Chapter 5. On the Radar

Geoff Morrell, the Pentagon’s spokesman, had been given the task of monitoring communications from the Pentagon while the crisis meeting progressed. Jim Jones, a retired Marine Corps General, along with a key staff member, whose offices were a mere thirty feet from the President’s, usually handled the Pentagon monitor, but Jones and his top three staff had left the day before for a three-day meeting in New York.

Morrell saw something on the monitor that surprised him, and without tilting his head up his eyes scanned the room for a chance to interrupt. Within a heartbeat, he had decided not to wait.

“Excuse me!”

All eyes were drawn to the middle-aged Morrell in his crisply pressed blue serge suit.

“AFCENT reports ‘interceptors scrambled. Will interdict two squadrons bogeys entering Iraqi airspace via Saudi,’” Morrell removed his glasses with both hands and looked up to get a reaction from the group. There was no immediate response.

The President leaned back in his high-backed, black leather chair and took command. “ Geoff, tell them to escort, but if those are Israeli jets, just let them pass.”

“Yes, sir. Messaging that.” He replaced his glasses and his fingers flew over keys of his computer.

“And, Geoff, Get General McChrystal on a voice line for me. I want to know what they’re...”

“Yes, sir,” replied the aide. The President never finished his sentence, reaching instead into a pocket and withdrawing his iPhone. He thrust his thumb onto the surface and tilted the screen to view a message.

Panetta and Biden were seated next to each other. Biden had been staring at the middle east display on the big screen in front of them. He leaned toward his friend, “Leon, are those red vertical lines on that map time zones?” asked the Vice President.

“Yeah, they are, Joe. The overall shading shows the entire area’s in total darkness right now.” Sun-up is about an hour away in Teheran and you’ll be able to see it move across the map.

“Sir, they’re requesting verbal orders from you,” said Morrell.

“Mike? What’s THAT all about?” The president looked to his Chairman JCS for advice.

“That’s good policy. Let’s get Bill Holland on the phone. He’s in country right now. You have his contact Geoff?”

“Yes, Admiral, I’m sure I’ve got it right here.”

Major General William Holland had held command of the 9th Air Force since August, in charge of combat command. Reporting to Holland are six wings, based in the eastern US, representing 350 aircraft and 24 thousand active duty and civilian personnel. Bill Holland’s academic and professional credentials were remarkable, spanning administration, political science, military strategy, tactical combat operations, national security and command. If there was a hot spot, Bill Holland had served there - probably as CO or DCO. When it came to war, Bill Holland was all kinds of expert.

“Bill? Hey, Mike Mullen. (pause) I’m well, thanks. Bill, I’m in the situation room in the White House. I’m going to put you on speaker.” A deep hollow ambience filled the room. The speaker phone at the White House is powered by a set of ballsy JBL wall-mounted speakers that create an eerie psychology. Visitors have commented more than once that the theatrical quality of the sound enhances the already palpable dramatic quality of events. Reality of sound tears away any sense of detachment the hearer might cling to. Right away, you know, ‘this ain’t no TV show.’

“Bill, we have the President, Vice President, Secretary of State, CIA Director, Chief of White House Staff - just about everybody in the upper echelon. The Commander in Chief has an order for you.”

“General, this is the President. Two squadrons of Israeli jets are entering Iraqi airspace via Saudi Arabia at this moment. I want you to have them identified, followed and allowed to proceed where they want to go without molesting them. If they leave Iraq, you let ‘em go.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Where are they going?”

“You know where they’re going, General.”

“Yes, sir. May I recommend something, sir?

“Of course you can, as soon as you issue my order.” Military in the room were a bit surprised by the hubris.

“Sir, it’s about the order.”

“What is it?”

“Well, sir. If we fly with the intruders, Iranian radar doesn’t know we’re escorting. As far as they know, we’re part of the attack. They’re not going to respect borders if we provoke them. And, if we’re fired upon, we’d have to engage under our present rules. I’d recommend we identify, then get the hell back on the ground and watch where they’re going.”

“O course, you’re right. Please make it happen right now.”

“I will, sir.”

“And, General? Please return to the phone and let us know when you’re back.”

“I will, Mr. President.”

The stress was beginning to take its toll. Obama was way past the ‘I need a cigarette,’ point and all his vital signs were running at about 150%. Rahm Emmanuel could see it. The eyes get narrow, the shoulders slump and the body leans forward in a aggressive posture. Jaw clenching produces rolling lumps of muscle as the molars rock back and forth at a stunning 350 pounds per square inch. Emmanuel knew that he needed to help his friend get focused.

“Mr. President, I think we need a plan,” suggested Obamas Chief of Staff. It was a clever cue. Obama the organizer was dumbfounded by the situation. He would revert to form and recommend a bullet list of quick goals, debate each and assign responsibilities. But before he could speak, his Secretary of State spoke up.

“Mr. President, this reminds me somewhat of the Bosnian situation. I remember my husband’s administration was roundly criticized for not involving the Congress immediately. I would recommend we contact the Speaker and Minority leader, the Senate Majority and Minority leaders. The Supreme Court should be notified as a courtesy as well as our ambassadors and others. We might also want to raise the Terror Threat level given that we will be blamed for any attack regardless of our level of participation. That will put all our embassies and consulates on alert and trigger higher levels of security. I would also recommend DEFCON 4, because...”

Obama despised Mrs. Clinton’s resentment, an attitude that often played out in this kind of one-upmanship. But, he was so tired of it, he had come to ignore it and generally tried to deal with the substance of her comments. Sometimes, often in fact, her comments had some merit. On the other hand, Joe Biden had much less self-control.

“Hillary.” Joe Biden interrupted. “Just, just slow down one second, okay? You’ve been taking notes and you have the benefit of your extensive knowledge and experience, but the rest of us need to take a breath and let this all sink in.” It was typical patronizing Joe Biden, so naive you couldn’t really be upset by it.

“Joe, we don’t have a lot of time,” responded the former First Lady.

Obama spoke up. “She’s right, Joe.”

“I know she’s right, Mr. President. But just rattling off a list doesn’t give us all a chance to collaborate,” explained the Vice President.

Obama took his VP’s suggestions to heart. “ Okay, Hillary, those are all great ideas. I need to get them down, prioritize them and assign them. Can we do that?”

“That would be my recommendation, too, Barack,” said Mrs. Clinton.

Emmanuel interjected, “I have your suggestions, Hillary. I’ll make the calls myself as soon as I can break away. Right now we need to know what we have to do next. For example, can we stop the Israelis?”

Mullen responded, “Sure we can. It would require us to attack and destroy two squadrons of heavily armed and technologically equal F-16 fighters. You really want to do that?”

“No, I don’t want to,” Emmanuel fired back, “but Netanyahu fucked us. He owed us some notice. What if we wanted to help him? He’s a fucking right-wing prick and he doesn’t care what happens to the rest of the world.”

“Rahm.” Obama hoped to put the reins on his volatile Chief of Staff before the chain reaction got out of control.

A couple people jumped as the wall speakers sprang to life, “I’m back,” spoke General Holland. Eyes rolled indicating at least a few people thought there was a pretty good chance Holland got an earful of Rahm Emmanuel before he announced himself.

“Maybe I do want to shoot ‘em all down,” Emmanuel continued. “Maybe then he’d become an honest broker.”

“Hello?” No one had acknowledged Holland.

Mullen interjected, “Stand by Bill.”

“Rahm.” Emmanuel turned away from Mullen and toward the President. “Rahm, we’ll deal with this. We’re holding some good cards. We’ll play them soon enough.”

Obama wanted desperately to tell Emmanuel about the threat Netanyahu had made concerning the alleged mysterious document with the President’s name on it. This was not the time, and chances were very good he wouldn’t have a private moment until the crisis was over. He knew instinctively that he probably would never mention the conversation to Rahm Emmanuel - for a whole host of reasons.

“Should we stop them?” reiterated Emmanuel with a gesture of frustration.

“Ladies? Gentlemen?” queried the President.

Mullen offered his view. “I think we’re too late. Let’s protect our assets. Let’s prepare to defend ourselves in the event of retaliation and let’s get out in front of this with an announcement.

“I don’t want an announcement before the strike.

“Sirs?” It was Geoff Morrell responding again to the computer link to the Pentagon.

“You won’t believe this.” These are surveillance photos taken over the last three minutes or so from a Zodiac in the Persian Gulf and Sat-phoned to CENTCOM. The radome is coming down and in the last one there’s a Huey where the radome used to be. It’s a little grainy because it’s from a night scope...”

The President had no idea what he was hearing. “Put it on the big screen, can you do that?” A staff technician, an Air Force Major sitting at a console above the conference flicked a switch and selected Morrell’s screen. “Done, Sir,” he called out.

“Holy shit! What’s going on?” exclaimed The Vice President.

“Bill, did you get these images?” asked Mullen.

“I’m getting them right now.”

“What does it mean?”

“Looks like a platoon’s about to be delivered to the battlefield,” concluded General Holland. “That’s what Huey’s do best.”

“But there are eight frigates in the Gulf, Bill,” said Mullen.”And each of them has a spare radome, or hangar, or whatever it is.”

“Then maybe 65 men are going to battle 35 hundred Republican Guards,” he replied.

“Probability?” asked the Admiral looking at the loudspeaker across the room from his chair at the massive table.

“Hmm. Nil, I’d say,” responded Holland. “They don’t do suicide missions on their side.”

The President broke in. “I need to have your best guess as to what’s going on. I don’t like this lack of information.”

The CIA Director had already been pinched by both this administration and Congress too often over his short tenure. Panetta took Obama’s comment personally,

“Barack, Israel is about the tightest country we’re in. We think we know something only when they want us to think we know it. They’re uncanny, and it’s not just a myth. They’re very, very good.”

“Leon, it wasn’t a criticism. I really don’t like this lack of information. I don’t. So, tell me, what’s everyone’s best guess?”

Panetta wanted to scream, “Then stop cutting CIA funding, and defend the staff when they’re criticized, and you’ll have good intelligence information! Why is THAT so hard to understand?” But he just looked down and wished, for any number of reasons, that he wasn’t even there.

“Mr. President. They may be an assassination team,” ventured Mrs. Clinton.

Emmanuel didn’t like that answer. “And if they miss, they’ve guaranteed themselves a horrendous attack,” he countered. “I don’t think so.”

“It may be an advance team,” offered the Vice President.

“There are no troops amassed anywhere in Israel, Joe,” stated Panetta. “Besides, they can’t afford to diminish their domestic security. You can bet the rockets are going to fall like rain when this starts.” The military guys delighted in listening to amateurs give military assessments - especially those who had never worn the uniform. Sometimes, though, they were right.

Emmanuel jumped in. “Troops can’t stop rockets, Leon. You don’t WANT troops on the ground where rockets are falling. Besides, you go into the shelter. Have you ever been in Kiryat Sh’mona when it rained rockets? I have. I was enjoying a trout almondine at Dubrovin Ranch - probably the best trout I’ve ever tasted - when the motherfuckers started their fireworks.”

“When you have lunch at the edge of the Beqaa Valley, you invite trouble, Rahm.” countered the CIA Director. “You’re a rocket magnet.”

“Mr. President, there is another possibility,” the disembodied voice of General Holland stirred the room again.

“Tell me.”

“Well, sir, you would not want troops on the battlefield if you were using tactical nukes.”

Chapter 4. The Pilot

Uri Oren was proud to be a Sabra, a native-born Israeli, son of Julia Tannenbaum and Abed Al-Haady. The parents had met in Aix-en Provence, France at Université Paul Cézanne. Julia was a political science major, about to graduate, and Abed was in his third year of undergraduate law courses. Julia and her family lived in Northern France. Her grandparents, native Germans, had been hidden and their lives saved by righteous Christian Netherlanders during the Nazi occupation. Abed was the son of a wealthy Lebanese family. His father’s father had become a Christian in 1950, at Christmastime. Christians and Muslims got along well in Lebanon in those days.

Julia and Abed fell in love in a coffee shop, following a debate on the Israeli-Arab conflict near the end of the Egyptian-Israeli war in 1970. Oren, whose name was the Hebrew translation of his mother’s surname, grew up to believe in the Jewish State and had dedicated his two-and-a-half decades of life to that belief. Often such a commitment meant becoming observant. In Oren’s case, instead of enjoying a turkish coffee before sunup on the Tarmac at Teheran Airport, wearing his smart looking dusty-blue Pakistani commercial pilot’s uniform, he would be wearing a dull black suit, a felt fedora, a prayer shawl, tefilin and a white shirt with no tie. It wasn’t for him. Sometimes he resented the risk he was taking to provide a home for the Observant Jews. They wouldn’t fight, but without hesitation they’d tell you when to fight, who to fight and why. It didn’t seem equitable, especially in the tradition of the shared sacrifice of Zionists.

Uri Oren had taken another path. One that took him through the Mossad, the IAF and accelerated military courses based on the American Navy Seals model. He had studied Muslim culture and religious practices. He memorized the Koran and Surah. Thanks to his father, Uri had a decidedly arabesque look. He was handsome, resembling Omar Sharif as a young man - wavy jet black hair, a full mustache, strong jaw, deep piercing eyes. Thanks, to his mother, he could be Persian, Pakistani, Spanish, perhaps. But, for the past five years, Uri was Yusef Shirani, a Pakistani with Pashtun roots. He had become a pilot for Pakistan Cargo Services, and for the past few months had been flying a regular route from Amman to Teheran to Faisalabad, Pakistan, flying containers filled with who knows what. This week, he made a few additional stops at unmapped airfields that only existed in the minutes before his arrival and were made of steel mats that disappeared beneath the sand in hours. Oren marveled at the industriousness of his countrymen. Here they were experiencing the quintessential Jewish legacy, defying the desert once again. This, despite the fact that the sand erased everything - blood, bones, even the iron skeletons of tanks. Sand consumed anything that deigned to be permanent in the desert. At times, it consumed even the air, thought Uri. In one case the field was an asphalt road that appeared from the base of one sand dune and disappeared 3/4 of a mile later. A rail line followed parallel to the asphalt just a few yards to the south. Once a highway or rail line is neglected, the desert takes over.

Uri Oren had accumulated all the containers he retrieved on his covert missions and deposited them in the hangar at Teheran. Thus, the eight, fifteen-ton bunker buster bombs that would end Iran’s foray into the league of nuclear nations were already in Teheran, sitting on the ground, unassembled, in Pakistani cargo containers.

Inside Oren’s converted Airbus, some of the bunker buster bombs were being assembled. The A-330 could carry four fully-assembled bombs at once. That meant Uri would be making one run only. A second aircraft would be arriving soon with the same transponder settings and tail number. A man Uri had never met would be making the second bombing run. Both planes had been fitted with bomb bays, a lever would be pulled releasing a cam lock, and a single narrow panel of the belly of the plane would rise just inches into the body of the massive aircraft. Cables turned by a hand-winch would draw it away or return it. Briefly, the two bombardiers will wear pressurized and heated flight suits and an oxygen supply. As soon as the lever is cracked, everything inside the airplane changes. At 10,000 meters the air temperature will be a lethal minus 60 degrees fahrenheit. Moving, working, thinking - everything will become extraordinarily difficult. Uri will be driving. He didn’t envy the guys down below.

Thanks to GPS, no bomb sites will be required. The guidance systems housed in the wedge-shaped nose of each bomb will be able to direct the several massive pieces of ordnance to three different targets each a bit less than 100 miles apart using the streaming data supplied by a French satellite in geosynchronous orbit about 120 miles into space. The crew will have plenty of time between each drop, an optimal 10 minutes window for each of three packages, before they can and head back toward Teheran. The fourth bomb is saved for a special target there.

Uri’s plane had been converted in just eight hours. Mossad watched the weather for a month waiting for the autumn fog in Pakistan. The mechanical team was ready for a call on a moment’s notice and it came one day in late August. A delay in returning to home base, owing to fog and mechanical problems while in Amman, was not unusual. As luck would have it, Ramadan was underway and all the regulars left the hangar at sundown to go home and end the daily fast. Miles from the city, the air that night hung heavy with spices, charcoal and lamb. Once the regular crew went home, an Israeli maintenance crew arrived to perform the surgery. The new belly was fabricated in Israel using an El Al A-330 Airbus parked at Lod as a template, and it dropped into place with almost no additional finishing. Most of the evening was spent making the addition cosmetically perfect. Uri saw to it that the plane got its regular mechanical review during the overnight so that for a couple months, at least, no one would be crawling over it looking for anomalies. Most companies required taking equipment to zero-hours at home base. That’s the process where critical mechanical equipment is lubricated, machined, refurbished and restored to pristine condition - as though it had never been used. But Amman had a reputation for better mechanics and better equipment. That was probably because the late King Hussein bin Talal had been an accomplished pilot most of his adult life. He shaped the Jordanian aviation service into a highly respected industry.

The President, Vice President, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of State, Director of the CIA, White House Chief of Staff and eight other people sat in the White House situation room, the closest thing to a bunker in the building. A markee, split in half left to right was brightly announcing, “Terror Threat Orange” on the left, And “DEFCON 3” on the right. There were only five defense condition levels. There was momentary silence.

Leon Panetta spoke up, “Here we go. Mr. President, this display shows the location of every war-capable vehicle heavier than a truck, winged, or over 10,000 tons displacement. The only odd thing our analysts see are eight missile frigates, six stationed northwest of the Straits of Hormuz and two, here and here, in the middle of the Persian Gulf.” Panetta used a Telestrator to circle the icons representing the frigates as all eyes stared at the 60-inch plasma screen.

Obama looked at Admiral Mike Mullen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and a man he trusted immensely. “Mike, what are they up to?”

“We can’t be sure, of course, but it looks like they’ve installed an additional radome. As you know, President Bush gave up some Aegis technology to Israel - to support the Patriot batteries we delivered. Israel subsequently developed the Arrow, they call it the Hetz Missile, for defense against incoming ballistics. The Gulf would be a logical place to station yourself to stop incoming warheads. These are all Hetz-class frigates and that radome might be a new level of Aegis technology.”

“Leon?”

“I agree. We know there have been several technology initiatives in Israel associated with their pre-occupation with Iran’s nuclear program. There were three projects alone at Scailex.”

“What’d’ya know about them?”

“Scailex?”

“No. I know Scailex. What’d’ya know about the projects?”

“Well, not much, to be blunt. They’re a cell phone company so we’re looking at communications - FM, GPS, SMS, MMS, video - all the kinds of technology you might expect. Their lab’s in Tel Aviv, so we’ve been listening from offshore and, well, nothing. We had a single report of a hack attempt from an IP address at Scailex.”

Mullen interrupted, “Hacking you guys?”

“No. Probing the algorithm using the M-code on the our GPS system - our national system.”

“Leon. English.” The president was not amused by the acronyms and military shorthand. He’d complained about it before and it was doubly disturbing when critical matters arose and clarity and understanding were most important.

“I’m sorry. It means they were trying to,” Panetta was searching for a better word, “LOOK at the military side of our national GPS system. Our birds send out two signals, a civilian and a military which is designated the M-code. That way we can turn off the civilian if we need to. Specifically, they looked at the algorithm, the formula that we send to all our devices to tell them where they are.”

“Did Scailex tamper with it or do anything?’

“Nope. They went in and turned around, and came back out. Something like four seconds.”

Again, Mullen spoke up, “A calling card.”

“What’s that?” asked Obama.

“They wanted us to know they’d been there.”

“Any speculation on why?” asked the President.

“No,” said Panetta, “but I bet we’re gonna’ find out real soon.

Chapter 3. The White House

President Obama dressed in less than five minutes, He strode into the Oval Office wearing a powder blue shirt - sleeves rolled up - and fresh charcoal gray trousers. Netanyahu’s call had come just minutes after the president had managed to fall asleep. In Israel, the day had just begun. Obama was going to have to work through the night while Netanyahu was riding on his natural circadian rhythms. Time to pull out the Marlboros and Maxwell House.

“When’s Rahm due in, Annie?” Obama inquired of the 3rd shift Oval Office secretary.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less. I just got a call from his security,” she responded.

“Alright. We’re going to be in here hunkered down for a couple hours at least. I want Tony McPeak on the line. I want Colin Powell, ahh, better get Hillary here...and I want Mike Mullen here...”

“Sir,” the secretary interrupted. “We have a scramble list for military situations.”

“Okay, good. Get ‘em all or get ‘em on the phone.”

“Sir, Admiral Mullen is at the Lafayette Park gate.”

“Get him in here.” Under his breath the president mumbled, “Shit. This delay is not helpful. Come on Rahm, get your ass in gear.”

Annie suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Sir, Mr. Emmanuel just landed at Langley. He was in Chicago since this evening.” She ended her sentence with up-speak to imply, “do you remember?”

Obama did recall. “Is he there right now?”

“He just got into the limo.”

“Turn him around and get him in a helicopter. I want him on the lawn in five minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Annie. You’re doing a great job - so don’t take this the wrong way - but I want you to call Katie Johnson and get her in here, too.”

Johnson was Obama’s personal secretary, a Wellesley girl who had been a tireless campaigner for the president. She had just turned 28 years of age earlier in the week.

The White House photographer, Pete Souza entered the Oval. There was an understanding that Pete could come and go as he pleased unless the president waved him off. In exchange, Pete had promised to do up to two weddings for the Obama family, if called upon, at any time in the future. Sort of a Vito Corleone request, Souza thought at the time. He despised wedding photography.

“Pete! You sleeping on the fucking couch here?” asked the president.

“No,” he replied sleepily. “I live off Van Ness up near DHS. This time of night it’s a ten minute drive. Annie paged me.”

“Well good. You’ll love this.”

Obama wasn’t about to discuss the situation with his photographer but he could have. The guy had been present for everything. He was privy to some of the most sensitive matters that could be discussed in the Oval. There was a lot of background he could draw on. In addition, he’d been Reagan’s photographer during the second term. He could make some comparisons - but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut.

Annie voice paged the president,“Sir, Admiral Mullen’s on the phone. They waved him to the Southeast gate.”

“What!”

“I don’t know.”

“Mike? You briefed? (pause) Yeah, I know. (pause) He’s a fucking SOB, Mike.(pause) I want strategies, I want options, I want a brilliant response and I want it before those jets enter Iranian air space. (pause) Well, that’s my list, you wanna’ add to it, be my guest. (pause) Where are you?”

“Sir, Mr. Emmanuel’s just clearing the monument.”

“Good. Thanks, Annie. Where, Mike? (pause) Good, good. Your team on the way? (pause) Alright see you in a minute.”

Obama called through the open door, “Annie. Find out what’s wrong with the...is Curt there?”

Curt was the president’s current personal lead Secret Service agent.

“I’m here, Mr. President,” he called as he rose from the leather sofa next to the secretary’s u-shaped console and turned to enter the Oval.

“Curt. Come here.”

Curt Cummings was a very ordinary looking African American man, wearing a medium gray pinstripe suit and an unremarkable blue and black-checked tie.

“Curt, I don’t know why, but the guards at the West Wing gate at Lafayette just sent Admiral Mullen all the way around the building and back to the Pennsylvania Avenue gate. Can you find out what the fuck their problem is? And tell them I asked.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll call out there.” Cummings pivoted and walked out of the Oval.

“Sir, I have General McChrystal on Secure Green 7.”

“Shit. Tell him I’ll have Mullen call him. Within the hour! In fact, have him call me in :45! Mike and I will be here, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir, and Mr. Biden’s at the Lafayette gate, sir.”

“Wonderful,” responded the president, intentionally barely hiding an unmistakable tone of derision. It wouldn’t have mattered. Obama’s feelings on nearly everything were well known. He tended to let staff know how he felt in order to guide their responses to his opinions and requests, that they would be more amenable.

The unmistakable whapping sound of a Sikorski VH-3D Sea King could be heard softly in the Oval Office as it landed on the South Lawn on the opposite side of the sprawling White House grounds. Rahm Emmanuel would enter the building near the Rose Garden and have to make his way through a complex maze, diagonally, all the way to the opposite corner. He would be just a few paces behind Admiral Mike Mullen, who had already crossed the White House threshold.

“Pete Rouse, Jim Messina and Mona Sutphen are all en route, sir.”

“Is that necessary?” Obama couldn’t imagine why three Deputy Chiefs of Staff were en route when he needed so badly to speak to their boss.

“Mr. Emmanuel called them.”

“Holy, Christ, Annie. Tell everyone else to quit inviting people. This shit’s going to leak and I’m going to be really pissed if it does. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

A white-jacketed gentleman entered the room with a tray of coffee and pastries.

“Annie, get me an ash tray and turn the vent on. Clinton said there’s a fan he had installed for his cigar smoke. Do you know where the switch is?”

“Yes sir, it’s the one on the ledge behind you, on the left next to the picture of Sasha.”

“Ah ha! You know, I didn’t know what that was for and I was afraid to try it.”

A fan with the power of a microminiature jet engine could be heard revving somewhere in the wall space of the oval office. The Clinton fan had cost taxpayers $375,000 because a penetration into or out of the oval office was a serious security matter and a variety of electronic and mechanical attachments were required. Nevertheless, Clinton, as most who followed the papers knew, seldom applied a match to his cigars.

Obama reached into the top left hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a fresh flip-top box of Marlboro Lights. He thought of Joe Biden making his way to the Oval. Then he remembered Biden’s remark about how something would come along to test him.

Chapter 2. In Motion

Heyl HaAvir, the Israeli Air Force, was as old as the State of Israel. Some would argue that its first aircraft was a single engine Piper Cub that arose from the tiny runway of the art-deco Jerusalem airport at Ramallah to reconnoiter the Bab El Wad. Below, brave Zionists fought their way through the Valley of Death to finally break the Arab stranglehold on the world’s holiest city.

Twenty F-161 Netz fighters jumped from the floor of the Jezreel Valley, two at a time. Once over the valley they formed two groups of ten fighters.

The valley runs diagonally from Mt. Carmel in the north, overlooking the city of Haifa, southeast to the Jordan rift, a deep 100-mile-long crack that terminates at the Dead Sea, the lowest point on earth. Midway along the western ridge of the valley are the restored ruins of King Solomon’s fortress, Meggido. From that position on the hill of Meggido, a military commander could see and control the entire valley. Such a fortress would have global import because through this valley have traveled the world’s most famous generals and its most feared armies. It is the only path between Europe and Africa, or Europe and Asia, that does not require an army to climb mountains or cross seas. So, Cyrus, Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander the Great, Ceasar, Hannibal, Richard the Lionheart, Sulieman, Allenby, Rommel and untold others had used this strategic corridor either for conquest or escape. No wonder its Hebrew name struck fear into the hearts of those who traversed its depths. The fortress Meggido sits upon a hill, which in Hebrew translates har. Over time, Har Meggido had become known as Armeggedon, and the word had taken on a meaning of its own.

The first Netz group circled north into the Galilee toward Nazareth to convince any plane spotters in Arab-inhabited Afula, near the airbase, that the planes were heading toward the Golan, Lebanon or for a regular jaunt up to Mt. Hermon and back to the base via the Jordan Valley. They had been performing this maneuver for the past five nights and a story had been planted in the news about a new class of graduating pilots. A ceremony had even been performed on Masada to make the ruse convincing.

The second group used Mt. Tabor, just behind the base, as a pylon - looping around and then west, over the ruins of Meggido and, at just a hundred feet over the terrain, swiftly shot over the Med where they joined in an arrow-shaped formation and headed toward the Saudi peninsula. Group one shot through the valley between Haifa and Acco, banked and executed a 90-degree left turn to fall in line 30 miles behind group one. The heading was 180, due south. Just 40 seconds and they would pass Gaza. A sharp left turn would take them over the Egyptian Negev and toward Eilat at the northern end of the Red Sea. There was a series of valleys that would hide the planes from Egyptian radar at Suez and Jordanian radar at El Qatrana.

The plan was for the first group to continue south to the Red Sea, then directly over it at an altitude of 20 meters, re-entering Saudi airspace parallel to Luxor, Egypt to the west. The Saudis were getting a phone call from an intelligence contact, but they had already promised to stand down as long as Israel claimed it had flown around the country, and not over it. The irony that a sworn enemy would give such permission when the United States would not had not been lost on the politicians and senior military staff.

The first Netz group will present themselves more boldly as they enter Saudi territory. When the second group rises a few minutes later to greet them, it is hoped the ballet will appear to Jordanian radar analysts like Saudi activity. Just in case, a jamming unit had been located in the Jordanian desert, towed into position by camels and a platoon of IDF infantry disguised as Bedouin nomads. It was to be fired-up intermittently so as not to look like jamming, but just bad electrical service, a very plausible cause of interference on the CRTs in remote El Qatrana, atop the Moabite mountains.

Seven Japanese-made Bell 212 heavy lift Huey helos had been stowed aboard seven specially equipped Israeli Hetz class missile frigates now stationed randomly in the Gulf, north of Hormuz. Each had been placed on its own launch platform and covered by a plywood radome. Spotters, it was thought, would not pick up on the missing platform and would assume the radomes were real. Spotters tend to look for the size, hull configuration, superstructure and armament - ignoring other features. They’re taught to be quick, not thorough.

Plywood covers had been disassembled and stowed below decks as of sunset and the souped-up helicopters were ready to fly. Within the gut of each was a single one-ton bunker-buster bomb, with the capability to burrow 4 meters into solid, reinforced concrete before unleashing a horrific blast designed to create a bowl-shaped pit. These Israeli Bunker Busters were half the size of the US-made GBU 28s that had decimated Saddam’s underground fortresses. But that was part of the plan.

Dropping a ton from a helicopter could create control problems for pilots, so Israeli aeronautical engineers and pilots had worked out a clever scheme. Bombs were mounted on a steel plate polished smooth. A similar plate was mounted to the floor of the helo and six compressed air lines were attached underneath the stationary plate. When a mere 30 pounds of pressure was applied, the one ton bomb rose gently about an eighth-inch and could be moved freely with just a fingertip. As the helo hovered over its target, the missile-shaped bomb would be rotated 90-degrees in the belly of the helo with its fins protruding from an open doorway added to the starboard side of the aircraft, and its nose with sensitive guidance system sticking out the port side.

But, as it slid away, it would lose its pressurized lift and could do real damage as it fell onto the open doorway of the Huey. It meant the pilots would have to execute an arcing dive, like a falling elevator, and a slip-and-dip to the right at just the right time. The levitating bomb would slide right out the open door, and its trailing edge would drop harmlessly into the night. The descent of the helicopter would compensate for much of the sudden weight loss and if all went well, flight would be maintained.

Pilots practiced the exercise for a month using increasingly heavy weights until dropping a one-ton dummy bomb from the open door was as easy as spitting off a bridge.

As the bomb cleared the doorway it would pop an umbilical cord, the steel plate and cradle would catch the wind and flutter away like a falling leaf, and a GPS computer chip would fly the bomb by making slight adjustments in aerodynamics over the 3300 meter drop, to take it to within a meter of its intended target.

Two gunners, a pilot and co-pilot manned each helo. Each had a full load of gas, and a full complement of suppressive weapons. It would only require one of the gunners to handle the bomb drop.

There were complex plans to eliminate any resistance before the helos arrived on target.

Chapter 1. Netanyahu's 3AM Call

The Marine did not look sheepish at all, though he was staring at the President of the United States and the First Lady, in their nightwear, in bed. It was his job to awaken the leader of the free world whenever a determination had been made that the president's brief sleep must be disturbed - and Captain Brian Daglish had performed that particular task twice already, though the new president had been inaugurated not even one year ago.

"Mr. President, Prime Minister Netanyahu is on the green 12 secure line, sir."

"Thank you, Brian." Obama's mental processes had an incredible zero-to-sixty. When he was instantly awakened, he was fully awake. Only occasionally did staff see fatigue take a toll on his words or judgments - and that was end-of-day, lack of sleep, burden of pressure stuff.

"Hit the light so Michele isn't bothered, I'm...I'm right behind you," said the president as he lifted his navy blue micro-fiber robe from the back of an overstuffed Queen Anne chair. The light quietly retreated into darkness as the door closed and the men walked between two Secret Service agents at their posts in the second floor residence hallway, turned toward the elevator and the short ride to the first floor West Wing office.

"Tell Annie I'll take it at the desk, Brian," ordered the Commander-In-Chief and he strode past the diminutive blonde civil servant sitting at the 24-line executive switchboard on third shift and hastened to his leather chair.

Already on the desk in front of him was the Daily Intelligence Briefing. Oddly, there was a document marked "JCS Supplemental DIB. POTUS. EYES ONLY. 14 Oct. 2009." He reached to open it as he waited for the signal indicating the call had been transferred. He had never received a Supplemental DIB before, much less from the Joint Chiefs. His right hand opened the cover as his left hand responded to the beep and flash of a single green light on the desk phone. As he lifted the phone to his ear he read the title of the document and a chill coursed down his spine like a shot glass of ice water had been poured down his back, "Israeli Land/Air Strike Against Iran Nuclear Facilities Imminent."

"Good Morning, Mr. Prime Minister. How are you Benjamin?" The greeting was warm, but Netanyahu's reply was cold, somber and perhaps rehearsed

"Good Morning, Mr. President. Let me answer your question this way. Thirty minutes ago the State of Israel commenced Operation Sword of David, Charev David. We will be flying over land presently occupied by your forces in fifteen minutes and our planes will appear on your radar in five minutes. Our military liasons have opened channels with their counterparts at the Pentagon as of the moment you answered my call..."

"Benjamin..." Obama interrupted.

"Excuse me, Mr. President, there's a bit more, allow me."

Silence.

"Mr. President," continued Netanyahu, "we struggled with how to conduct this operation and decided that we would not poison the area around the sites we are striking. It was an option we considered in order to make them unusable, since we did not believe we could drive our armaments deep enough to penetrate their structures. We will damage them significantly with conventional weapons."

My God, thought Obama. The crazy Israelis were going to nuke the Iranians. They're mad! This action is going to precipitate world war. Every Arab nation will be gunning for Israel and if we help, they'll be gunning for us, too.

Netanyahu continued methodically relaying his talking points, "It is late Thursday here. The strike will occur on their holy day, it will severely damage three holy cities and probably kill thousands of innocent civilians. That is because the Iranians have located these facilities precisely where these undesirable consequences would occur."

The president had heard enough. It was time to get tough. "Benjamin. You do not have my permission to fly over Iraq or any other territory in our control. Do you hear me?"

After a heartbeat, Netanyahu spoke, "Mr. President, for months I have been trying to get the International community to do something, anything, to slow down or stop that madman from pursuing nuclear weapons. I didn't expect most countries, or frankly any countries, to help. Except the United States. I expected the United States to help. I expected the United States to show the support, the backbone, the leadership that it has historically demonstrated in the face of people like Achmadinijad. I expected the United States to be a friend of Israel."

There was a knock at the door, it opened and Obama could see a terrified blonde secretary dutifully standing in the way of two towering General Officers who were anxiously looking for an audience. He motioned them away, to their surprise, and the door to the great office closed shut.

"Benjamin. You do not..."

"Mr. President, I did not call to get your permission. I did not think you would give me your permission. I have not seen or heard from you any of the precious hope you are peddling to the American people that I might cling to. I have not seen any concern for the State of Israel that I might put away somewhere, to withdraw in a time of danger and hold in my hand and say, Mr. Obama is on our side. Because, Mr. Obama, I do not know whose side you are on. Neither does my enemy, which may be fortunate or unfortunate. I only know that it is your inaction that has brought us to this moment."

"Mine? Bullshit! That's bullshit." Another knock at the door. Unanswered. Obama could see that nearly all of the lines on the phones were now blinking. Including a certain red one.

"Yours!" shouted Netanyahu, his voice as clear as if the call were on an extension from an adjacent office. "Yours because you asked for time. I only asked for help. You asked for patience. I only asked to save my people. When you said you wanted talks, they launched missiles. When you said you wanted the Security Council to get involved, they built twelve covert processing facilities. It was you! You gave them the time they needed to bring us to this. Everything you asked for helped our enemy. Nothing you asked for was ever designed to help Israel. Nothing!"

Obama didn't hesitate. This was his time. This was the moment of decision for him and he was going to prevent a war with whatever it might take. If it meant standing up to this little shit country militarily, so be it. Obama growled into the phone, "Now you listen to me. We will divert your planes and we will shoot them down if we have to. Do you hear me?"

The Israeli Prime Minister's next words were soft and clear and subdued so as to be unmistakable, "No you won't. The reason you won't is because I am in possession of a document. The document has your name on it. If I release the document, you will not be president by this time tomorrow. That is all I will elaborate - except to say, the American people do not know you as well as we do. We know how to do this so even your friends in the media will despise you. We have documents on them, too."

"I think you are bluffing or you'd tell me what it is. You're making this up. Not only that, I'm bound to do what I have to do without regard for my personal reputation. I cannot be blackmailed by you or anyone. I'm the President of the United States, Benjamin! You are not going to talk to me like this!"

"I have other calls to make, Mr. President. I'm sorry that it is going down this way. If you had finally, this time, tried at last to help me, I never would even have mentioned the document. But I didn't call to listen, I called to talk. Let me assure you, if there is any harassment of our aircraft I will ruin you. Utterly." And then there was a great silence on the phone, yet despite that, Obama held the handset to his ear as though he could will the conversation - or whatever it was - to continue.