“I could send in Reed’s old SEAL team, DevGroup. Maybe they could take out the Russian leadership.”
“Yeah, look at how successful we were at taking out Saddam Hussein.” Powell winced in phony remorse. “Look, if we can’t get to Saddam, what makes you think we could get to Gogol? If he’s smart, he’s traveling right in the thick of things. Short of dropping a platoon right on top of him, there’s no way we could get to him—and we have no way of knowing where he is. And a single CT team won’t make a dent in that invasion force. Our latest figures indicate that at least four million troops have gathered around Israel. And Israel’s maximum force, with reservists, is what? Five hundred thousand?” Jack shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sam, but those are terrible odds. We can’t get involved.”
Sam ran his hand over the polished surface of his desk. How had other presidents handled similar situations? JFK had been a veteran, and he talked tough during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Not much action, but big results. Clinton, however, sent cruise missiles into Iraq, ordered air strikes in Bosnia, conducted military operations in Somalia, and threatened to invade Haiti. Lots of action—but few results.
Sam glanced up at the bust of Franklin D. Roosevelt on the far bookcase. Roosevelt had governed a land bent upon isolationism during the start of World War II. During his presidency Italy conquered Ethiopia while Hitler invaded Poland and threatened Britain and France. Roosevelt didn’t commit American troops, though, until after the bombing of Pearl Harbor.
“There are six days until Christmas, sir.” Powell’s voice was quiet and subdued. “And thirty-two days left in your presidency. Don’t do this. Don’t go down in history as the president who gave us World War III for Christmas.”
“Thank you, Jack.” Sam hauled his gaze from Roosevelt to his chief of staff as a memory surfaced in his mind. “I appreciate your concern . . . and your opinions.”
Powell placed his hand on the armrest of the chair as if to push himself up, then hesitated. “Sir? Have we resolved this issue?”
“I have.” He lifted his chin and met Powell’s gaze. “When Franklin D. Roosevelt was faced with a similar situation, he instituted the Lend-Lease Act. He didn’t send men, but he gave weapons and aid to any country whose defense was considered vital to the United States. More than thirty-five governments received our help.”
“Sir, Israel’s defense is not vital to the United States.”
His courage and determination like a rock inside him, Sam looked at Powell. “Indeed it is. We have shared many of our military secrets with Israel. On that basis alone, I would be justified in sending weapons and planes to aid in her defense.”
Powell rubbed at his jaw. “So you’re absolutely determined to do this?”
“I am. It might take me a few hours, but I’m going to give the Israelis everything I can. I’ll start by authorizing any requests Michael Reed might make on Israel’s behalf. He’s over there—and I’m going to use him.”
Jack smiled, but the customary expression of good humor was missing from the depths of his eyes, replaced by a weary resignation. “Well, then. I hope your Christmas is merry, Mr. President.”
“It will be, Jack. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
When Jack had gone, Sam moved to the small study off the Oval Office, sat at his desk, and pressed his finger to the laptop’s touchpad, bringing the screen to life. As he had suspected, messages from Daniel Prentice and Michael Reed were waiting.
The president skimmed Daniel’s letter, another collection of scripture verses and cryptic comments, then he brought up Reed’s message.
Dear Mr. President:
As ordered, sir, I have assessed the situation and would like to request that you send as many Sentinel air defense radar systems as possible, armed with AMRAAM and Stinger missiles. I understand that the Fourth Infantry at Fort Hood has tested an updated version that is suitable for air transport and quick insertion.
In addition, we could use any and all trained F-22 Raptor pilots. Though the Israeli Air Force is skilled and capable, their F-16s are no match against the Russian Sukhoi S-37s. I would be honored to oversee the transport and insertion of these systems and pilots.
I will be awaiting your response.
Sam stared at the screen, then automatically tabbed back to Daniel’s letter: “This is what the Sovereign Lord says,” Daniel had written, “In that day, when my people Israel are living in safety, will you not take notice of it? You will come from your place in the far north, you and many nations with you, all of them riding on horses, a great horde, a mighty army. You will advance against my people Israel like a cloud that covers the land. . . . This is what will happen in that day: When Gog attacks the land of Israel, my hot anger will be aroused, declares the Sovereign Lord.”
Cold, clear reality swept over Sam in a terrible wave. It had happened. Just as Daniel and Ezekiel and Victoria had predicted. A prophetic scene from the Bible was playing out before his eyes.
But what could he do about it? If the Scriptures were true, God himself would deliver Israel. The Almighty certainly didn’t need Sam Stedman or the United States to lend a helping hand.
But . . . Michael Reed was waiting for help. And Russian jet fighters were flying over Israeli airspace. People were dying even in this prelude to all-out invasion.
Sam looked at the computer and read Daniel’s final comment: “The Lord said to Abraham, ‘I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse.’”
He picked up the phone and pressed the speed dial button for Frank Howard, secretary of defense. He would have the Joint Chiefs put together an aid package, complete with Sentinel batteries, Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missiles, and any F-22 Raptor pilots who would volunteer to spend a few days honing their skills against the Russian Sukhois. The Joint Chiefs would choke on the idea, particularly since the F-22s weren’t even scheduled to enter service until November 2004, but Sam knew there were a dozen of those planes waiting in a top-secret Nevada hangar. Might as well put them to good use.
He settled back in his chair and clenched his jaw as he brought the phone to his ear. This might not be the most popular decision he would ever make as president, but without a doubt it was the most right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Tel Aviv
1100 hours
Wednesday, December 20
STARING BLANKLY AT A BANK OF COMPUTER MONITORS, MICHAEL SHIFTED HIS focus and caught sight of his reflection in the glass. The stubble of his unshaven chin shimmered above the latest reports from the ground-based radar system, and weariness showed in the drooping slope of his shoulders. He pushed away from the desk, then reached for his coffee cup and found it empty.
He sat in the war room, an underground, shielded bunker beneath IDF headquarters outside Tel Aviv. The situation room was state-of-the-art. Three huge screens covered the front wall, and a virtual army of computers linked the screens with IDF ground troop commanders, the E-2C Hawkeye aircraft, and the chief of the general staff ’s office.
Michael sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, then crumpled his empty coffee cup and tossed it toward an overflowing trash can. The well-equipped facility was able to sustain a full staff for up to ten days—the maximum number of days, Michael estimated, that Israel could sustain a war. Since the sirens began to sound twenty-four hours ago, every able-bodied reservist had reported to his post, which meant that most Israeli businesses ground to a halt. If the Russians and Arabs never escalated the battle further than this steady shelling, Israel might not be destroyed militarily, but she’d be devastated economically.
The room was staffed with junior action officers who scurried to and fro and with commanders who sat on molded plastic chairs and smoked, drank coffee, and occasionally yelled at the computer screens. Behind the bank of computers and the men who fretted at them stood a row of long tables, topped with a mélange of paper cups, black intelligence binders, and ashtrays. Above the table, several wall-mounted speakers occasionally squ
awked with field reports.
Michael covered his eyes with his hand and rubbed his forehead, then lifted his eyelids and tried to focus on the door. Devorah stood in the doorway, and the sight of her was like a tonic to his weary brain. She paused at a desk to give a sheaf of papers to a commander, then looked up, caught Michael’s eye, and smiled.
In the hours since the terrorist bombings that had heralded the advance of the Russo-Arab armies, Israel had flown sortie after sortie, dropping ordnance upon the tank columns and pounding the assembled troops as far north as coastal Syria. But on they came, hundreds of thousands of Russians and Arabs, setting their guns on the sloping hills of the Golan Heights and pointing them toward sleepy little towns in northern Israel. Already there were reports of enemy troops moving into the West Bank, where Israeli citizens were being forced to surrender or flee for their lives. Though the Israeli Air Force had mounted a valiant defense against the encroaching armies, squadrons of Russian MiGs and Sukhoi-37s kept the slower, less-agile F-16s at bay.
Michael had received a reply from President Stedman at 0700 hours. Six F-22 Raptors, piloted by America’s best and brightest, were en route, as was a C-130 Hercules transport carrying eight Sentinel batteries, complete with crews and armed with AMRAAM missiles. The Sentinels would be welcome, for unlike the Patriot batteries, the Sentinels were automated defense weapons. Once delivered to a site, they could be turned on and left to monitor the skies. When they detected electromagnetic energy on a preset frequency, they automatically launched weapons that would seek out the transmitter—most likely the radar on an enemy fighter or incoming missile.
Michael studied the map on his desk and plotted positions for the Sentinel batteries. Israel was virtually surrounded on all sides. Reports from Israel’s southern borders indicated that while Egypt had not joined in this attack, she had opened her borders to the armies of Libya and Sudan. Both of those nations had troops bivouacked along the Egyptian border, ready to push through the desert and invade from the south. Syria and Jordan lined Israel’s eastern borders; Russians and Lebanese nationals guarded the north. And the Russian fleet filled the Mediterranean, blockading the Israeli ports.
Jerusalem, for generations a divided city, had been forced into a state of siege two hours after the shelling began. Michael studied Devorah’s face as she approached, searching for signs of apprehension. He knew she was worried about her father.
She plucked at his sleeve, then knelt beside his chair. “I’ve just heard,” she whispered, lowering her gaze, “that my father is safe. As one of the Kohein, he was picked up and taken to safety shortly after the advance began.”
“That’s good news.”
Her answering smile was a little twisted. “I suppose. I hear they had to forcibly remove him from the yeshiva.” She looked up, and he saw that her eyes were damp with pain. “Many of the Jews will refuse to abandon the old city. They will remain in their homes even if shells begin to fall on their heads.”
Michael held up his hand and turned as the fax machine beside him rang, then began to spit out a series of images. He’d called in a favor to Tom Ormond, a former marine lieutenant colonel who worked special ops assistance in a basement room two stories beneath NSA headquarters at Fort Meade. After receiving Michael’s call, Ormond had scrambled an SR-71 spy plane, whose cameras snapped shots of Jerusalem and the surrounding area from 85,000 feet. At that height, the plane was invisible to anyone on the ground.
Tom had promised to fax the spy shots ASAP and provide full imagery—photos from one of the KH-11 spy satellites—in a few hours. Michael felt good about getting the reconnaissance shots, but the knowledge that Gogol also had access to recon photos rankled. If he had filed his ASAT report a few months earlier, President Stedman might have convinced Congress to sell the technology to Israel. Then they could disable any spy satellites that snooped too close.
He pulled the last photo from the fax machine and spread it on a desk with the others. Devorah leaned over the pictures, then stepped back to avoid blocking the light.
“Look here.” Michael pointed to several areas inside the West Bank where enemy activity was clearly visible. “They dropped troops into these positions, probably through HAHO insertion. They flew at a high altitude over Jordanian airspace and let their men just drift down, probably covering between twenty-five to fifty miles in the descent. That’s why your radar didn’t alert you to the transport planes.”
“If that was their plan,” Devorah said, her dark eyes studying the photos, “then we’re looking at recon units. The first wave will come tomorrow.”
Major General Ilan Halutz, deputy chief of the general staff, approached the desk where Michael had spread the photos. “Are these the latest shots?” His eyes roved over the photographs. Michael knew the Israeli intelligence division was studying photos in another office, but these were as recent as anything the deputy chief would see for hours.
He nodded. “Yes, sir. Their recon units are in position, and the first wave is bound to advance within the next twenty-four hours—probably at first light tomorrow.”
The general’s mouth was tight with distress, his eyes slightly shiny. “Rear Admiral Amidor has reported that the Mediterranean is bristling with Russian warships. We’ve also picked up traces of submarines in the area.” He turned slightly, clasped his hands behind his back, and rocked forward as he studied the map mounted on the north wall. “They are goading us,” he said, speaking to anyone who would listen. “They want us to fire our nuclear weapons. If we do, we’ll be condemned by the rest of the world. We’ll be exterminated here, and our names will go down in history as those who chose to rain nuclear devastation upon the Middle East.”
The general turned to Michael, his brows pulling into an affronted frown. “Can you tell me why they want this land, Captain? It will be worthless, contaminated once they begin firing biological or nuclear weapons. And it is just a tiny strip of earth.”
Not certain how he should answer, Michael glanced at Devorah. General Halutz’s question was almost certainly meant to be rhetorical, yet it brought a hushed silence to the situation room.
“I think, sir,” Michael finally dared to answer, “that the battle has little to do with territory. I have a friend, a man I respect, who believes this is first and foremost a spiritual battle.”
The general smiled without humor. “Perhaps your friend is right. A few months ago the Arabs demanded land for peace, and we gave it to them. Even though no other country has ever surrendered territory it captured during a defensive war, we returned the Golan Heights and the West Bank—land bought with the blood of thousands of young Israeli soldiers. Of course we kept our military bases in place, and of course the Israelis who lived there remained, just as the Arabs who live in Israel’s lands are not forced to move with the shifting of political tides. We gave them what they wanted, control of the land, and now they repay us with warfare. Now they taunt us, waiting for us to fire a nuclear weapon, because then they will have an excuse to erase Israel from the face of the earth.”
“You know that won’t happen.” Michael spoke with more conviction than he felt. “The State of Israel was founded by God himself.”
The general smiled benignly, as if dealing with an idealistic child. “There are some who say we acted too soon when we founded this nation. They say we should have waited for the Messiah.”
For no reason he could name, the general’s attitude of weary resignation lifted the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck. It was almost as if the IDF had already decided the situation was hopeless . . .
The Samson Option.
He felt an icy finger touch him, just at the base of his spine. “Tell me, sir, that it isn’t over.” Michael tried to keep the stunned disbelief out of his voice, but patently failed. He stepped closer and spoke so none of the others would hear. “Tell me you haven’t already decided to exercise the Samson Option. Help is on the way. President Stedman has agreed to my request; the fighters and Sentinels will b
e here in a matter of hours.”
The general stood very still, his eyes narrowing. “Can so little do anything against so many? We will do what we must do. We will not go willingly into the concentration camps again. We will not allow our little ones to be taken captive, our elders to be victimized.”
Michael took a deep breath and felt the bands of tightness in his chest. “Think of the rest of the world, General. Think of the United States, who has been your ally. Consider what will happen to her if you launch a nuclear strike.”
An aura of melancholy radiated from the general’s narrow features like some dark nebula, but he did not respond. In a wave of desperation, Michael reached out and grasped the general’s upper arm, then leaned forward to whisper in the man’s ear: “Surely you know about the Dead Hand.”
The general’s fear was visible—his eyes wide and dark, his skin waxy and pale.
Michael felt the wings of tragedy brush lightly past him. “General, you don’t want to launch nuclear weapons. They are only shelling the borders; they have not yet hit us hard. And help is on the way.”
“It is only the first wave. At dawn they will come at us with full strength, and we will not be able to hold them for long.”
“But you can wait, General. Israel has allies; she has hope. Who knows what dawn’s first light will bring?” A memory opened before him as if a curtain had been ripped aside. “General,” he turned, holding the man’s gaze with desperate intensity, “I don’t know much about the ancient writings of your rabbis, but I do know that men wiser than I believe God will deliver Israel tomorrow, on the twenty-fourth day of the ninth month. It was written nearly three thousand years ago, and here we are, standing on the brink of God’s promise.”
Major General Halutz’s lined face showed no more than mild interest, but his eyes were alert in their caves of bone. “Why, Captain Reed,” he said, a slight tinge of ridicule in his voice, “I had no idea that American officers based military decisions upon ancient religious texts.”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 32