Firebreak (40 page)

Hanni gunned the engine and roared down the hill, gaining momentum, headed directly for the BMP. Shoshana dropped to the floor and braced her back against the forward bulkhead. Gravity, inertia, and the slope of the hill worked in their favor as Hanni smashed the raked, heavily armored nose of their M113 into the left side of the BMP. The BMP lifted, slowly turned over onto its right side, and skidded down the hill. For a moment, neither woman moved, too stunned and bruised by the impact to react. Then Hanni restarted the engine and mashed the accelerator, ramming the bottom side of the BMP and turning it completely over. She backed away as flames licked out from underneath the BMP. They headed for the wounded Israelis.

Shoshana dropped the ramp when Hanni halted the APCand jumped into the shallow ravine where the TOW team had hidden their Hummer. They had taken a hit from a single mortar round and only one man was left alive. She tried to pull his clothes away from the wound to stop the bleeding but her NBC gloves were too bulky. Then the eyepieces on her mask started to fog. Out of frustration, she ripped off the mask and heavy outer gloves, still wearing thin rubber surgical gloves. Unencumbered, she quickly stuffed a compress bandage into the gaping wound on the man’s left side. Luckily his Kevlar flak jacket had taken most of the shrapnel from the mortar round. Hanni was beside her and the two women dragged the man out of the ravine and into the crew compartment of the APC where Shoshana could properly bandage him. Hanni headed for their next pickup.

After they had picked up six wounded, they headed back up the slope toward an aid station. The radio directed them to the rear area where the brigade was waiting for the order to counterattack. As they crested the top of the ridge, Shoshana stuck her head out the top hatch and looked back into the valley. Two kilometers away, she could see Israeli tanks coming down the western slope and cutting into the right flank of the second echelon of Iraqi tanks. They headed to the rear with their fragile cargo.

“Where is everybody?” Shoshana said to one of the medics who met them at the aid station in the brigade’s holding area.

The woman gave her a frightened look. “They pulled out the rest of the brigade to reinforce the Golan. We’ve made a major breakthrough and want to push the Syrians back.”

“My God, we’re here all alone,” Shoshana said. “Does Levy know?”

“He knows,” the medic answered. “Go over there.” She pointed to a decon area. “Scrub your APC down and change your suits. The nerve gas wasn’t as effective as we thought. It’s all gone.”

Twenty minutes later, they were back at their original jumpoff point. Two men and a woman were standing behind Levy’s tank in the comparative safety of his hide, talking to him. All four had their gas masks off and NBC suits open, trying to cool off. Shoshana joined them and listened as the outgoing sounds of artillery punctuated the conversation. At leastwe’ve still got some support, she thought. Then what Levy was saying hit her—the Iraqis were pulling back.

Slowly, the pieces of the action filled in. They had stopped the Iraqi advance just as the order pulling the rest of the brigade out to reinforce the Golan Heights had come down. Then the two companies had counterattacked on the Iraqis’ right flank to cut through the second echelon. But there it had all come apart and the Israeli tanks had taken heavy losses before they could cross through and regroup. Their counterattack had ground to a halt and only the withdrawal of the Iraqis had saved them. Levy’s Luck, Shoshana decided.

“Casualties?” Levy asked. Shoshana was horrified as the tally mounted. The two men and woman with Levy were platoon commanders; their company commander had been killed. The exact status of the other two companies down in the valley was unknown. “Shoshana,” Levy said, looking at her and then glancing down into the valley. She nodded and knew where she was needed.

The carnage among the tanks was the heaviest either of the women had ever seen. Two other Israeli APCs were picking up the wounded as medics worked furiously to save whom they could. A wave of a hand guided them to the eastern side of the valley where they could see numerous burning tanks and APCs. The first four tanks they came to were Iraqi. “Where are the Iraqi medics?” Hanni asked in frustration. Shoshana didn’t have an answer but suspected the Iraqi high command was relying on the Israelis to take care of all the wounded.

The position of the destroyed tanks told the story. Three Israeli tanks supported by two APCs had taken on an Iraqi company of twelve tanks and twelve BMPs. The two women moved among the bodies, looking for the living. Shoshana found the lieutenant who had argued with Levy only to fall under his spell. His body was badly charred but he was still alive and conscious. She knew the man was near death and stopped to administer a heavy shot of morphine. It was all she could do.

The lieutenant looked at her. “Tell Levy,” he whispered, “we never had a chance to regroup. But I didn’t run.”

“I will.” Shoshana stood and moved on. The lieutenant
understood.

The staff officer on night duty was standing in the communications room in the basement of the White House sorting the early-morning message traffic when the telephone call from the Washington, D.C., police came through. He took the call and listened, trying to mask his emotions. He knew that he should be serious, concerned, and properly subdued by the news. But why was he feeling so good? He broke the connection and punched a number on the telepanel. “I had better tell the President immediately,” he said to the communications clerk.

“Without going through Fraser?” the shocked clerk blurted.

“I don’t think Mr. Fraser is in a position to do anything about it,” the staff officer said, giving up any attempt at burying his grin.

Pontowski listened to the report of Fraser’s death and thanked the young staff officer. He returned the telephone to its cradle beside his wife’s bed and pulled off his reading glasses. Although his wife was seriously ill, she was fully rational and the doctors were confident that her latest bout with lupus had stabilized and that she might improve. He knew it helped her spirits when he confided in her, a sure signal from him that she was on the mend. “Tom Fraser was just found dead in his apartment,” he told her. “Heart attack.”

Tosh looked at him, a deep concern in her eyes. “How unfortunate, the poor man.” Her voice was barely audible. She was thinking how unfortunate for her husband to lose a key man in the midst of the current crisis. “This couldn’t happen at a worse time.”

“We’ll survive,” Pontowski said. “But I’ve got to find a replacement. Someone good at crisis management, with credibility.” He paced the floor thinking. This should be the end of the illegal campaign funds affair, he decided. If I know Fraser, it died with him. But what message do I need to send now?

Then he remembered the report of the investigation on Bill Carroll that Fraser had ordered the head of the Secret Service, Stan Abbott, to carry out. The Secret Service’s investigation had included Carroll’s boss. “Tosh, what do youthink of Brigadier General Leo Cox as Fraser’s replacement?”

There was no answer for a moment as his wife mulled the name over. “I think that might be a very good choice. Why don’t you have him checked out?”

“He has been—thanks to Fraser.”

The APC jerked to a halt and Hanni dropped the rear ramp, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Two medics clambered on board and removed their last load of wounded Iraqi soldiers. Then the after-battle routine kicked in and Shoshana and Hanni went through the motions like robots, thankful they did not have to think. Shoshana drove to a service point and refueled the vehicle while mechanics checked the engine and tensioned the tracks. Hanni hosed out the crew compartment and the M113 smelled fresh and clean. Then they restocked their medical supplies and found a place to park.

They were eating their-first hot meal in twenty-four hours and thinking about a long sleep when the radio squawked and ordered them to the command post. Shoshana drove the APC while Hanni finished stowing the gear. Levy was waiting for them when they pulled into line.

Shoshana introduced Hanni and noticed that she was the same height as Levy. “I saw you take out the BMP,” he said. Hanni only nodded, too tired to think. “Thai was a brave thing to do.” While they stood there, Shoshana told him about the lieutenant. The same sad look she had seen in his eyes before was back. “How much longer can I sacrifice them,” he said, dropping his head and staring at his feet.

The major who served as Levy’s second-in-command and had led the attack on the Iraqis’ flank came up and handed him a message form. “A message from headquarters North-em Command,” he grumbled. “They want an immediate reply.”

Levy scanned the long message twice and Shoshana could see his jaw turn to marble. “Did you read it?” Levy asked. The major nodded an answer. “What do you think?”

“Not much,” the major allowed.

“Those idiots want to know why we didn’t counterattack and want us to renew operations immediately,” Levy told the two women.

“What are you going to tell them?” the major asked.

“I’m going to ask them, ‘What do you expect me to attack with?’ before I tell them to go to hell. Then I’m going to dig in and hold this position. From now on, the war comes to me.

“That won’t be long,” the major said. “Intelligence says the Iraqis are moving more tanks and troops into position.”

The two lieutenants were standing at attention in General Mana’s office. Johar Adwan chanced a quick glance at his wingman, but Samir Hamshari’s eyes were routed on a spot on the wall above the general’s empty chair. Johar did the same. Thirty-four minutes later, they heard the sound of hard heels in the outer office and the shuffle of chairs as Mana’s aides and secretaries came to attention. The two men could hear Mana’s distinctive voice. “Are they here?”

“As you ordered, General,” came the reply. The two lieutenants stiffened even more, if that were possible, as Mana entered. He walked around them and laid his swagger stick and ornate peaked hat on his desk. The general concentrated on pulling off his thin leather gloves, ignoring the lieutenants. He sat down and picked up the letter opener on his desk, finally raising his eyes to focus on the two pilots.

“You two were observed yesterday engaged in a dogfight with each other when you should have been on a routine patrol along the “Turkish border.” He rolled the handle of the letter opener between his fingers, studying the blade, finding it more interesting than Johar and Samir. “Apparently, you were doing this quite low.” Now the general was staring at them, his eyes cold and hard. “What altitude were you at when you engaged in this reckless activity?”

Johar saw an opening. Whoever had seen them was not a flier, otherwise Mana would have known they were flying two hundred meters above the ground. “Sir, permission tospeak?” he barked. Mana nodded, still twiddling the opener. “Lieutenant Samir and I were on patrol yesterday when a bright flash on the ground caught our attention. Our ground controller did not respond to our request to investigate.” So far, so good, Johar thought. Once established on a patrol, the Iraqi radar ground controllers often ignored them since nothing had happened along the Turkish border since the war with Kuwait. Mana said nothing.

“Sir,” Johar continued, “I took it on my own initiative to descend to six hundred meters above the area.” Now he waited. Six hundred meters, just under two thousand feet, was still too low for the general but it explained why they were below radar coverage. “We then set up a weave pattern to perform a visual reconnaissance of the road.” That explained what could have been mistaken for a dogfight. No sign from Mana.

Johar gave an inward shudder as he thought what Mana would do if he knew the truth. The two pilots had been practicing low-level engagements at five hundred feet, less than two hundred meters, above the ground. Johar had rolled in on Samir and closed to a guns tracking solution. Samir had then tried to jink out and reverse onto Johar.

“Weave pattern?” Mana finally said. It wasn’t a question. “Visual reconnaissance? These are not authorized. Your sole function on patrol is to follow the directions from your ground controller. You are airborne only to shorten the response time from when the controller detects an intruder until when he can direct you into an engagement.”

The two pilots looked straight ahead. “This,” Mana continued, “is the second time you have acted irresponsibly and it will not be repeated.” The general drove the tip of the letter opener into the desktop. “To make my point, you will be on standby alert until further notice. Dismissed.” Johar and Samir clicked their heels, gave short bows from the waist, turned, and marched out of the room.

Outside the building, they breathed easier. “Standby alert,” Johar said. “It could have been worse.”

“So we sit in our rooms or in the squadron,” Samir complained, “just in case they want someone to fly. When did anyone on standby alert ever fly?”

“Never.”

“Why’d you tell him we had set up a weave at six hundredmeters?” Samir groused. “He almost wet his pants. The only time Mana sees six hundred meters is during takeoffs and approaches.”

“I had to tell him something he’d believe,” Johar explained.

“You got that from a CHECO report,” Samir said.

The two pilots had recently discovered a complete set of United States Air Force Contemporary Historical Evaluation of Combat Operations (CHECO) reports an agent had stolen from a base in Germany years before. Johar and Samir had pored over the reports that U.S. Air Force historians had compiled during the course of the war in Vietnam. The reports had started out based on interviews with the pilots and aircrews who actually engaged in combat. The men had told it like it really was and the reports had been most revealing. After the first year, a pattern emerged in the reports: The targets and Rules of Engagement coming down from higher headquarters had little to do with the air war, what it took to survive over North Vietnam and, most important, to deliver effective ordnance on target. Like most sane men, the pilots did what was necessary to stay alive and generally kept their mouths shut. The CHECO reports got to the truth.

Unfortunately for history, certain generals in the Air Force read the reports, tried to have them burned, and, failing that, classified them secret. Then the same generals disciplined a few pilots and crunched at least one historian. The historians, also being sane and rational, took their cues from the pilots and started telling the generals what they’d believe.

The two Iraqi pilots walked slowly toward their squadron building. They had lots of time to kill. Then what started as a low chuckle in both men grew to a guffaw. Johar looked at Samir and roared with laughter. “It worked, didn’t it?” That was life in an air force.

“Colonel Martin, what we’re dealing with here is a classic case of ‘you tell me what the threat is and I’ll tell you what my tactics are,’ “ Matt said. He and Furry were closeted with the DO, Bill Carroll, and the Gruesome Twosome going over their plans and training for an attack on Kirkuk. “We’re going to have to take on die same defense array that Amb and I encountered when we hit the Syrian headquarters in Lebanon.”

“Gadflies and ZSUs?” Dennis Leander, the junior, very short, overfed elf half of the Twosome, asked.

“Right,” Furry answered. “We were okay ingressing to the target,” the wizzo explained, recalling the attack, “until we had to pop above a hundred feet to acquire the target while we were still outside the range of the ZSU-Twenty-threes that were surrounding the place. That’s when the Gadflies became a problem. We popped to designate the target, dropped back down to get below the Gadflies, but then had to pop back up to get an upward vector so our smart bomb could get a release signal from the weapons computer. I want to tell you, things got hairier than hell.”

“But,” Matt interrupted, “we’ve got just the weapon and tactics to counter that threat.”

Martin was way ahead of them. “So we use GBU-Twenty-fours and Israeli
B’nai
tactics.”

“Sorry,” Larry Stigler, the stork half of the Twosome said, “you’ve lost us.”

“Explain it to the Meatheads,” Martin grumbled, “and work out a low-level attack. Tell me when you’ve got the simulator ready and I’ll fly the first mission profile.” He heaved his bulk to a standing position and stomped out the door.

“He likes you,” Furry told the Twosome.

Martin stuck his head back inside the room. “I want the sim ready by tomorrow morning, Meatheads.” Then he was gone.

“He doesn’t like us,” Leander corrected. “No way we can do that. It’ll take us five days to reprogram your simulator.”

“You want to tell him that?” Carroll asked.

“We’ll try to have something by tomorrow,” Stigler moaned. “You better tell us about GBU-Twenty-fours and
B’nai
tactics.”

Furry explained that the GBU-24 was a two-thousand-pound bomb with a guidance control unit on its nose and folding wings on its tail. The weapon could be released in level flight very low to the ground and “tossed” onto the target when the aircraft was still over five miles away. The wings on the GBU-24 would snap open and the guidance control unit would “fly” the bomb onto the target. The bomb would actually climb in-flight and the control unit would dotrajectory shaping to optimize the impact angle. The bomb could penetrate fifteen feet of earth or three feet of concrete and, according to Furry, “not even scratch the paint.”

But for pinpoint accuracy, the target had to be lased during the final seconds of the bomb’s flight. The guidance control unit would sense the reflected energy and fly the bomb to within inches of the “usable laser spot.” The GBU-24 was a very smart bomb with infinite courage.

Then Matt took over and covered
B ‘nai
tactics. In order to lase the target, two F-15Es would fly a coordinated attack in what could best be described as a pincers movement. The aircraft tossing the bomb would ingress slightly ahead of the other. It would toss the bomb while still well clear of the ZSU-23s used for close-in defense and under the minimum guidance altitude of the Gadfly SAM. The second jet would come in on the other arm of the pincers and would close to within eight thousand feet of the nearest ZSU-23, which was outside the ZSU’s range but still close enough to see and lase the target without popping into the Gadfly’s envelope.

Stigler stood up, ready to go to work. But something in him had changed; instead of looking like a stork, he resembled a lean and hungry hawk. “How soon,” he said to Carroll, “can you get us the exact location of every SAM site and ZSU gun emplacement that’s a player?”

“In thirty minutes,” Carroll answered.

Leander’s elfin grin changed to one of pure mean gremlin. “Martin’s gonna find out who the meatheads are tomorrow morning.”

The activity swirling around the Ganef in the command and control bunker was brisk and efficient. The officers were showered and rested as they hurried about their business directing the war effort, and the halls and command room had been recently cleaned. The chief of Mossad noted with grim satisfaction that the change in morale was driven by the status boards and that there was no doubt that Israel was now pushing the Syrians and Iraqis back on two of the three fronts. The Golan Heights had been cleared and Northern Command was massing for a push toward Damascus, eighty kilometers, or forty-three miles, away. On the front opposite Jerusalem, the Syrians and Iraqis had been pushed back across the Jordan River and Jerusalem was no longer being shelled by artillery. But the Israelis’ last attack as they tried to force the Jordan River had stalled.

Only on the Lebanon front had all progress ground to a halt. The Iraqis had tried to push down a long valley just as Ben David had transferred forces from Lebanon to the Golan to exploit the breakthrough there. The battle in Lebanon had turned into a bloody slugfest and only the timely withdrawal of the Iraqis had saved the situation.

Now Ben David was pressing for a counterattack in Lebanon, claiming that the Iraqis had withdrawn because they were hurt. The Ganef shook his head because he would have to tell Ben David that he was wrong. All his latest intelligence said the Iraqis were re-forming for another attack.

The air attack warning lights on the panel above the main boards started to flash, capturing everyone’s attention in the bunker. The sophisticated warning system had detected numerous incoming missiles and was analyzing their trajectories. Now the panel’s readouts lit up, identifying the type of missiles and their targets. Sixteen Scud Bs and Scaleboards were headed for targets where Israel’s Jericho missiles were bunkered. Then another warning flashed as twelve more missiles were detected headed for the same type of targets. The panel illuminated with a third warning as nineteen more missiles were detected. The Patriot batteries were saturated.

Ben David was on his feet, shouting. “So they want to escalate!”

The Ganef studied Ben David, more concerned about the prime minister’s reaction than the attack. A new worry claimed the Ganef’s thoughts. Everything about Ben David pointed to a man on the edge of physical and mental exhaustion. The minister of defense, Benjamin Yuriden, was calming him, urging him to wait for the results of the attack before acting.

“If this is a chemical attack inside Israel …"Ben David was shouting, clenching and relaxing his right fist, his face flushed.

“I don’t think so,” Yuriden counseled. “We’ve told them if they use gas on our people, we’ll use nuclear weapons. It’s logical for them to strike at our nuclear delivery systems, our Jericho missiles.”

The damage reports started to filter in. The incoming missiles had all been armed with conventional warheads and thetargets had been known Jericho missile sites. The Ganef was surprised at the accuracy of the Arabs’ targeting and immediately wondered if the Soviets had used their satellite reconnaissance to help locate the Jerichos for the Arabs.

Ben David was settling down until the final results were tallied: The rocket attack had knocked out 28 percent of Israel’s Jericho missiles. “Upload our warheads!” he shouted. Again, Yuriden calmed him, telling him that it was far too early to upload their nuclear warheads. Ben David smashed his fists down onto his console, hard, fighting for self-control. For a few moments he stared at his fists; then he jerked his head yes, agreeing with his minister of defense.

The Ganef decided it would be better if he waited a few minutes before he told Ben David about the Iraqi preparations for a new attack in Lebanon and slipped out of the room, into the corridor. His experience warned him not to overburden the prime minister and to be careful how he presented bad news. The man needed rest and was not in full command of his emotions. Besides, the ground commanders in Lebanon were aware of the impending attack.

A heavyset figure was lumbering down the passageway: Avi Tamir. The Ganef stopped him. “We need to talk,” he said and motioned toward an empty part of the corridor. “Is it ready yet?” he asked.

Tamir’s head snapped up. Of course, he had seen the old man with Ben David when they had last discussed the progress he was making, but he didn’t know who the man was or what he did. “I’m the chief of Mossad,” the Ganef told him, establishing his authority.

“We all need to talk,” a voice behind them said. It was Benjamin Yuriden. He led the two men down the hall and into an office. He chased the occupants out and closed the door. “What’s the status of the ‘weapon'?” he asked.