side to side, gained a little altitude then exploded over the top of a turret. The report rebounded a little subdued because of the range but still made his ears pop.

  From all directions missiles leapt from windows and minarets on their deadly course. Explosions sounded off in the distance. A few seconds subsided then the mosque became alive again with tongues of flame and another round of missiles on their way to claim more victims.

  Damn fine shooting so far, Foxmann reckoned. The lead tanks were destroyed. Those falling behind them tried to push them out of the way only to get hit and block the road. The missiles were causing a traffic jam at nearly a mile’s distance on six streets that converged on the mosque.

  Foxmann looked toward the sheet of flames from tank carcasses on one street trying to spot any attempt of infantry to filter through it. The flames were too thick. The infantry would have to go over another street if they expected to close in.

  Al-Bashir pounded his fist on the hood. “Damn it. Get them back. Call it off now,” he screamed into the phone.

  The masses of infantry gathering behind the destroyed tanks began to flee back to their staging areas. The surviving tanks wheeled 360 degrees on their treads and rumbled away. Al-Bashir wanted to avoid a massacre. There was no way in hell he was sending his men practically naked on a mile’s walk that would see none of them reach the walls of the mosque alive. It was not time to be martyrs…Yet.

  Foxmann picked up the XM25. He looked through the sight getting a laser reading on a pair of destroyed vehicles. Well beyond its range of course but he planned to use it instead of his MK18 when the infantry finally assaulted. Most likely tonight, his conscience told him.

  “Cease-fire,” he called. More looking through the binoculars. Satisfaction. “They’re done for now.”

  “Shall we go again, soon?” the adjutant asked.

  “No,” Al-Bashir said. “I’m going to think over another way. Have all forces stand down.”

  “Very well.”

  Al-Bashir looked off toward the mosque. It was a hornet’s nest of anti-tank missiles, machine guns, and probably sniper rifles and maybe even mortars. He knew there was a finite amount of ammunition they had but he did not want to waste his men unnecessarily. Instead he decided to go back to snipers to keep them worried. He gave the order and looked once more at the destroyed tanks in his line of sight. They would use them again later. They would support the next thing he had in mind which no one, not even the experienced Israelis, would expect.

  “They just fumbled a major attack. We held them off.” Foxmann sat down with his knees folded up and placed the tablet on them. Metzer acknowledged with a quick nod.

  “Oh yes, we may have the ability to resupply you tonight. I’m still looking into it. I’ll let you know a couple hours beforehand if anything can be done,” he said. “You think you would need an airstrike then?”

  “You might get some vehicles. But I have a feeling most of their force will be hidden.”

  “Godspeed until then.” His image disappeared. Foxmann brought up a map of the city ag
ain. He traced a finger around where he figured the cordon was. They had some miniature drones they could send out after it got dark. That’s what he planned to do before approving an airstrike.

  A chunk of the window ledge slammed above his head, raining tiny pebbles over him. ”Snipers again,” he called to the teams. Just then he heard the report of the rifle far off. Not as heavy sounding. Probably a .308 Winchester or .338 Lapua Magnum. Now the harassment was going to start.

  A machine gun below stuttered, flinging a string of tracers at a far off building. He hoped they had the guy zeroed. He looked at his watch approaching 10 a.m.. Already the cooped up conditions of the minaret meant that sweat was streaming down his cheeks and dripping off onto his vest. He could actually hear it, the drops were so heavy. He brought the Camelbak valve to his lips and bit down, letting the cool refreshing spray coat his throat. Counting to three, he released. Had to save.

  The other two saw what he was doing and followed in kind, careful not to let any part of their body show in the window. He left them there and took the XM25 with him to be aside one of the windows in the mosque below with Seagal.

  “Good morning, boss,” Seagel said cheerfully. “They’re playing with us again,” which brought a nod from Foxmann.

  “What range do you think he is?” Foxmann realized it was the machine gunner sitting cross-legged under the window that had loosed the shots.

  “Don’t know, boss.” The man who looked more like he was just about 20—and pushing it at that—cradled the M240 in his arms like a baby. The 250-round belt wound away from its receiver like a serpent to coil up beside him. “Narrowly missed me.” He nodded toward the wall where a small hole stood with spidery cracks around it. “A couple inches to the right and that would’ve been my face.”

  Another shot echoed in the distance. One of the sniper teams. “Foxmann to all units: MG gunners conserve ammo.”