by Jon Sedran
“Yes sir,” came the reply.
“We better get the data stream to the Pentagon right now,” the duty officer directed the plane’s communications console operator.
* * * *
Jordanian and Israeli air defense controllers were talking to each other, but no one could get a clear picture of exactly what was going on. Contradictory reports were coming in to each country’s air defense control centers. Reports had come in of a plane heading toward Tel Aviv, then back toward Amman, and next off into the desert, followed by contact being lost. Simultaneously, Israeli northern air defense sector was reporting a possible intrusion of their airspace from Lebanon by another slow moving aircraft. Both countries were increasing their alert status and scrambling more air defense fighters.
“Hamar One Two, do you have the plane in sight?” asked a frantic Jordanian air defense controller.
“I have fired,” reported Khan.
As the sidewinder missile rapidly closed in on the hot exhaust from the SD-360’s engines, the aircraft once again flew into a cloud. It was just enough to cause the supersonic missile to break lock for a split second. It reacquired just as it was moving past the right wing of the SD-360. It instantly detonated; the explosion peppering the front and right side of the aircraft with tiny pieces of shrapnel. It shattered most of the windscreen and destroyed the right engine causing the plane to begin to roll over. “They have found us Najid,” Doud said, looking over at his co-pilot.
“Allah Akbar,” Galla replied. He leaned forward slightly, blood dripping from his forehead, and flipped the toggle switch.
* * * *
The Patriot missile battery in Israel’s northern sector, code named ‘Thor North’ was on-line and had now gotten a radar lock on the intruder. The information was relayed real-time to the on-duty sector air defense commander at Ramat-David Air Base. He had to make a decision. Should he wait and see if Ram 37 could get a lock, or launch the Patriot missile with Ram 37 dangerously close, but rapidly closing in on the intruder.
He thought for a moment about the F-35, but could not wait. He gave the order to fire the Patriot missile. The cargo plane was only a few miles from Haifa and if they lost him again, it could be too late to react. He also knew he could not call off Ram 37, he would be the last line of defense should the Patriot missile fail to bring down the intruder.
“Ram37, Patriot missile battery is engaging the target,” the air defense controller informed Goshen.
“Understand…I have a lock now,” replied Goshen.
“Missile’s airborne,” reported the Patriot launch officer.
“Ram 37 says he has a lock on the target,” reported the radar defense controller.
“Tell Ram 37 he is cleared to fire,” directed the commander.
“RAM 37 cleared to fire,” radioed the controller.
Goshen pressed the launch button and the AAMRAM missile instantly left the rail and streaked into the night sky. Thoughts raced through his mind. My family, my country. Just then a flashing orange icon came to life on the cockpit display panel and a female voice in his headset announced, “Low fuel, low fuel.”
* * * *
A fraction of a second after Galla had flipped the switch, current shot down the wires running from the lithium-ion batteries to three small electric primers. The primers instantly fired, igniting the propellant. The hot gasses created by the fast-burning propellant accelerated the hollow uranium bullet down the six and a half foot long barrel to nearly three-thousand feet per second. The bullet slammed tightly over a uranium target post at the far end of the device instantly creating a supercritical mass. A small neutron source provided the first few thousands of neutrons needed get the uncontrolled chain reaction going. The surrounding uranium tamper and beryllium reflector kept the reaction trapped for a few nanoseconds, just long enough for the mass of uranium to turn into a thirty-million degree expanding ball of plasma. The bright white flash which followed was visible for up to twenty-five miles. For about a second, Amman was brighter than the sunniest day. The brilliant light reflected off the bottom of the clouds. Anyone outside unprotected within a one-half mile radius, was instantly incinerated. After a couple of seconds the entire sky turned bright orange, and then slowly faded to a darker orange-red. The eastern side of the Jordanian capital seemed to be covered in an eerie red cloak. The SD-360 and the F-16 were now just small glowing fragments being carried aloft in the expanding fireball and boiling mushroom shaped cloud.
* * * *
Sabir had closed the side door of their news van and walked around to get in the driver’s seat. At the same time Turay opened the passenger door and stepped up into the van. At that instant, the darkness was suddenly transformed into daylight. A daylight brighter than any other. Sabir happened to be looking at her cameraman at that very moment; she could see his bones.
“What was…” Sabir stopped mid-sentence. Neither could comprehend what they were seeing. The city of Amman appeared to be bathed in a gigantic reddish-orange light. A few moments later, a powerful low rumbling boom shook the van. A demonic dark boiling cloud, glowing hideously red in the center, was climbing upward in the eastern sky. The tranquil scene of the modern Arab city below them was instantly transformed into a scene from Hell. The light from the fireball soon faded and most of the city was now dark. The flickering city lights had vanished and in their place hundreds of small orange glows dotted the scene below them. The shocked news crew stared in disbelief at the otherworldly sight.
“By Allah, what was that?” Turay asked. Before Sabir could answer, a second powerful boom shook the van. In the distance, illuminated by its own dying fireball and by the fires of hundreds of buildings now burning, a distinctive mushroom-shaped cloud rose up.
“May Allah have mercy on all of us!” said Turay, his voice breaking up. As they stood watching Sabir began sobbing. That is my home down there. My family is down there, she painfully thought.
“Assam, we better re-establish the satellite up-link quickly,” Sabir said, in a barely audible voice. The dazed cameraman just stood looking and started weeping. The clouds over the city were now illuminated by a strange green luminous after-glow.
Doud and Galla had not had enough time to fly over the center of what they thought was Tel Aviv, before detonating the device. They had still had five miles left to go, so much of the center of Amman would be spared from destruction.
High above, a U.S. satellite had picked up the unique double flash signature of a nuclear detonation. A flash priority message was instantly sent to the NRO Office in Chantilly, Virginia. It was quickly forwarded to the national command authorities; they would immediately request verification.
* * * *
The Patriot missile had blasted out from its launch tube and roared skyward, hunting its prey. On Northern Command’s air defense radar’s digital display screen there were two small blips with bright circles around them. One was Ram 37, identified by its discrete IFF signal, the other, the intruder. The air defense commander walked up to the display. He saw the F-35 and intruder were less than two miles apart and closing fast. The Patriot missile had quickly climbed above the two aircraft and was descending toward them at more than twice the speed of sound. Goshen had unplugged the afterburner to conserve his remaining fuel. He turned his F-35 about twenty degrees to the north, climbed and slowed. He was now less than a mile from the SD-360. His plane’s radar was not needed; the AAMRAM missile was guiding itself and would detonate momentarily.
Mannan and Fayad were now encountering some of the same low clouds that had plagued the first crew. Mannan strained to see outside, but only a few lights were visible below. He knew they had to be close and used the autopilot to put the plane into a climb.
He looked over at Fayad, “Go ahead, it is time,” he said. Fayad took a deep breath and lifted the red safety cover on the switch.
At that very moment, the AMMRAM missile’s on-board computer determined the target was within designated parameters and detonat
ed the warhead. The blast ripped off most of the SD-360’s tail section and sent the plane plunging toward the earth. Mannan and Fayad were tossed around violently in their seats. At one-hundred feet above the ground, the bomb’s backup altitude-sensing arming device completed the circuit and finished the job for Fayad.
The Patriot missile screamed directly into the expanding several million degree fireball. The IAF air defense radar screens lit up like Christmas trees. Large bright colored streaks appeared on the screens going in every direction; then they all went dark. The communications panel and the other displays went dark as well.
The controller frantically selected a backup radio, then another. “Ram 37, Northern Control,” he called out. He waited a few seconds then called two more times.
He would receive no reply from Ram 37.
Newlyweds Natasha and Alon were enjoying their first night together in their home on the southern edge of Haifa. The rain of Hezbollah missiles had stopped and they were on their deck enjoying the night time view of the city. In the distance, they could see the lights of passing ships on the Mediterranean. As Natasha poured Alon a glass of wine, the sky suddenly went from dark to a brightness beyond any daylight. “My God, what was that?” Natasha screamed. An instant later a rumble like thunder, only many times greater than the loudest thunder, shook their home. Every window rattled, some cracked, decorations fell from the walls and glasses crashed to floor. They ran around to the side of the house in the direction the thunder seemed to have come from. To the east they could see the sky was a bright orange and an ominous dark churning cloud was rising over the hills. Their neighbors, somewhat used to occasional explosions of Hezbollah rockets, came running out into the street in terror. The orbiting satellite again sent a signal to Washington D.C. that a double-flash had just occurred.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Mr. Prime Minister!” yelled his military attaché as he knocked loudly on the door of Prime Minister Klein’s residence in Tel Aviv. A startled aide opened the door and the attaché went in. “Quickly Mr. Prime Minister, we must get you to a shelter.” Klein looked shaken as he put down his cell phone. “Dayan just told me,” he said, adding, “Amman was hit, then Haifa.”
“Sir, we must hurry,” the attaché insisted. “The car is waiting for you and the cabinet has been contacted. The news is already spreading all over the internet.”
“How many dead, do we know?” asked Klein, as he put on his shoes and then rushed out to the waiting car.
“We will not know that for a few hours,” replied the attaché, as they sped off with an escort car in front and one behind, and headed for the underground command center. Sir all military forces are being called up. You must give the order to ready the special weapons.”
Klein nodded. “Do we know for certain who did this?” he asked, as he entered a numerical code into his phone’s keypad.
“It had to be Iran…who else could it be?” replied the attaché, firmly. “They want us all dead.”
“We must be certain,” said Klein, adding, “But if Amman was hit too…why would Iran target an Arab capital? It makes no sense.”
The ride to the command center took only four minutes. Klein quickly went down the stairs past two armed guards and took a seat at the conference table. The senior cabinet ministers had just begun to arrive. The phones were already ringing, and the lone staff person on duty was being quickly overwhelmed. Is this Armageddon? Klein wondered.
* * * *
At the White House the President’s cell phone rang just as his military affairs officer and a Secret Service agent rushed into the room. It had only been five minutes since the first detonation had been detected.
“Mr. President we need to get you to the secure command bunker right now!” announced the military affairs officer, interrupting the President’s afternoon meal with Britain’s Foreign Secretary Lord Haverton.
“We have a high probability of two nuclear detonations in the Mideast…we are getting confirmation now.”
“My God!” the President exclaimed, ignoring the call and getting up from the table. “You better come with me Mr. Haverton,” the President advised.
“Immediately,” he replied, as his cell phone also began to ring. The two men left the room surrounded by a half dozen Secret Service and White House security personnel and headed for the elevator to take them down three floors to the underground command bunker. Acosta did his best to stay calm; it was one of his finest traits and would serve him well if he was to prevent an escalation and a global nuclear conflagration. The elevator door opened and the President was greeted by his National Security Advisor.
“What do we know Ray?” the President asked, walking briskly over to take his seat at the head of the conference table, Haverton close behind.
“Mr. President a few minutes ago our satellite just detected two likely nuclear detonations. The first one over Amman, Jordan, then a second one a minute later, over Haifa, Israel,” replied Alby, frantically typing on his keyboard while simultaneously trying to talk on two phones, as reports poured in.
“Are we certain?” asked the President.
Alby nodded. “Verification and exact coordinates coming in now,” he replied, “Sensors aboard one of the GPS satellites picked up the unique double flash of a nuke blast at both locations.”
“Amman and Haifa, what the hell?” Acosta said in a low voice, shaking his head. “Lord Haverton, please take a seat.”
Alby glanced up from his monitor. “Mr. President, I took the liberty of ensuring the members of the National Security Council were contacted. They’re on their way here now,” he said.
“Missiles…bombs, how were the weapons delivered? Why Amman and Haifa? How many killed?” the President was firing off questions, but there were no answers.
Several phones were now ringing in the National Command Center as wall monitors flashed scenes from around the world.
The Secretary of Defense entered and took his seat. “Mr. President, the Israelis and the Jordanians might know more than we do,” he suggested, adding, “My people are contacting them now.”
“Okay, get me Prime Minister Klein,” directed Acosta.
Just then Kragen stepped off the elevator. “Nancy, Alex will brief you. I want you to call King Haddad of Jordan and get his status…we’re trying to contact Klein now.”
“Right away, Mr. President,” replied Kragen.
“I’m calling London,” advised Haverton, obviously shaken by the rapidly unfolding events.
* * * *
The phone in the Russian President’s bedroom rang at exactly eleven-thirty pm Moscow time. He barely had time to answer it when his military attaché started banging on the door. “Comrade President, sorry to awaken you,” the attaché shouted through the closed door, “You must come quickly.”
“What’s going on…?” Koslov groggily asked the caller, while endeavoring to put on his pants and nearly tripping and falling. “I’m coming,” he yelled at the attaché through the door.
“Comrade President, General Certov here. There have been two nuclear detonations in the Middle East…one in Israel and one in Jordan,” he informed him.
“My God, Israel and Jordan? When? Where exactly? Who did this?” Koslov asked, wondering if it was bad dream. He finished getting dressed while trying to listen to Certov on the phone’s speaker.
“We are only just now getting the information,” the general explained as Koslov walked briskly with two security men and his attaché, to the helipad. Boarding the Mi-8 helicopter, he was joined by two more security personnel. It was becoming more difficult to hear the general as the big engines and rotors picked up speed. An aide handed him a secure headset.
“Comrade President, first reports indicate one blast at Haifa and one at Amman,” Certov reported, reading from a short one paragraph report on his tablet PC sent from their embassy staff in Israel. “We should have more details soon,” he quickly added.
“What kind of maniacs do these t
hings?” asked Koslov rhetorically, shaking his head as he sat down for the short trip to the Kremlin. “And what are the Americans doing?”
“We are contacting them now,” he replied.
On the wall monitors in the Kremlin’s underground command center, Certov was seeing the first images of the destruction in both cities.
“I’d better call the Israeli Prime Minister and Jordan’s King as soon as I get there,” said Koslov, adding, “If they have survived.”
* * * *
“Mr. Prime Minister, on my orders, full mobilization of the reserves as already begun,” reported Dayan. It had been twenty minutes since the detonation over Haifa, and he himself had just arrived at the underground command center in Tel Aviv. He went on, “Civilians have been ordered into air-raid shelters across the country and told to be prepared for possible further attacks.
“What else?” asked Klein, looking up around at the quickly filling room.
“Mr. Prime Minister you must now give the order to activate ‘Special Security Operation Plan NW Ten,” said Dayan, as he opened a red binder and placed it on the table in front of him. Klein put on his reading glasses, looked up at Dayan and nodded. The military attaché opened a briefcase fitted with electronics and a small keypad. Klein dug a small card from his wallet, glanced at it, and then entered his code. Dayan then proceeded to enter his. A small LED on the right side of the keypad changed from amber to green and began to flash, then turned to solid green.
“We must know exactly who did this before we launch these weapons,” directed Klein.
“Mr. Prime Minister, with all due respect, don’t we already know?” asked Dayan in a sarcastic tone.
“But why Amman? It makes no sense,” replied the prime minister, shaking his head.