Michael stiffened, momentarily abashed. “They don’t, sir, as a rule. But if I had a choice between using nuclear weapons and waiting upon God, I would wait.”
The deputy chief of staff did not answer but gazed at the computer screens with chilling intentness for a long moment, then nodded at Michael and moved away.
Devorah did not speak until she and Michael found a quiet corner in an abandoned office. Michael sank into a steel-and-vinyl chair before an empty desk, then rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing roughly as though he could wipe away all feeling.
She leaned against the desk and looked down at Michael. “Are you going to tell me?” She folded her arms, noticing the way the muscle of his jaw clenched as he stared at the floor. “I heard what you told the General. What is this Dead Hand?”
“The Samson Option.” He sounded as if he were strangling on a repressed epithet. “If Daniel is wrong, tomorrow your people will use nuclear weapons to defend themselves. If you do, the entire world will pay the price—and so will all the Jews, even those living outside Israel.”
She turned his answer over in her mind and struggled to make sense of it. All morning she had concentrated on pushing aside her personal worries about her father and brother, and now Michael was telling her he was worried about the entire world? When had the world ever cared about what happened to the Jews?
“The world did not care when Hitler murdered six million Jews,” she said, prodding him. “Why should the world be involved if we defend ourselves against the Russians and Arabs?”
His eyes narrowed. “How can you say that? The United States alone lost over 400,000 servicemen in World War II. We gave the best we had to stop Hitler.”
“We gave six million.” She spoke softly, but with iron in her voice. “Today there are just over five and one half million Jews living in Israel. Your General Gogol could kill every man, woman, and child in this country and still fall short of Hitler’s accomplishment. The United States did too little, too late for the six million who died sixty years ago—”
“We are trying to help.”
“By doing what? Sending a few weapons?” She paused and let the weight of her words fall into the silence between them. “Oh, I know your president has promised to send us some newfangled toys, but this struggle may not last long enough for his help to make a difference. So all America has given us . . . is you.”
He lifted his chin, defiance pouring from his burning blue eyes. “We have stood by Israel for years. We have given you billions in military aid. We have shared our technological secrets. We have sold you Phantom fighters and antimissile technology—” He lifted his hand, then slowly clenched his fist and dropped his gaze. “But what does it matter? The Dead Hand will even the score. America will pay for what she has not done.”
Leaning forward, Devorah placed both hands on his shoulders and lowered her head to meet his eyes. “Tell me, Michael,” she whispered. “What is this Dead Hand, and why do you look as if it spells the end of the world?”
“Because it could.” Lines of concentration deepened along his brows and under his eyes as he looked past her. “The Dead Hand is a Russian doomsday system designed to automatically initiate a retaliatory nuclear launch process in the case of nuclear strikes against Russian cities or bases. We first learned about it in 1995.”
Releasing him, Devorah leaned back and listened with a vague sense of unreality.
“According to a story leaked from Russian intelligence, the Dead Hand system was invented in the late 1970s, at the height of the Cold War. In case the Soviet leadership was ever destroyed by an American nuclear strike, the doomsday system, or Dead Hand, would automatically fire nuclear weapons at pretargeted American cities.”
“That’s insane.” The words slipped from Devorah’s lips before she could stop them. “First of all, the Russians have been desperate to corral and consolidate their nuclear arsenal since the collapse of the Soviet empire, so it’s not likely such a system is still in place. And why would they leak that information now instead of during the Cold War? Such a system would only have a deterrent effect if the other side knew it existed.”
He smiled at her, his eyes sharp and assessing. “Good question, Sergeant Major. If you thought about it long enough, I’m sure you’d come up with the answer.”
“We don’t have a lot of time on our hands here.”
“Good point.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The story about the Dead Hand is obviously part of General Gogol’s disinformation campaign. The system, if it exists at all, wasn’t developed during the Cold War, but during the last decade, when Gogol was minister of defense. The reason for the leak is simple—Gogol has provided a likely excuse for Moscow to launch a nuclear attack against the West. If Israel exercises the Samson Option and strikes at Russia with a nuclear weapon, Moscow will fire upon her old enemy, the United States.” The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “When the dust settles, the nuclear destruction will be blamed upon the Jews . . . and any Jews that survive will be persecuted throughout the world.”
Her heart went into sudden shock. “That cannot be true, Michael. No one would seriously blame the Jews for Russian aggression.”
Michael took a deep breath. “Our people at the DOD have been familiar with the Dead Hand scenario for the last five years. I thought it would be a nuclear situation in Iraq or North Korea to finally pit us against the Russians, but Daniel convinced me that Israel would be the flint to spark this fire.” Sudden anger rose in his eyes. “This is so aggravating! Here I sit, trained in every aspect of military activity, yet I can’t do a blasted thing to help until the transport arrives.”
“What else are we to do?” Her voice emerged as an inelegant croak, rusty with swallowed frustration.
Michael’s face emptied of expression and locked. Devorah felt the sudden icy silence that surrounded him, then he looked up and gave her a knowing smile. “Come on,” he said, standing. “I left my laptop in the situation room.”
“Where are we going?”
She heard a trace of laughter in his voice when he answered: “We’re going to find the surgeon who may be able to amputate the Dead Hand.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
1314 hours
“SERGEANT MAJOR COHEN? I HAVE AN URGENT MESSAGE FOR YOU.”
An ensign caught Devorah’s attention in the hallway, and Michael hesitated.
“Go ahead. I’ll catch up later,” she called, taking an envelope from the ensign’s hand.
Michael flashed his temporary ID badge before the guard on duty at the Special Operations Division checkpoint, then made his way back to the war room. He had already dialed out on his laptop by the time Devorah joined him. “Are you being deployed?” he asked, glancing toward the unopened message in her hand.
“I have no idea.” She slipped her thumbnail under the sealed edge and began to tear the envelope open. “It’s probably a report on sniper activity around the base.”
She nodded toward the computer on Michael’s lap. “Do you think Daniel knows about the Dead Hand?”
“I know he does—he’s the one who tipped me off,” Michael muttered, watching the computer go through its paces. “I don’t doubt that he can hack into the Russian military computers, but what I don’t know is if he realizes that we’re about two minutes away from nuclear doomsday.”
As Devorah watched over his shoulder, Michael typed in a simple note, then clicked the Send key.
Daniel:
Things are getting a little tense here. We’re only a few hours from exercising Samson against those Philistines. Is the Dead Hand still connected, or are you counting on Ezekiel’s vision to pull us through?
Together they watched the message vanish from the screen, then Michael sat motionless while Devorah took a folded sheet of paper from the envelope and began to read.
The subdued air of the situation room shivered suddenly into bits, the wailing sounds of a siren upsetting generals an
d ensigns alike. The tenor of the shouted commands changed immediately, and Michael knew the worst had come to pass—the air defense systems had picked up an incoming missile. Only time would reveal whether it was armed with a conventional, biological, or nuclear warhead.
Devorah’s gaze flew up at him. “Fourteen minutes,” she whispered, following his thoughts. “From the time of radar detection to contact. But the Patriots should bring it down.”
“Well.” Michael straightened his back while his thoughts roiled. “We could sit here and wait for Daniel to respond.” His eyes fell upon the page in her hand. “But something tells me you’d better finish reading that letter.”
Devorah sighed heavily, then lifted her shoulders and lifted the letter again. “Arab terrorists are attempting to cut all communications within Israel,” she said, her eyes moving from right to left as she scanned the message in Hebrew. “They’ve cut the road two miles from here. The paratroopers dispatched a chopper to dislodge the tangos, but somehow the terrorists brought it down. They want to know if I can pull together a rescue team to rescue the White Alpha squad—”
She choked back a frightened cry. “Michael—that’s Asher’s squad! But—with this siren, I don’t have time to coordinate my team. My people are all at Lod.”
Michael didn’t hesitate, not even when the laptop beeped with an incoming message. He closed the laptop and set it on the desk, then took Devorah’s arm. “We’re a team. Let’s go get your brother.”
For an instant his words didn’t appear to register, then she gave him a grateful nod and moved toward the door. “We have twelve minutes, by my count,” she called over her shoulder, moving with long strides. “We’ve got to get him out and to safety before they seal off the base.”
Michael had met several unique women in his lifetime, but as Devorah steered her little Fiat out of the base parking lot and onto the open road, he thought he’d never met a woman as single-minded as Sgt. Maj. Devorah Cohen. Before leaving the IDF Command Headquarters Building she paused by the armory long enough to grab two Sig Sauer P226 handguns, an extra magazine for each pistol, and two 9mm Uzis. After scribbling her name on a form, she told the duty officer she would also need six gas masks.
The guard shook his head. “Sorry, but under an alert I can only distribute one mask per person.”
“But we’re on a rescue mission—”
Michael squeezed her hand, cutting her off. It would do no good to argue. The paratroopers should have masks aboard their helicopter, and they didn’t have time to debate the issue. For once, she didn’t argue, but gathered the weapons and handed one of each to Michael, then led the way out of the building.
Now Michael braced himself against the car door and tested the submachine gun’s firing mechanism. Satisfied that it would function, he checked to see that the thirty-round magazine was full, then slid it into the proper port on the bottom of the weapon. After working the bolt back to the safe position, he placed the Uzi beside Devorah. He was checking his SMG when she pulled the Fiat off the road and onto the sandy shoulder.
“They’ve got the road blocked just ahead, beyond that rise.” She took the handgun he offered and shoved it into the waistband of her slacks, then lifted the Uzi and cradled it as naturally as a mother carried her child. Like a cat scenting the breeze, she lifted her head and pointed toward the sandy hill. “See that gray cloud at two o’clock? That’s got to be the crash site. Let’s get in and get those guys out.”
Michael caught her arm. “We can’t both go; there isn’t time. One of us will have to go in on foot and clear the area, while the other drives in from behind. Then we can load survivors in the car and drive back to the base.” He glanced at his watch. “We have only seven minutes. It took us three minutes to drive here.”
She pressed her lips together, but he knew she wouldn’t waste time arguing. “I’ll take the point.”
“No. You’ve got the keys, lady. You’ve got to drive.”
Before she could argue, he stepped out of the car and sprinted across the sand, his mind racing ahead as he contemplated the enemy. If the Palestinians were attempting to cut all the main roads, it was possible they had left only two or three men at this checkpoint—but Devorah would need the road to make good time on their run back to the base. No way could they haul injured guys through the sand in that small car.
He knelt in a patch of scrub, pressing his chest and arms into the earth, willing the sand to stick to his sweaty skin and provide a small measure of camouflage. As a SEAL he had trained long and hard for counterterrorist operations, but he had never had to come up with a plan and implement it in less time than it usually took him to get dressed in the morning.
He lifted his upper body on his arms, raised his head, and looked through a shrubby bush at the scene beyond. Three men with machine guns stood on the road, laughing as they sprayed random fire over the glimmering asphalt. A burned-out car sat beside the road, its paint peeling black and scabrous. One hundred yards beyond the tangos on the road, a MD530 helicopter lay like a discarded child’s toy, its bubble windscreen shattered. Glass glistened on the sand, and three bodies lay on the ground outside the wreck. One paratrooper, Michael noted grimly, remained inside, still strapped to the pilot’s seat. The man had to be dead, or the tangos would have dragged him out with the others.
Two terrorists paced between the smoking chopper and the three inert bodies. One of them carried an assault rifle with a bayonet attached, and Michael’s eyes narrowed when the tango whirled and thrust the bayonet into an injured soldier’s thigh. The man screamed and curled around the pain, lifting his head high enough for Michael to make the ID: Asher Cohen.
Michael steeled himself to the necessity at hand and flipped off the safety. And then, without further thought, he stood and ran forward in a zigzag crouch, spraying fire in a careful pattern—double taps to each tango at the helicopter, dropping them like stones. The goons on the road responded with wild sprays of machine gun fire as he raced toward the abandoned car. Crouching behind the heavy engine block, Michael rose up, caught the startled tangos in his sights, and rhythmically took them out in measured double taps, one by one by one.
He had just dropped the third man when the Fiat roared up on the sand behind him. Leaving the engine running, Devorah raced from the vehicle and ran to Asher. “He’s alive,” she said, placing her fingers beside the carotid artery in his neck. With an ease any SEAL would have envied, she eased her shoulders under her brother’s arm and lifted him, then balanced him on her back as she held his arms and walked back to the car with her head down.
Michael checked the others—and noted that though their flesh was still warm, both were dead. The first bore bayonet wounds in his legs, arms, and chest. Michael guessed the tangos had been planning to torture Asher Cohen in the same way before finally killing him.
He leaned into the helicopter, checking for any other survivors, but saw none. He glanced at his watch—four minutes remaining. He turned, then ducked reflexively when a spray of bullets slammed into the airframe and ricocheted in the cabin.
The sharp craaack of a pistol brought the hail of bullets to a sudden halt. When Michael turned, he saw Devorah crouched behind the Fiat, her left palm supporting the chunky black Sig, her eyes focused on the abandoned car. Michael grimaced when he approached and saw the tango lying in the sand—apparently he had just dinged one of the three Arabs on the road.
“Let’s go,” Devorah called, sliding into the driver’s seat. Asher sat in the back seat, his head lolling sideways against the window. Michael hopped into the passenger seat, then held on for dear life as the little car whipped up dust and spun out onto the highway.
“What do you mean, the gates are locked?” Rising up from behind the steering wheel, Devorah thrust her head and shoulders out the open window and stared at the electric gates outside the IDF Command Headquarters Building. The on duty sentry stood behind the gate with his gas mask on and his machine gun ready.
“What
is going on here?” Choking on her own words, Devorah sank back into the car and looked at Michael. “He’s got to let us in. My brother is hurt.”
“Devorah, look around you.” Michael squeezed her shoulder, forcing her to acknowledge what she was trying hard to ignore. There were at least a dozen vehicles strewn over the road here, and at least fifty people standing in front of the gate, their hands clinging to the link fence, their faces drawn with entreaty. A few wore gas masks; others carried masks in their arms and cast worried glances toward the blue sky. If not for the daunting roll of concertina wire at the top of the fence, Devorah was certain some of them would have already tested the guard’s resolve.
Michael spoke in an oddly gentle tone. “We can’t go in—we’ll start a riot if we even try. We need to find a shelter where we can take care of your brother.”
Devorah glanced at her watch. One minute till contact. She sat without moving, terror lodging in her throat as she stared at the sweeping second hand. “Even if we manage to shoot the missile down,” she whispered, pushing the words through her tight throat, “if it’s a biological warhead, the contamination will spread. And we only have two masks—”
“We’re going to get through this.” Michael caught her hand and held it.
As a distinct murmur swept through the crowd outside the gates, Devorah looked up toward the sky. A white trail had appeared in the north, and as it drew nearer, a Patriot missile roared away from the base in a gout of fire. She held her breath as the defensive missile disappeared into the blue, then her hand tightened around Michael’s as a gray cloud suddenly blossomed in the deepening sky. Cascading ivory plumes trailed away from the intersection of the two missiles, and a full moment later the dull rumble of an explosion rattled the chain links of the fence.
The crowd outside the gate cheered, but a guard inside picked up a bullhorn and reminded them of a truth Devorah could not forget. “Put on your protective gear,” the sentry called, his voice sounding mechanical and strained through his mask. “The ‘all clear’ has not been given. Please, the danger is not past. You must wear your protective gear or retreat to a protected space.”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 33