A military quick reaction force arrives from the sprawling Tel Aviv army base about fifteen minutes later along with a helicopter equipped with a searchlight.
The helicopter searchlight is a mistake and the men crawling toward the house know it as soon as they see its beam of light snaking along the ground towards them. Sure enough, three or four bursts of automatic fire come from the house within seconds of the helicopter illuminating the police and neighbors who have previously been moving forward in the dark. The helicopter itself takes a couple of hits and several more of the suddenly visible Israelis go down including a neighbor rushing to the scene several blocks away and a newly arrived policeman sheltering behind the door of his car.
“There are at least two of them in there,” the force commander unnecessarily shouted to his men. They didn’t hear him and didn’t need to; they’d seen the muzzle flames for themselves and opened up with everything they had.
******
The standoff lasted for more than three hours without a word from anyone in the house. During those hours the neighborhood is evacuated, the dead and wounded retrieved and rushed off to the nearest trauma center, and the armed neighbors withdrawn and replaced with snipers and special troops with night sights on their weapons. Finally, an Arabic-speaking officer with a bullhorn roars out one last call for everyone in the house to come out with their hands up. Once again there is no response.
So be it thinks the incident control supervisor who has taken charge of the scene. He shouts an order, explosive charges are slapped onto the front and back doors and exploded, and a volley of tear gas grenades is fired through a number of windows. Then the team of heavily armored special troops pours through the doors and rushes into the house.
The tremendous explosion occurs about ten seconds after the first of the special troops dashes in through the front and rear doors. What is left of the windows blow out, the roof appears to lift up, and the observers can see two great flashes of red light inside even before they hear the tremendous explosions. The waiting medics and firemen instantly rushed into the house and did their best.
******
“How many?” asked the Prime Minister into the phone as he paces the floor in his residence barefoot wearing only his pants. He desperately wants a cigarette and his ulcer was hurting again. His wife with her hand over her mouth is listening intently from the chair where she is sitting in her nightgown.
“Eight of ours and three terrorists. Five more of ours wounded. The little girls and their parents all have multiple gunshot wounds.”
“Goddamn them to hell. Deliberately shooting children. Those fucking bastards. We’re going to retaliate really big this time.”
“Well here’s the thing, Prime Minister. We’ve identified one of the men on the beach. He’s an Iranian.”
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Our Next Great War Page 46