The Siege of Tel Aviv

by Hesh Kestin

  The pastor’s moonlike visage fills the screen. Middle-aged, his hair so elaborately styled, straightened, and oiled that it vies for attention with the huge gold medallion he wears on a gold chain high on his chest: a cross superimposed on a blue Star of David. “Damian, that’s now six ships,” he says with evident pride. “Seems like the plight of our poor Hebrew brethren in the holy land is worsening fast. We’ve got people over in Europe buying up food, water, and medicine. Folks sometimes forget that right in the middle of Jesus Christ there’s the letters U and S plain as day, and that stands for the name of this great believing nation, which is to say, us. You might say every one of us here in the US is part and parcel of Christ our Lord. Which translates out to a simple message: sometimes the Good Lord can use a bit of help.”

  “Rev. Stallwell, are you aware the Islamic Liberation Force has announced it will open fire on any ship trying to break its blockade of Tel Aviv?”

  “Son, as aware as Daniel in the lion’s den, but we believe on the people of Israel as God’s chosen. Don’t forget Jesus of Nazareth was a humble rabbi, his stepdad a regular old Hebrew carpenter. Far as scripture is concerned, we’re doing the Lord’s work, and if those Muslimites blow us out of the water we’ll just keep on a-doing it.”

  “There’s been some criticism of these efforts, Rev. Stallwell, on the grounds that your group is actually creating and implementing an independent US foreign policy. Have you had any consultations on this with Washington, pastor? The White House?”

  “Don’t have to. You know why? These Friday people, today they’re coming after the Saturday people. Know who’s next? The Sunday people. Just like the Constitution gives every citizen the right to bear arms, so it gives us freedom of assembly. We are assembling a Christian effort to save the besieged Israelites, and in so doing we are defending our own Christian selves sure as we might with firearms. These people over there that invaded and are despoiling the holy land got a simple agenda: destroy the Jews, then annihilate the Christians. You know what, they got no use for Hindus and Buddhists neither. We people of faith got to hang together or we going to hang separately.”

  “So you see this as a religious conflict?”

  “Damian, if it isn’t, why are these fanatics knocking down churches all over the holy land along with the synagogues? Chew on that one for a while. Trouble is, the president of these United States won’t lift a finger to help. He’s afraid he may not get reelected if the price of oil keeps going up. Well, I got a message for our president, the Lord bless him and keep him: this county don’t get off its heinie and save our Israelites, then the wrath of the Almighty is going to descend upon our elected leader for failing to do God’s will and then for sure he won’t be re-elected. Son, I got folks in my church vowing to vote for a dead skunk just to see the president punished for what you and I know, and every God-fearing Christian in America knows, is a sin that makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like a three-legged race at a county fair on the Fourth of July.”

  Damian is getting signals from his control room: get this crank off the air before he starts talking assassination. “And thank you, Rev. Gerry Stallwell, pastor of—”

  Accustomed as he is to talking directly with the Almighty, the good reverend is not about to be shut up. “You folks at home. Visit with us right now at christ4israel.org. Reach down in your pockets. Time’s a-running out. Save the Israelites!”

  The control room goes immediately to station break, with no bridge from Smith, no teaser about what’s coming up next.

  Again Jimbo cuts off the sound. “Y’all heard the man. Tick tock. Time’s a runnin’ out.”

  “A-rabs gonna blow them Christian ships right out the water,” Chris says.

  “I ain’t just sayin’,” Jimbo says.

  “We ain’t just sayin’,” Chris echoes. “Not no more.”

  Stan looks from one to the other. He has never felt so un-alone in his life.

  55

  DESPITE THE WORLD’S CONTEMPORARY dependence on technology, not all communication requires electric current. This is evident in any prison, where within hours, sometimes minutes, news can be transmitted via relay, either through voice or agreed signals. The prison that is Ghetto Tel Aviv is no different. That the State of Israel has come under new management becomes known in every part of the crowded city so quickly that it is difficult to believe this is the same Israel once dependent for information on radio broadcasts and newspaper reports amplified by a network of cell phones that kept every citizen in a constantly refreshed loop of fact, rumor, innuendo and, inevitably, falsehood. A photo of any prewar Israeli street would show a cell phone pressed to the ear of every pedestrian; it was not uncommon for Israelis to be seen strolling down Dizengoff Street, Tel Aviv’s main drag, with a cell phone at either ear. Such a nation of communicators can hardly stop communicating despite no electricity, no radio, no Internet, no mobile telephony. The chief of staff learns of Yigal’s coup in an hour.

  Twenty minutes later, Pinky and twelve of his most senior officers—minus Major General Ido Baram, who is under guard in a tent at Camp Yarkon—pull up to the office tower that headquarters Isracorp, formerly the nation’s most successful corporation, now just a brass plate outside a bank of elevators stalled in their shafts.

  The lobby desk holds a familiar sign, with one alteration:

  Government of Israel

  RECEPTION

  Unauthorized Entry Prohibited

  The desk is manned by a white-bearded old-timer in a skullcap reading Psalms—the study and discussion of biblical texts has become a common pasttime in a city with no newspapers or magazines, even among the secular, many of whom now crowd Tel Aviv’s once underused synagogues. “Peace be unto you,” the receptionist says. Now in wide use, the once casual greeting has taken on a kind of bottomless urgency.

  The chief of staff’s adjutant, a colonel, has no interest in pleasantries. “Where’s Yigal Lev?”

  “Has the distinguished officer an appointment, sir?”

  “This is the chief of staff, you fool. Tell us where Yigal Lev is or I’ll shake it out of you.”

  Before he can grind out another threat, the very compelling sound of multiple guns being cocked echoes in the two-story lobby.

  As one, the officers look up and around them. From doorways on the same floor and from the circular balcony above, a collection of Misha’s gangsters point their firearms like accusing fingers.

  The man at the desk stifles a bemused smile. “Please allow me to try the prime minister’s secretary.” He picks up a pink battery powered walkie-talkie bearing the insignia My Little Pony. “Alona? Mendel downstairs. The Chief of Staff is here. Shall I...?”

  In the silent lobby, the voice on the other end is tinny and laden with static. “Yigal has been expecting him. Please send him up.”

  The receptionist turns to the visitors. “For the moment, our elevators are in a state of rest. Fourth floor. Kindly leave your firearms in the basket.”

  Pinky raises his hand to his officers, then places his Tavor, Israel’s standard-issue rifle, into the large straw basket to his left. One by one, the officers follow suit.

  “Please, gentlemen,” the receptionist says. “Side arms as well.”

  Moments later, the group exits four floors of emergency stairs onto an office floor buzzing with people on computers. Alona Yarden, Yigal’s longtime secretary, whose husband may or may not be a prisoner of war in one of the victorious army’s detention camps, greets them. Like the families of some 400,000 IDF personnel not heard from since war broke out, she has no idea whether her husband is a prisoner or dead. “General, so nice of you to stop by. The prime minister will see you immediately. Let me show you to the cabinet room.”

  Pinky gives her a look of exasperation, but follows, his staff in tow. Their entrance to the floor causes some to look up, but otherwise the room continues its work. Alona opens a door to a conference room where a dozen men and women sit around a table strewn with papers. She stops. �
��Your officers will wait outside.”

  The chief of staff nods, enters.

  Yigal stands. “Pinky! I knew you’d come. Let me introduce you to my—’

  “Yigal, what the fuck is going on?”

  “Well, right at the moment we are allocating electricity for the next ten days, by which time hopefully we can get some coal delivered to Reading 4—the turbines? We scrounged up some coal dust.”

  “I know what Reading 4 is. You have electricity and the army doesn’t?”

  “Put in a request. Pinky, this is Rochele, minister of power. We’re looking for a minister of defense. So far it’s fallen to me. Rochele, Pinky used to be the world’s best tank commander. Now...it’s hard to say.”

  “Yigal,” the chief of staff blurts out. “Who made you prime minister?”

  “I did. Winston Churchill was not available.”

  Pinky is now staring at the man to Yigal’s right, who is also on his feet. “Do I know you?”

  “Misha Shulman, staff sergeant, IDF reserves. You fired me along with Yigal and Noam here.” He points to a thin man of thirty wearing a single gold earring. “Funny how things work out. One day this bastard is operations officer in a tank brigade. Now he’s head of the Mossad.” Pinky’s eyes roll. It has finally dawned on him. “You’re Misha Shulman!”

  “I told you that.”

  “The hoodlum!”

  “Currently minister of police.”

  Misha is having too much fun to quit. “In Hebrew, everything’s backwards. Other places the police become crooks. Here crooks become the police.”

  Yigal has let this go on too long. “Pinky, have a seat.” As space is made, the new prime minister works his way around the table, introducing his staff. “Most of the people in this room have worked with me for a while, so I know them and trust them. Roberto here got our computers running. Only he knows how. Something to do with car batteries. Limited access to the outside world, but that only means the outside world can’t tap our lines. Pinky, Sharona—minister for food. We don’t have any yet, but we’re working on it. The children have no milk.”

  “Tonight we’re sending out our first patrol to bring some back,” Sharona says. “Tell your boys not to shoot us.”

  “You’re sending people behind the lines to steal milk?”

  “Milk?” Sharona says, as though talking to an imbecile. “We’re bringing back cows.”

  “You’ve got six million people. How many cows can you steal?”

  “With all due respect,” Sharona says, “they’re our fucking cows. We’ve got 2,300 children between newborn and eighteen months. They need milk. About half the mothers are just dry.”

  “How do you know how many children?”

  “We counted,” Yigal says. “We’re also starting a program for mothers with sufficient milk to suckle a second child whose mother is not so fortunate.” He points. “This guy with the glasses, Tzvi, is minister for logistics. Somehow he knows how many of everything we have, including pistols, rifles, and shotguns.”

  Tzvi seems shy. Eventually he begins. “Tw-tw-twenty-s-s-seven thousand, six h-h-hundred and t-two.” He smiles in relief. “As of y-yesterday.”

  “Ronny is our minister of health. Used to be my cardiologist.”

  Cardiologists everywhere come in two formats: excessively fit and trim, and soft and overweight. Herzberg is the latter becoming the former. He likes to say the population of Israel has lost more cumulative weight in the past several weeks than the total tonnage of the population of Rhode Island, a fact no one questions but which, in a moment of medical bravado, he made up. “Outside of the military, three thousand doctors, twelve thousand nurses. We’re reopening Assuta Hospital tomorrow.”

  “You want to know how much antibiotics?” Yigal asks. “Ronny can tell you. For three days, we’ve been inventorying every possible medical asset.”

  The chief of staff is confused. “Why?”

  “So we can move to phase two.”

  “Which is?”

  Yigal laughs. “Counterattack.”

  “Counterattack? With what?”

  “The short answer, Pinky, is with everything we’ve got.” Abruptly Yigal’s tone becomes formal. “General Pinchas Harari, as prime minister I am authorized to give you sixty seconds to swear allegiance to the interim government.”

  “Or...?”

  “Be relieved of command.”

  “Command of what? I need planes and tanks. And ammunition. And fuel. What do the Americans say?”

  “You know how they say ‘fuck you’ in Washington?” Yigal says. “‘Trust me. He pauses. “Pinky, I’m giving the order to go nuclear. You need it in writing?”

  The chief of staff is silent for a while, then simply lets go a long sigh. “I don’t need a signature. I need capability.”

  “Surely we must have one plane?”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, that’s the least of it. We don’t have one bomb.”

  “Pinky, you have my full attention.”

  “They’re hidden safely underground. That’s the good news.”

  “I can’t wait,” Yigal says.

  “The bad news is they’re a hundred meters under the Dimona garbage dump in what is now Egyptian-controlled territory. No one expected Israel would be reduced to just Tel Aviv. The order you want to give, I gave it.”

  “We have 182 nuclear bombs and no access to them?”

  “176,” Pinky says. “Wait a minute. Who told you 182?”

  “Wikipedia,” Yigal says. “Every taxi driver in the country used to be able to tell you that. Usually they’d swear you to secrecy. Eight are missing?”

  “Six months ago, I sent two submarines, each carrying four nuclear missiles, into Iranian waters. It was one of those orders you give you don’t even know why. Just having them cruising between Haifa and Marseilles didn’t make sense. Your predecessor—the real one, the elected one—put up a stink. Pinky, this could be construed as an act of war. You could say she torpedoed the idea.”

  “And.”

  “And so I was compelled to deploy the subs on my own authority. My responsibility was—is—the security of the State of Israel. No fucking politician was going to screw that up.”

  Yigal nods. “So you understand why—”

  The chief of staff cuts in. “I understand exactly why you committed treason—it is treason, you know—in replacing the legally sanctioned government of the state. Actually, I should have done it myself, but to tell you the truth, and I’m not really proud of this, all I could think of was my fighting men, my tanks, doing my job.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Pinky. So we do have nuclear capability.”

  “In theory.”

  “What is theoretical about eight nuclear warheads pointed at Iran?”

  “The subs are deep,” Pinky says. “We’ll have no contact until they surface.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Six days.”

  “So,” Yigal says. “Six days to win a war.”

  The chief of staff allows himself a wry smile. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

  56

  THE SAME DAY, THE president of the United States, having arrived in a convoy of presidential 707s—two are decoys carrying sufficient Marine firepower to secure a square mile on the ground—is seated in one of the Saudi king’s twelve royal palaces on one of two facing gold armchairs. The armchairs are not painted gold. They are gold. As to the twelve palaces, these function much the same as the presidential air convoy. Should yet another attempt be made to separate the royal head from the royal body, the attackers can never be sure where to strike.

  For his accommodation with America, ISIS and Al Qaeda have made the Saudi king Islamist target number one. The king may be Islamism’s chief benefactor and a supporter of jihad-crazed Muslims from Nigeria to Pakistan, but the sin of his longstanding American alliance overrides all: it is unforgiveable. Consequently, the monarch never sleeps in the same palace longer than one
night. Moreover, four royal lookalikes are shifted from palace to palace like roving players, each with his own retinue of advisors, all of them imposters, and wives, also imposters, though these are regularly made available to the replacement monarchs. Even the royal family is not privy to the king’s location. Wisely—internecine bloodletting is an Arabian tradition predating Mohammed.

  Seated behind the two rulers are their respective retinues, one of them in a burqa. A feminist to the core—though considering the administration she works for, never outspoken about it—Flo Spier finds the getup oddly suitable to her position as the president’s chief political operative. Hidden in plain sight, able to watch, listen, and learn but not required to speak unless absolutely necessary, she is able to parse the political landscape with a certain curtained-off detachment, a Wizardess of Oz in Islamic drag.

  Though the king’s command of English is more than adequate, two translators hover nearby, the one to correct the other, a common practice when the royal head inclines to the West. Like competing viziers, each translator is quick to point out any error, especially of nuance, coming from the mouth of his rival. But when the king speaks for himself in English, neither risks challenging so much as a wayward gerund.

  “Please, my dear honored guest,” the ruler says with a kind of dainty generosity, quashing the English syllables like so many delicate Muscat grapes. For emphasis he raises his right hand, palm out. “Even before you speak, your dignity must know that every wish of your heart shall be honored.”

  “Well, your highness,” the president rejoins. “That’s mighty white of you. The American people appreciate your goodwill.”

  “Then it shall be according to your desire. We shall restart production of the oil.” The king is a master of timing. “There exists, however, a small related matter.”

  “King, one hand washes the other.”

  The monarch sighs. He has seen The Godfather, Part II eleven times. He speaks slowly, Marlon Brando as an old sheikh. “The Arabs are a forgiving people. We do not wish to treat the Jews harshly. They are, as you no doubt know, a protected people. As are all Christians. Both are people of the book. Thus the House of Saud will pay for as many ships as needed, without limitation, to bring these Jews to new homes among their Christian brothers, so that they may prosper and multiply.”