Israel's Next War

by Martin Archer

“Stability? What stability are you referring to?” I asked the man who’d responded for the briefer. “And why are border adjustments and maybe even a couple of new countries, such as one for the Kurds, not in our interest if we want peace in the Middle East? And what arguments have we been making to explain why getting nuclear weapons is not in the best interests of the Arab countries?

  “And for that matter, why do you think it is in our country’s interest to support national boundaries which result in constant wars, repression, acts of terrorism, and every two-bit dictator in the Middle East spending his country’s money in an effort to get nuclear weapons?”

  State’s “professionals” at the briefing session had no answers for any of my questions. They seemed to be surprised when I asked them. Christ, even I can think of one reason it’s not in the best interest of the Islamic countries not to try to get nuclear weapons—because the Israelis will almost certainly use their own nukes and destroy them before they can use their new weapons.

  As we walked out of the State Department building I had an almost irresistible urge to chalk “Secretary Kerry was here” on the wall. I started to laugh and tell “Pete” why I was laughing. But I stopped. I don’t know him well enough.

  “Well Pete, what do you think about what we heard today?”

  Chapter Two

  The White House operators were able to reach Chief Warrant Officer Duffy at home and he reported in immediately. Finding Major Evans, however, turned out to be easier said than done that Friday afternoon. And I couldn’t complain because I’d given him the weekend off since he’d worked every day previously for three straight weeks.

  Usually the White House operators can find anybody rather quickly. Not today. The car to take me to Andrews was already downstairs when someone finally had the bright idea of calling Duffy back and asking him if he knows how to get a hold of Dick Evans.

  Sure, he told Mrs. Rodman. He’s probably in bed with the air force pilot who flew us in from Europe a couple of weeks ago, the cute little blonde with the big tits. Try the bachelor officers’ quarters at Andrews. Her name’s Joanie or something like that.

  ****** Chief Warrant Officer Duffy

  Dick came hustling up out of breath just as General Roberts and I were walking out of the VIP lounge to board the Gulfstream. He looked a bit put out and had no luggage. I lagged back a bit to talk to him.

  “Decided to stay in bed a couple of hours longer instead of going home for your go bag, huh?” I asked.

  “Damn you, Harry. Did you tell them where I was? It was really embarrassing. The phone wasn’t working so they pounded on the door. Christ, they were shouting about the White House and unlocking the door before Joanie could even let them in.”

  “Her phone wasn’t working? You mean you were banging her and it was off the hook, don’t you?”

  “Well it may have been off the hook, but I’m sure as hell not. She’s so pissed she threw a shoe at me. I told her I had the weekend off. And I did. Or at least I thought I did. What the hell is going on that’s so important?”

  “Damned if I know. All I know is the boss is flying to Israel and we’re going with him. Oh, by the way, I love the perfume you’re wearing.”

  ****** Major Dick Evans

  Tires squealed as our Air Force extended range Gulfstream III settled onto the runway of one of the several Israeli military airbases near Tel Aviv. It was a fast trip and there is a seven hour time difference. We’d left Andrews a little more than seven hours earlier at 1730 Thursday afternoon and arrived in Israel a little before 0800 on a Friday morning already much too warm from the summer sun.

  It’s my first time in Israel and I’m hoping Harry and I will have some free time so we can be tourists and see the sights. It will, of course, depend on the boss, General Christopher Roberts. He’s here, the word is, because Israel may be about to do something drastic like start a war. I may be one of his aides, but I haven’t got a clue as to what the boss is doing here or why he brought Harry and me with him.

  ****** General Christopher Roberts

  “Hey Yoram, long time no see. And it is good to see you, it really is.”

  “Good to see you too, Chris. The big wheels heard you were coming so they sent me to welcome you.”

  “Looks like you’re becoming one of the wheels yourself. It’s been a long time, too long. The last time I saw you, you were a new major hoping to make lieutenant colonel someday. Now look at you—a brigadier, by God. What are you doing, if I might ask?

  “Finally got my own command. A tank-heavy armor brigade, the Tenth. Only got it about six months ago and already it’s the world’s best and soon to be even better. Don’t take it personally but I hope you won’t stay long. I’ve got some important maneuvers coming up.”

  ******

  What I didn’t tell Yoram, but he and the other Israeli officials and generals know damn well, is I’m here because the Israelis are really pissed at the Iranians and appear to be getting ready to do something drastic. My visit may be officially unofficial but, in reality, it’s significant because of my position and everyone knows it.

  If anyone asks, I told my office and staff before I left, I am visiting Israel to talk to the Israelis about their equipment needs and particularly about Israel buying more F-35s. It looks as though we’ll have a lot of extras and in the past the Israelis have been successful in modifying our fighters so they are more effective. In fact, of course, the real reason I’m here is because the President wants to know if the prospect of war is really shaping up to be as serious as the CIA and NSA are making it out to be. With me are a couple of my military aides, Dick Evans and Harry Duffy.

  NSA and the CIA, because of their advanced technology and tradecraft, can usually be relied on to get the straight poop to the White House about what other countries intend to do. One of the big exceptions, and maybe the only one according to the CIA, is Israel. We’re never quite sure what Israel is up to. It seems, although none of the agencies will ever admit it, the Israelis may have even more advanced encryption processes and superior intelligence tradecraft than we do.

  Our inability to know what the Israelis are planning doesn’t surprise me at all. They’re really into high tech technologies and it’s clear that Israel is constantly under intensive pressure because it is just about every Islamic dictator’s favorite scapegoat when things go wrong at home, which seems to occur quite frequently. So one mistake or miscalculation and the Israelis are toast—their military and intelligence can’t afford to be second best to any country, not even the United States.

  Our new president is a good guy and really cares. He’s a veteran of the first war in Iraq and I got to know him at bit when he was vice-president. But many of his advisors are political people from Chicago and not particularly worldly in the sense they think every problem can be solved with a good presidential speech.

  I’ll never say it publically, of course, but most of the President’s longtime staffers aren’t much in tune with the real world. They don’t quite get it that the interests and problems of our allies such as Israel are significantly different from ours and might not always align. The President, for example, thinks Israel will never need to go to war to hold off its nuclear equipped enemies because the Israelis can always depend on us to ’have their backs.’

  I tried to be diplomatic when the President said that to me yesterday when I met with him briefly after the morning’s Security Council meeting,—to explain in private why I would be heading off later in the morning to spend a few days in Israel.

  “Perhaps, God forbid, Mr. President, the day will come when there is a President who is so weak and wavering that he or she will draw a line in the sand to protect Israel or some other country and say ’don’t cross it or else’—and then do absolutely nothing when the line is crossed.”

  “Oh, the American people would never elect such a weak president.”

  I hope he’s right but I’m not so sure. Presidents are human and it’s as simple as God
made little green apples—sooner or later an empty suit will come along who gives great speeches but can’t be counted on when the chips are down. Someone like former Secretary of State Kerry, for example, or a couple of our more useless senators. I’ll never say it out loud, except to my wife, but it’s a damn good thing the President won the election.

  ****** Major Dick Evans

  An Israeli general, a brigadier if I remember their insignia correctly, was standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for us as we came out of the plane. We are among friends if the big smile, casual salute, and bear hug he gave General Roberts is any indication. Wonder how they know each other?

  Israeli air fields are like most of the military fields I’ve seen—flat and noisy with a number of planes constantly taking off and landing. Lots of fighters on this one. Many of them sort of look like ours but are somehow different. Sure a lot of traffic on the two side by side runways. This must be some kind of training base.

  A couple of cars and a pick-up with a crew cab pulled out from the shade next to one of the hangars as we walked off our plane. Chevrolets. One car for the generals, one for Harry and me, and a van for the Gulfstream crew when they finish refueling the plane.

  Right behind the cars and van came a big fuel truck. It pulled up to the Gulfstream and began gassing it up even before the boss finished hugging the Israeli general and our pilots could climb out to tell them how to do it. The fueling crew looked efficient and they seemed to know what they were doing. It was almost funny the way the copilot rushed out of the plane to try to tell them what to do.

  Then an Israeli captain walked up to me, saluted casually, and introduced himself in perfect American English.

  “Hi, I’m Oren, Oren Lavi, one of General Makow’s aides. I’m to be one of your escorts while you’re here. And over there is Joel. He’s driving today.”

  A young enlisted man wearing shorts smiled and waved a casual greeting as the trunk popped open and Harry threw in his and the boss’s duffle bags. Then we jumped in and hurried to follow the general’s car out the gate. We lost it immediately in the heavy morning traffic. Where the hell am I going to get some clothes and a toilet kit?

  ******

  The drive into Tel Aviv was really interesting. Sort of like driving into Phoenix from Luke Field, the air base near Phoenix where the German flag flies because it’s where Germany trains its air force pilots. First a lot of desert, and then trees and green grass and modern buildings. It looks really prosperous. I’ve never been to Israel before so I didn’t know what to expect. But this isn’t it.

  Even more interesting, we were almost immediately flagged down by a hitchhiker wearing shorts—an attractive young girl who looked to be about seventeen or eighteen with absolutely gorgeous legs. What was interesting wasn’t her legs or that we stopped to pick her up; it was that she was wearing bright yellow civilian shorts and carrying a vicious looking assault rifle with a clip of live rounds taped to its stock.

  Harry and I moved over and she jumped in the back seat next to Harry with a smile, rattled off something to Oren, placed the butt of her assault rifle down on the floor between her legs, and promptly closed her eyes and went to sleep with her head up against the window.

  Oren was sitting in front next to the driver and he must have seen the surprise in our eyes as she climbed in. No one said a word for about five minutes. Then, after she gave the sweetest little snore, Oren tried to explain.

  “Picking up hitchhiking soldiers is a tradition here. She’s probably pooped because she’s in the basic training unit stationed next to the airbase and going home on a weekend pass. Carrying your personal weapon and ammunition at all times is required of all soldiers still in training or stationed in much of the West Bank—even if they are off duty and in civilian clothes. Even when they’re on the beach wearing a bikini.”

  About thirty or forty minutes later we turned off the main highway and Joel pulled over to the side of the road. Our little soldier smiled and said something to Oren, and then “bye bye” to us as she climbed out.

  Damn. I’m impressed. I’m beginning to see why Israel wins when the shooting starts.—I wonder if they have fraternization problems?

  Oren obviously enjoyed opening a window on a bit of Israeli life.

  “We have such a small population and small land area that we all have to be ready to fight at the drop of a hat. Even with all our draft dodgers we have one of the largest armies in the world. Only Switzerland, the only other western country with universal military service these days, has an army that can immediately put as many combat troops into the field as we can.”

  Draft dodgers? Switzerland’s army? Nah.

  “Draft dodgers? Switzerland? You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “No I’m not. Hey man, we’re the only country in the world that drafts both men and women. Even the Swiss don’t draft women. With women handling the support services we can put about half a million combat troops into the field almost overnight. That’s more than the United States—except our troops are better trained and better equipped than yours and more of ours are combat troops. And, of course, our troops are concentrated in one small area so they can be more quickly deployed.

  “Our real edge, the good news if you will, is many more of us are willing to fight and kill; every Israeli knows we cannot afford to lose even once. If we do lose there likely will be another Holocaust and our families will be wiped out.”

  He’s right about that. It’s the American Army’s little secret about a lot of our troops not trying to kill the bad guys when they’re in combat situations. I sure don’t have that problem and neither does Harry; anyone trying to kill us and ours sure as hell better keep his head down and his ass low.

  “Israel’s bad news, besides the existence of all the dictators who use us as scapegoats to distract their people from their failures, is we exempt about ten percent of our people from military service and paying taxes—those who claim to be ultra-religious. The bastards don’t even have to work. They live on welfare and send their wives out to beg.”

  Damn, I’d never heard that before.

  “I’ve got to admit, Oren, I’d heard your army is really good but I didn’t realize it was so large and well-armed. I guess I never really thought about it.”

  “Yeah. You and the Arabs. It surprises them every time.” Except this time it’s the goddamn Iranians and they haven’t learned yet.

  ******

  We pulled into the parking lot in front of what was obviously a military headquarters in time to see the generals walk up the stairs two steps at a time and enter the building. The three of us jumped out and hustled up the stairs in time to catch up with them at the sign-in desk in the lobby.

  The building we entered is made of concrete, and pretty plain and utilitarian. Its security, however, looks to be tight with a lot of cameras and guards carrying automatic weapons. We all had to show our IDs, even the Israeli brigadier. But then we got on an elevator and were surprised—instead of going up as I expected, we went down quite a few floors to a windowless basement conference room.

  After an hour-long briefing from a female Israeli intelligence officer to fill the boss in with the official version of what she knows about the recent terrorist incidents, which doesn’t seem to me to be much more than what has already been reported in the Washington and New York newspapers, General Makow invited the Boss, and me and Harry, along with Oren and Joel, to come home with him for dinner.

  The Boss sat in the front with General Makow in his old Fiat and the three of us sat stuffed in the little back seat while he drove us to the home where he and his wife and their two teenage sons live in army housing in a nearby Tel Aviv suburb. Joel and Oren didn’t come with us. They headed off to get Oren’s fiancé so she could join the party.

  It was a great evening and we all had a fine old time. The General’s wife, Bertha, obviously had been called and knew we were coming. She bustled out of the front door and over to the driveway as we pulled
in. It was a warm greeting. Apparently she’d met the Boss when he was here some years ago. More hugs and kisses and handshakes and reminiscing.

  Then she introduced us to her visiting “kid sister,” Deb, who walked out with her to greet us. Some kid. She’s an army widow with a rollicking laugh, sort of an old fashioned earth mother type. Her two teenage kids, a boy and a girl, are both in the army and stationed at the big new army headquarters being built outside of Tel Aviv.

  Deb runs a little shop in one of Jerusalem’s tourist malls. She’d come up from Jerusalem by bus for the weekend to stay with her sister while she visited her kids.

  It was a nice night and General Makow’s house was rather small. So we spent the evening standing around in the backyard drinking Gold Star Beer and eating food piled up on a redwood picnic table. I don’t know how it got started but soon everyone was telling stories about some of the funny things that have happened to us in the army and what we’ve seen. Maybe it was the beer but some of the stories were really funny.

  And we even got a bit personal. According to the general, one of his sons is about to go in the army and apparently intends to make it a career if he can get into the officers course; the other has not even started his service and is in the university “smoking pot” after a year bumming around Australia.

  “Smart kid,” his father told us with more than a little pride in his voice. “Wants to get into computers and programming. The army gave him a delay in reporting so he could go straight to the university to study computers—right after he won something called a hacking contest, whatever the hell that is.” He knows damn well what it is.

  Harry was obviously bewitched by Deb. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  “Harry,” I said as I stood next to him after dinner and nodded toward the kitchen door with a fake whisper and a smile in my voice, and speaking loud enough so everyone around the table could hear, “I’m worried about you. Your face has turned red and your pants don’t fit.”

  Deb heard me as she walked out of the kitchen with a big plate of ice cream and apple slices. “Don’t worry about Harry. He just wants to get in my pants. Don’t you Harry?” And then she laughed heartily and tickled Harry on his tummy as she walked past.