by Hagai Dagan
Moti looked at him intently. Tamir saw fear in his eyes. He expected him to disagree, but Moti simply nodded reluctantly. Okay, he said, I’ll send out the Mole. You be the IAO. Neta, you stay here with me in the intelligence analysis post. We’ll be the command post listening in, assuming the attack is targeting the central region. I’ll instruct Eforni and Nisanit in the south to send out their Moles as well. That way we’ll cover pretty much all of the shoreline. First order of business— Neta, call in the six on-call producers. Let’s go to my room, I’ll show you the lists. Will you manage?
Of course.
Tamir, you need to speak with the operations office and prepare the Mole, a list of frequencies, and make sure all of the equipment works. We’ll send producers to link up with you, but the responsibility is on your shoulders. You’re in command of that vehicle. Clear?
Clear.
Let’s hope the navy will stop them in time. We don’t know when they left or where they’re sailing… Moti looked lost for a moment.
Let’s get the Mole out and we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on, Tamir said. Neta, anything that comes through the bases— let me know immediately. How does the radio work in the Mole?
You have an S.B. line there.
Got it, Tamir said and started running to the operations office.
q. Radio Check
It took about an hour and a half for the producers to arrive, and another forty minutes for the quartermaster to supply them with weapons, combat-vests, helmets, and ammunition. At the same time, the Mole was being prepared and its equipment checked. Tamir used the time to brief the producers, only some of which had any experience with Palestinian or Lebanese communications. Finally, at 3:30 a.m., preparations were completed and the Mole was on its way. For lack of any better idea, Tamir instructed the driver to head to the beach, near the Mandarin Hotel, and then to slowly drive south along the coast. He then settled in the back alongside the producers who had already manned their posts and started scanning the airwaves. He told them to focus on frequencies in the region of 90-140 MHz, but also to sample higher and lower frequencies for Arabic in Palestinian dialect.
The van reached the beach and started steadily making its way southbound towards Tel-Aviv. The producers slowly turned their dials, tuning in to random taxi-cab and police networks. They placed their weapons and helmets beside them, since they got in the way of their work. Tamir knew he was supposed to instruct them to sit in full gear despite their discomfort, but he didn’t say anything. He had no mind to confront them, and all he cared about was that they perform their job well. The van inched along behind Reading, through north Dizengoff Street, and down along the beach. Tamir glanced out of the van and saw a group of merry people leaving a pub.
Arabic sounded from one of the producers’ station. Tamir sat up in alert. They listened attentively. No. The hoarse, muffled sound suggested this was a civilian station. A man over the radio was explaining that Palestinians are Canaanites, the original settlers of the land. Moses was Egyptian, the voice declared, he received the Torah in Sinai and died in Jordan. And who were occupying the land at that time? The Canaanite Palestinians. The Jews have always been outsiders, invaders. So, we’re actually Egyptians? the producer asked in confusion. Just keep scanning, Tamir said. Voices of taxi drivers in conversation sounded from the stations. If you ask me, one of them said, we should kill all the Lebanese, the only language they understand is force. These guys never run out of things to say, the producer said as he turned the dial. So, we went to my mother-in-law’s house, relayed another voice, and guess what she told me… Tamir didn’t get to hear what the in-law told the taxi driver, or police officer perhaps, as the dial kept on turning. B2, B3, can you hear me? a voice suddenly sounded in Arabic.
Stop! Stop here! Tamir exclaimed.
B2, B3, hal tasma‘uni?
No one replied.
Stay on this frequency, Tamir said. He called Moti on the S.B. I’ve got something here, he said, 153.2 MHz. Just radio checks, for now. Try to pinpoint it.
Moti confirmed.
B2, B3, can you hear me?
The sound quality was poor. Tamir opened the window to the driver’s cabin and instructed him to drive as slowly as he possibly could. Look through the mirror at station three, he’ll signal you to continue driving or back up, he instructed. He told the rest of the producers to keep scanning.
B2, B3, can you hear me, over?
Tamir couldn’t ascertain whether the dialect was Palestinian. He consulted the producer.
Hard to tell. He needs to speak a bit more.
B1, this is B2, I hear you, over.
What’s going on?
The shark is sailing south. Staying in motion.
Tamir grabbed the S.B.— Moti, they’re moving, probably towards the shore. There must be a navy ship sailing away from them to the south! It has to go back. Use the ship’s location to find them.
Okay.
What’s happening on your end?
The navy just sent out two helicopters and there are forces moving along the coast, but we still can’t pinpoint them. The communications are too sparse, and the frequency is weak. The best we have so far is a very general location— anywhere between Ashdod and Herzliya.
If the frequency is weak on your end, that means they can’t be far from where I am. They have to be around Tel-Aviv.
Yeah, okay. Keep your ears on that frequency.
Great, thanks, I wouldn’t have thought of that myself, Tamir sarcastically thought to himself.
B1, this is B2, we can see the shore.
Yup, Palestinians, the producer said.
B1, this is B3, affirmative, we see shore.
A searchlight lit up the dark sea sprawling outward from the Metzitzim Beach promenade. It seemed to Tamir that the dense, black expanse of water was rejecting the invasive foreign light. Beyond the slowly undulating dark mass, there was nothing to be seen. Behind the searchlight, the vague silhouette of a Dabur patrol boat could be seen; a helicopter appeared overhead, casting its own searchlight down at the water. There was nothing there.
Where the hell are they, goddamnit? Tamir thought to himself angrily. He felt his heart pounding against the combat-vest strapped tight over the civilian clothes he had worn to the drive-in with Neta. The moisture in his loins had dried up, but a cold sweat dripped from his forehead underneath the thick plastic helmet. I can’t think like this, he thought as he irately undid his helmet, allowing to it drop from his head and hit the floor of the van with an emphatic thud. The producer to his left glanced at him in alert silence.
B2, this is B1. Pull…
The speaker was cut off. Fuck, stop! Stop! Back up a bit, Tamir yelled to the driver.
B1, this is B2, repeat that.
Pull them in.
Who’s he pulling in? Tamir’s thoughts raced. He picked up the S.B. receiver. Stay with me on the line from now on, he told Moti. I think B stands for bahriya— seaborne unit. B1 is probably on the boat or far out at sea, and B2 and B3 are intended to land on the shore. They’re the operational force. It appears there are two boats in the water. B1 just told B2 to pull them in. I don’t know about B3.
Pull who?
I don’t know, our forces?
Why would he say that?
I have no idea. How come they can’t find them?
B1, this B2, on the shore. They’re above us.
Where are you?
There’s a mosque here.
Moti! Tamir yelled into the S.B., they’re at Hassan Bek! Go, go south! he yelled to his driver. The van sped down the promenade. Tamir looked out of the narrow, barred window and saw the helicopters and the patrol boat turning south as well. Three army jeeps raced past them.
Allah ma‘ak! God is with you! B1 called over the radio. Another military vehicle passed the Mole with tires screeching;
two Border Police cruisers followed, as well as a police patrol car with its sirens wailing. As they got closer to Hassan Bek, they heard gunfire— a single round, some precision fire, and a few more rounds. A group of bystanders emerged from a nearby pub at the edge of Yarkon Street and looked for the source of the commotion. Other people scattered frightenedly in every direction. A military policeman stepped out of a car that arrived on the scene and blocked the Mole’s path. Who are you? he asked in confusion.
Tamir jumped out of the van. Move, let us through! We’re part of the operation! he yelled at the MP.
The bemused policeman stared at Tamir’s civilian clothes and combat-vest.
Can’t you see this is an operational vehicle? Tamir pointed angrily at the heap of antennas fixed atop the Mole.
Okay, fine, mumbled the MP.
They kept driving. The shootout by Hassan Bek Mosque continued as additional forces flocked to the scene, but the radio fell silent. Tamir peered outside. A pale, hesitant, granular light fluttered over the slowly graying waters.
The navy spotted a tanker, quite a way out from our territorial waters, Moti said. They’re approaching it now.
The Zavod engines, Tamir thought, that’s how they covered the distance from the tanker to the beach so quickly without being discovered. But why attack an empty beach at an hour when there are no bathers around? What kind of terrorist attack is this? And why draw out the forces? Why not try and evade them?
Suddenly, gunfire rattled the air again. Tamir heard the sound of glass shattering, followed by a scream coming from the driver’s cabin. He grabbed his helmet, hastily balanced it on his head, and hunched towards the cabin. The driver stared at him with glazed eyes.
What happened? Tamir asked.
The driver just shook his head.
Are you hurt?!
No, I don’t think so, his hand shook as he pointed to the shattered windshield. It appeared like the bullet flew just over his head. The seat next to him was littered with shards of glass.
Back up! Tamir yelled. Put some distance between us and the mosque, but not too much.
The S.B. rang. Tamir grabbed the receiver. Tamir! Moti shouted on the other side, our forces on the ground are reporting renewed fire. Someone flanked them.
B3, Tamir thought. This is a serious operation.
I think I’ve got something here, said the producer at station five, his voice slightly quivering. The shooting went on as the van backed up. Tamir leaned over the station and put his hand on the producer’s shoulder. He didn’t intend to do so, it just happened. His hand was shaking, as well.
J1 to J2, J3. Radio check.
J1? Who the hell is that? Tamir wondered in exasperation. Moti, he called into the receiver, I’ve got new communications. Frequency 151.3 MHz. They’re calling themselves J1, J2, and J3. Try to pinpoint their location.
J1 to J2, J3. Radio check. Do you copy?
J, Tamir thought… That can only be… Moti, listen, what if J is jawwiya? Airborne unit?
That can’t be! This is a seaborne attack!
Or maybe that’s what they want us to think…
J2 to J1, why did you change the frequency? I hear you, over.
The voice rang through Tamir’s ears— a female voice. He pressed the receiver of the S.B. even tighter to his ear, and only a few seconds later noticed that his lips were moving, but no sound emerged from his throat. He gathered his wits and shouted, Moti! This is an airborne attack!
Tamir…
J1 to J2. Progressing towards the destination. Have you made eye contact with the red tower?
Moti! Tamir desperately screamed into the receiver, alert the forces! Tell them to get a chopper in the air or something! It’s an airborne attack! The seaborne attack was just a diversion, or a preparation attack, or… I don’t know. They’re looking for a red tower. What could that be?
Red tower? Are you certain?
Maybe it’s the amethyst tower in GHQ, Neta suggested. It has a red light on top, it’s very conspicuous.
Jesus Christ, Moti mumbled.
Moti? You’re cut off. What’s going on.
Hold on, Moti said, and the line fell silent. The uproar of forces running to-and-fro around Tamir continued. For a moment, he lost himself in the commotion and no longer had a grip on the situation. He felt as if he were in a dream, or a nightmare perhaps.
Tamir? Moti’s voice sprung from the receiver.
Yes.
The patrol boat approaching the tanker reports that two small aircrafts took off from its deck. They opened fire but couldn’t hit them. One of the aircrafts attacked the Dabur with machine gun fire. There are several casualties. They flew on towards the coast. The air-force is deploying fighter jets. A navy missile boat fired an anti-ship missile at the tanker and sank it. We reported the thing about GHQ. Our forces were instructed to head there.
The pipes, Tamir mumbled.
What?
They dismantled the pipe system so they could take off from the deck, like an aircraft carrier.
Allahu akbar! a shout sounded from the producer’s station. It’s J3, the producer said.
A helicopter hit one of the aircrafts, Moti said.
Where’s J2? Tamir asked himself. Where are you, Darija… Let me know if you hear something! he shouted over to the producer and got out of the Mole. He’s probably not going to hear anything else, he figured. She doesn’t have anyone left to speak to. The chopper downed J3, and J1 sank with the tanker. The sound of gunfire coming from around the mosque ceased. If she had continued towards GHQ, she would have been spotted, the chopper would have seen her. No, she couldn’t have gone there. So, where is she? Tamir surveyed the massive concentration of troops gathered around Hassan Bek and looked back up at the clouded sky. She’s in the clouds, he thought, she’s waiting in the clouds. That’s the only explanation.
A radio stirred somewhere nearby. Marzipan one to Marzipan commander. Return to normal?
Like hell, return to normal, Tamir thought. Suddenly, he heard calls coming from the direction of the mosque. He turned to face the source of the sound, and raised his eyes slightly upwards. An opaque, milky dawn revealed itself from behind the gray mass of clouds. Something stirred in the cloud, as if it were giving birth. A couple of seconds later, the cloud parted and a tiny gray aircraft emerged. The soldiers immediately dropped to the floor, and the guns of two armored vehicles were raised up. The guns started rattling, but the tiny aircraft swiftly vanished back into the cloud before emerging again from another corner, swooping down at the troops from behind, and spraying them with machine-gun fire. Chaos broke loose on the ground. Tamir thought he identified a small Palestinian flag mounted on the side of the gray Ultralight glider which vanished once again into the clouds. Two attack helicopters burst into the skyline and stabilized mid-height. It’s gonna be over soon, Tamir thought to himself; a vague feeling of anxiety pervaded his body, a sheer black veil descended over his thoughts. He started walking away from the Mole.
Tamir? he heard one of the producers call his name.
He didn’t answer and kept walking, plodding his way through the nebulous milky expanse stretching between Hassan Bek Mosque and the houses on either side of Yarkon Street. It was an open expanse, littered with all sorts of objects, miscellaneous junk and shapeless heaps. Dawn pulsed within him, naked and bear. Tamir walked on, his gaze fixed on the heavy clouds as a hesitant sun tried in vain to pierce through. The forces around the mosque seemed to him like an indistinct blurry mass. Tel-Aviv drifted further and further away, the sea receded. He couldn’t see a thing around him. The clouds were closing in on him, condensing thicker and thicker, dipping lower and lower. A cold, thin rain started to trickle. The dawn retreated. Darkness once again descended over the face of the earth. The sea rumbled in the distance. His gaze was fixed on the clouds. He couldn’t see a thing.
&nbs
p; r. Revelation
And then, he saw something. Yes, he saw something. Like a silent secret stream gurgling between two mountains, so were the massive mountains of clouds carved, and a rivulet ran through them; from out of the darkness, like a predestined manifestation, the gray Ultralight glider formed once more, dove down towards the troops, spitting fire as if in slow, suspended motion. Something rattled its gentle wind. It tilted to the side, diving, diving like a wounded bird in an agonizingly slow, unsteady diagonal, drifting further and further away from the troops, approaching the gaping expanse between Hassan Bek and Yarkon Street, flying straight at Tamir.
From the corner of his eye, Tamir could see the two combat helicopters suspended in the air like two praying mantes perched on a leaf of darkness. Why aren’t they firing? Not to risk hitting our troops? Maybe they’re worried about the houses on Yarkon Street in their line of fire. Further and further, the Ultralight feathered its way down, anticipatorily drawing nearer to the ground. The block of troops in the background slowly made its way from Hassan Bek, closing in on the Ultralight, closing in on Tamir; still, the forces were distant and the glider was close, very close, gliding sideways, valiantly struggling to retain a semblance of balance, faltering, smacking against the ground, but not crashing, no.
Tamir walked over dazed, as if in a dream. He thought he heard voices shouting from a distance. He kept on walking, allowing the voices to recede further and further into the background. Something stirred in the crumpled glider, someone wiggled their way free and emerged from the wreckage. Tamir came closer and closer— green uniform, leopard print, shirt torn, a cut running down the right pant leg, the oh-so familiar flag stitched to the side of the shoulder, a united Palestine, green, two rifles crossed. He couldn’t make out the words from where he was standing, but he knew them by heart— sacrifice on top, return to the right, liberation to the left.
She steadied herself with some effort and stood upright, as if she were stretching, her gaze directed at the mosque, at the sea, at the houses of Jaffa, her bundled hair all of a sudden coming undone beneath her black baseball cap, as if losing its grip, dimmed in a copper tone against the pale dawn light. Her head slowly turned, and her eyes rested on Tamir— there it was, the black, engulfing, bottomless lake in her eyes, the dawnless night, only now a distant light beamed from its depth, some kind of foreign flame. Her hand groped around the belt fasted to her waist beneath her torn shirt, and she pulled out a gun. She cocked it without taking her eyes off Tamir, raised it, her hand steady and secure, and pointed it at him, her finger resting on the trigger. But she did not fire.