Chapter 12. Dead Air

There was a problem.

The signal coming from the high-rise complex in Teheran had suddenly disappeared. The most likely reason was that the local FM station had gone off the air. The nano chips that were broadcasting the target’s location in response to being excited by the local FM carrier would not broadcast if that frequency suddenly shut down. With all the triple-A, the bombs, the missiles coming in, it was not surprising.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” shouted Alon. “I didn’t even know you guys were using my concept.”

“What can we do?” asked Jael.

“I have to think,” pleaded Alon. “Give me a minute.”

Avi and Danny just glanced at each other. Jael wanted to take Alon’s head, rest it on her chest and comfort him. But right now they were all soldiers and they were professionals.

“When did the signal stop?” asked Alon.

“About 3 minutes ago,” said Danny. “It stopped, started and then stopped again.”

“Is there any way we can tell if the grid is up in the vicinity of the tower?” asked Alon.

Danny scratched his head, “Wow. Let’s see. Maybe we could get a satellite to look. Thing is, it’s daylight. There won’t be much lighting in use anyway.”

Alon had a idea of what was wrong. “Let’s do it. Let’s see what we can see.”

“Mr. President, we’ve lost the signal from Teheran,” announced Morrell.

“No!” Obama sounded deeply disappointed. “Mike, what can we do?”

Admiral Mullen had anticipated that there could be problems - although losing the signal was way down the list. “Well, we could turn back. We could keep going and hope the signal returns before we get there. Or, we could continue on and attack the last point we saw him and hope he’s still there.”

“Fuck.” The President spat the word out.

“Mr. President, we have plenty of time to make up our minds. The Israelis are probably working on the problem right now. Plus, the Chinook isn’t going to enter Iranian airspace for a half hour and then it has about an hour flight to Teheran. It’s not going to get shot at, so let’s be patient. That’s my recommendation.” concluded Admiral Mullen.

“Any other ideas?” Obama polled the group.

“I say, pull ‘em back.” declared Vice President Biden. “For Chrissake, you’ve got enough on your plate. My God, when you get in front of the cameras today they’re going to be all over your ass with all kinds of questions. This is going to complicate things so much more. Just let it go.”

“Hillary?” asked the President,”What’s the diplomatic point of view?”

“Joe’s probably right about this. It gets very complicated,” He didn’t show it, but Clinton’s acquiescence clenched Obama’s decision. The remaining opinions were gathered for show.

“Jim?” The National Security Advisor was a bit more circumspect.

“Mr. President, I’ve wanted to nail that bastard every day, ever since my first day of service in the White House. It’s the bullseye as far as I’m concerned and I think the American people would feel the same way.”

“Anyone else?” No one volunteered.

“Keep ‘em going,” ordered the President.

Ben-Tzvi and Peled were studying satellite feed of high resolution live images of Teheran and the Borj-e Milad, the Milad tower, the tallest structure in Iran and the location of the radio transmitter that should be pumping out a signal at 99.9 megaHertz and was not.

“Danny, I have some archival images from the same time yesterday and the lights aren’t glowing on the electric signs in the area,” said Avi. Peled had noticed something himself.

“Traffic lights are not working, Avi. The grid is down, the transmitter’s off the air because there’s no power.” reasoned Peled.

“Don’t they have a backup generator?”

“Probably. But there’s not much we can do about it.”

“Anybody speak Farsi?” asked Jael.

All three shook their heads. “What’re you thinking? asked Ben-Tzvi.

“Well, there’s gotta’ be someone in the station, probably a very junior person. I mean if you have any authority you have a key to the local shelter. I think we could talk someone through troubleshooting the problem if we could get someone.”

“I’ll make some calls,” said Peled.

Uri Oren was just north of Kuwait when his radio squawked.

A voice spoke in Arabic, “Sabaah al-khayr, Yusef.” It was the traditional morning greeting, ‘The sun is rising.’

“Sabaah al-nuur,” replied Oren as Shirani. ‘The sun is risen.’

The speaker’s voice was familiar, he was a friend from Mossad. But Uri was on the way home. Why the need for cover now?

The Arabic continued, “I want you to know that your paperwork is not correct on the Karachi shipment and the accounting office wants you to contact them.”

The code had been passed so Oren played up his response, “I provided the paperwork to them and they could have said something when I delivered it. I am tired of their complaints. They lose all my paperwork and then they blame me. I will contact them, but then I will speak personally to the manager in Karachi upon my return, inshallah.”

“You do what you must, Yusef. I am just a messenger.”

And Oren terminated the conversation. He climbed out of his captain’s chair and walked back to a bulkhead where a clipboard hung carrying a sheaf of paper that looked like a collection of bills of lading. Oren leafed through them and found the Karachi delivery. On the surface, in the upper left corner, was a sort of bar code, a mottled black and white splotch. Oren took out his cell phone and shot a photo of the blotch. He opened an application on his phone called “QR Quick” and in a heartbeat the application converted the unintelligible blotch into a 6 digit number punctuated by a decimal point. It was a radio frequency. Oren returned to his seat, reached toward the center panel on the massive Airbus and dialed the six numbers on his radio transmitter.

He then threw a switch on the panel that was unlabeled. It put a digital converter online that encrypted Uri’s transmission and decrypted the incoming signal.

“This is Oren.”

“Uri, we need a Farsi speaker who can take charge of a situation in Teheran. There’s a radio station off the air and we need it back on the air fast. I’ll patch you through to the project team leader Danny Peled and he can explain.”

“Peled? I know him.”

“This is Peled.”

“Danny, this is Uri Oren. How are you?”

“I’m good Uri. I thought of you when it was proposed we get a Farsi speaker. You’re the best.”

“Good enough, I hope. What do you need?”

“Uri, we need to get the Teheran FM station at a frequency of 99.9 back on the air. We need you to call the station, Irib Payam, and get anyone there to work with you to get them transmitting.”

“Understood.”

“We can patch you in.”

“Who is there, who am I asking for?”

“We don’t know but we’re guessing that management has fled. The station’s in Milad Tower and I’m sure they would think they’re very vulnerable there.”

“True.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, we can ring it now.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

There were some strange electronic sounds coming through Oren’s noise-canceling headphones, not surprisingly, as the connection was made between the Airbus over Kuwait, to Jerusalem to Teheran and back to the Airbus.

The sound of two tones, then a pause, two tones, then a pause, then suddenly there was an answer.

“Salaam!” called out an excited voice.

“I must speak to a manager,” ordered Oren.

“There is no manager here. Who is this, please?”

“I am Mohmmad Soleimani,” said Oren with a heavy dose of hubris and dismissiveness, “I am the Minister of Information and Communications and I want to know why you are not on the air? It is the duty of any employee of the Ministry to maintain communications. That is in the directive that has been sent to every State facility and a directive you have signed. Do you remember making that commitment?”

“Yes, of course.” The poor man had never been asked to sign anything but he wasn’t about to get his bosses in trouble.

“What is your name and what is your position?” demanded Oren.

“I am Amin Mahmudi, I am a technical assistant.”

“I see,” said Oren as though he was unsure. “Yes, you are here on the loyalty list. I can call upon you to help the Islamic Republic?”

“Yes. Whatever I can do,” pleaded Mahmudi.

“The you must get the station back on the air immediately.”

“There is no electricity to the building.”

“But there is an emergency generator, Mahmudi. May I call you Amin?” asked Oren in an attempt to ingratiate himself.

“But of course. Minister Soleimani. I do not know of a generator, however.”

“It is probably in the basement, Amin. You must get to the basement and search for it.”

“Very well. I will set the phone down...”

“No wait. You must not do that. Do you have a mobile, Amin?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Is it working?”

“Let me see.” There was a brief lull in the conversation as Amin reached into his pocket and flipped open his Nokia phone. “Yes, It has a strong signal.”

“Do you have a good charge in the battery?”

“Yes, it is good.”

“Then give me your number and we will hang up and I will call you back immediately.”

“It is 3 zero 4 zero 6, 6, 4, 7, 3.”

The line was disconnected in Jerusalem, as the new number was punched in, Peled spoke to let Oren know they were with him.

“Dialing, Uri - stand by.”

“Salaam, Minister.”

“Salaam, Amin. Are you on your way?”

“Yes, I am just to the lobby. The steps are behind the main desk right beside the elevators.”

“I can picture where you are, of course.”

“I am entering the stairway.”

“Stop. Right where you are. Do not allow a door to close.”

“Oh, ahh, I am sorry, Minister. I fell trying to catch the door. I am in the doorway.”

“Can you move?”

“Yes, but I have cut my ankle.”

“Do you have a jacket. Your wallet. Do you have a wallet?”

“A wallet? Yes.”

“Use it to block the door. You must be certain that the doors do not close and lock behind you.”

“I see, yes. I would not be able to get back to my post.”

“That’s right.”

“It is very dark, Minister. I am afraid I can’t see anything.”

“Of course. There is no power, it would be dark.” Oren was disheartened for the first time since the conversation began. But, he was a very resourceful man, it made him a perfect candidate for the Mossad. He simply had to draw upon those resources.

“Is there anyone else in the Tower?”

“Yes, there is my sister and there was woman in the lobby as I ran through.”

“You must go see if she has a mobile. And if you see anyone else get them, too. Go!”

Chapter 11. The Ruse

“Mr. President?” Major General Bill Holland was at a remote site and calling through a speaker phone in the White House situation room.

“Yes, General?” replied the Commander in Chief.

“I have a damage assessment from satellite recon over Israel, and it’s surprising.”

“How bad is it?” The President steadied himself for the worst.

“There’s no damage, sir.”

“No damage?” Obama repeated.

“Sir, all the missiles, ahh, all the missiles...missed.”

Panetta spoke up, “Sir, I can confirm that. We have assets in Jerusalem and Haifa, Jaffa and Be’er Sheva and they all report missiles flew overhead but none scored.”

“How the heck did they manage that?” asked Jim Jones, Obama’s National Security Advisor. “We need to get some of that.”

Admiral Mullen leaned back in his high-back leather chair and studied a folding map he held in his hands.

“Leon, maybe you know the answer to this. Is there a way to change the signals being sent by GPS satellites and make an object believe it is in a certain place on earth, when it is really about 50 miles west?” Mullen was amused by the prospect.

“Admiral, as I understand it - and I can tell you we have looked into it - there are a couple signals sent by GPS satellites that could be tampered with. One is a timing signal. If you know where satellite A is located and you know the speed of light, you can tell how far away you are by comparing what time the signal was sent to what time you received it. Time signals are important because if there’s even a slight error the huge numbers in the speed of light would throw a position way off. These satellites are so precise they use the time signal to synchronize the world’s cell phone base stations. Everytime you turn on your phone, it goes to a tower somewhere to announce itself and synchronize the time.

"But another is the location signal. The point in space where the satellite is orbiting. If you could hack into the right three or four satellites, or more, you could very precisely warp the apparent dimensions on earth.” Panetta looked to Mullen to see if he had understood.

“Cell phone technology is involved?” asked Mullen.

“Sure,” replied Panetta.

“The Scailex calling card, Leon. I think they were letting us know how they planned to beat the Iranians. I think they told those missiles they needed to travel an extra 40, 50 miles and they ended up falling harmlessly into the sea.”

Panetta grinned because his insistence that the Israeli covert and military prowess was second-to-none had been attacked earlier, and it was slowly being revealed that he was correct in his assessment. “I can’t imagine another explanation,” he said, “except having someone deliberately screw up the guidance systems or the target locations - but this was failure on too grand a scale to be an inside job.”

“How long were they into our site?” asked Mullen.

“Ahh. I have that in this notebook,” Panetta shuffled a stack of looseleaf binders in front of him. He found a navy blue one-inch binder, checked the spine for its title, and flipped it open. He found a certain tab and began tracing a finger down the page.

“It was 3 point 4 seconds. Do you think that means something?” he asked.

“I don’t know. 3 point 4?” Mullen scratched it onto a pad in front of him. What if we multiply 3 times 4.”

Panetta agrees, trying to follow, “Okay.”

“What’s the distance of one second of arc on the surface of the earth.”

“It’s about three point five miles, Mike.” General Holland chimed in.

“Three point five times 12 is......?” asked Mullen.

“42,” answered the President.

“How wide is Israel at its widest point, Leon?” asked Mullen.

“Christ, Mike, gimme a break,” pleaded Panetta.

“I thought you were in charge of intelligence,” joked Mrs. Clinton. There were a few chuckles. The Major spoke up.

“It’s about 40 miles, sirs. Maybe 45 at the widest point. ”

"That's no coincidence, Leon," Mullen stated emphatically, "That's a message."

Jael and Alon were wrapped in each others’ arms and lying on a sofa in the apartment barracks. The scratchy old army blanket was keeping them warm and hiding them from the peering eyes of the multiple survelleilance cameras in the room. They were hoping their compatriots had the discretion to look away. It wasn’t likely given the unnatural levels of curiosity flowing in all their veins. The precautions were a good idea.

“This could get serious, I think,” whispered Jael.

“I hope so. I don’t feel like I did such a good job for our first time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she insisted, “You were wonderful.”

“Still, I think I could do with some practice.”

It was good. He was a tall and a big-boned boy-man who was being very naturally gentle and playful, and that was just exactly what Jael needed. She suddenly sat bolt upright, the blanket falling off her shoulder and to her waist.

“Alon, have you ever heard me speak of Eliezar Weisz?” Her voice was a bit unsteady, enough that Alon could hear it waver.

“No.”

“I may need to do that. He was my fiance...” she swallowed hard, “and two years ago he was murdered by a Palestinian bomber.”

“Oh, Jael. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” She slid back down and closer to Alon. He reached over to her face and she placed his hand on her breast. “I’m dealing with it.”

“But I am not your therapy, am I?” asked Alon.

“You are the best medicine, my little rooster. But I will not toss you away, don’t worry. It was a long time ago. But this is our time.”

There was a long pause. Finally Alon spoke.

“Little?” he asked as their pagers began blinking and scuttling across the coffee table beside them.

Admiral Mullen hung up his phone and turned to Obama. “I have ordered two F-22 Raptors readied to go into Iran at your call, Mr. President and Admiral Eric Olsen, Commander Socom, is online from MacDill to propose a solution. Admiral?”

“General, Mr. President.” Olsen, the Commander of US Special Forces was on screen in hi-def 1080p. MacDill had the best technology in the US military. They had so many 60-inch screens installed in Tampa and the Green Zone for the Iraq war, that for six months after the installation was completed not even Best Buy had any in stock.

“Admiral, I’m eager to hear your plans,” said Obama.

“Then, I’ll get right to it. Thank you. We are looking to send three aircraft to a site the Israelis have identified for us. You should be seeing a satellite image of Teheran on your monitor. And you will see Azadi Stadium captioned. The apartment complex identified is a circular array of six 20-story buildings around an interior plaza about a quarter mile west of Azadi. The target is in a small two-story building in this interior plaza. No doubt, the target’s personal guards are using the surrounding towers as lookouts. It’s a pretty secure location for him. Also, there are gardens in the plaza with tall hedgerows. He’s able to come and go to or from the perimeter with pretty good cover.

“We have determined that the target IS a real human, not an animation, a car or a pet, for example. We overlayed the Israeli signal on our own information and we have synched to all our command and control systems.

“Our plan is to send three aircraft. First will be a CH-47 C Chinook Helicopter. It’s being painted as we speak with Iranian ID and the well-known three-triangle yellow symbol for nuclear radiation. The Iranians have two Chinooks and they’re occasionally seen flying around Teheran, so it’s not going to raise a red flag. That Chinook is going to come in with a crew of two and six native Farsi speaking Special Ops. The Chinook will laze the location of the target from its maximum distance to direct the bombs, and it will capture video of the strike. One Raptor will deliver four GBU-39 Small Diameter bombs - these are 250 pounders - the second will carry two more 39s and a BLU-95, that’s a fuel-air bomb.

“We don’t know which floor in the building the target might be so we’ll have to bring it down and crush them. Could be the basement. That’s the job of the GBU-39s. The BLU-95 will create a huge fireball and concussion - followed by a mushroom cloud. It’s a 500 pound bomb so it could take one of the six towers with it. We’re creating a ruse, hoping it looks like a tactical nuke, because when the Chinook comes in, about four minutes after the strike, the Special Ops platoon will be dressed in Iranian-flagged radiation protection and waving off any Revolutionary Guards or onlookers.

“Their job will be to check for and photograph casualties, get DNA and get the hell out.

“That’s the plan. Any questions?”

Hillary Clinton raised her hand and began speaking, “Admiral Olsen, what if they don’t believe its a nuclear blast?”

“Madame Secretary, good question. The Iranians are scared to death of the nuclear activity taking place in their midst. We only have to be concerned about the Revolutionary guards who’ve been given radiological badges and Geiger counters. Some have. So, we’ve brought a box of powder with us that we’re going to release upon descent. The prop wash should spread it around pretty good and it’ll scare the bejeesus out of anyone with a badge or a Geiger counter. The half life is short, though and it won’t hurt anyone or leave a trail.”

“What if the sonofabitch gets away?” asked Emanuel.

“Then we were never there,” answered the Admiral.

The President spoke up. “Are we all good, people?”

A couple people, the military in particular, looked quizzical. It was strange to see such an important mission the subject of a committee vote at the Command level. Damn, sometimes you just have to make a decision. Get off the pot. Fish or cut bait. True leadership was a rare trait and when it was absent, it raised all kinds of alarms in the minds of warriors. It’s absence was a very, very dangerous thing to a country, and to anyone who reported to that Commander. Unfortunately, in this case, everyone did.

Fifteen minutes later a giant Chinook helicopter cleared the sand from a city block of tarmac beneath it as its rotors pulled it skyward and toward the capital of an outpost in the Evil Empire.

Chapter 10. Trust but verify

Rahm Emmanuel sent the President a text message while sitting six feet away from him in the White House Situation Room. It read “Let’s talk.”

The President slipped his iPhone back in his pocket. People were used to seeing him fiddle with it, having recently switched from his very well-known Blackberry at the insistence of NSA. He interrupted the free-for-all discussion that was in play, “People. I have to take a break, Rahm can you walk with me for a moment.”

The two exited the confines of the of the conference room.

“What’s up?” asked the President.

“Not sure, but I think I like it. This Bin Laden grab has ‘Second Term’ written all over it. It shuts up those bastards who were whining about the Nobel Prize and it would boost the economy by spiking confidence - and probably the market - without having to change a thing legislatively.”

“So, we’re doing it.”

“Yeah, but no one’s looked at the downside. We always do that. You and I just need to take a second and do that.”

“Rahm, Hillary heard the whole thing. If I don’t go after Bin Laden now, she’ll leak it. She’ll leak it to the Brits or something and it’ll come back through channels, but she will leak it and you know it,” suggested Obama.

“I know. But you could - if you had to - create a compelling reason why you reversed course. I mean, you could claim he was hiding in a kindergarten or some such shit,” countered Emmanuel.

“Look, this is a good thing. Downside is we lose a plane, bomb a kindergarten, get accused of helping the Israelis. What else?”

“You think Fox News would give a flying fuck about a kindergarten full of Iranian kids? The story would be about you and your failure to attack Bin Laden.” challenged the Chief of Staff, with a flourish of his usual colorful style.

“Rahm, I don’t know what alarms are going off for you but all those possibilities are already real. Bombing Bin Laden changes nothing but the upside.”

“You trust Netanyahu?”

Obama looked down. He didn’t want Emmanuel to read anything in his eyes.

“No, I don’t. But Ehud Barak set this up, not Natanyahu. I think Ehud convinced Netanyahu to allow it.”

“Why?”

“Beats me.” The President shrugged as he replied.

“Maybe he feels like he owes you something?” Emmanuel was pressing to see if there was something that he wasn’t aware of, something that needed to be considered in the mix of political, economic, and military variables that seemed to inevitably intersect when decisions were made at this level.

“I can’t tell you Rahm. Not this time. It’s better if I don’t. Now, I’ve gotta get back in there.” Even if he hadn’t been forthcoming, the President did feel good to have been honest with his right-hand man.

“There’s always a downside Barack, what’s the downside?”

“I don’t know,” said the President. They were words he seldom uttered.”

Ballistic missiles are a lot like stones. They accelerate to their apogee and fall back to earth according to their aerodynamics and their inertia. After, their fuel is consumed, ballistic missiles are just like rocks thrown at the enemy.

The inertial guidance system of the Iranian long-range missiles were programmed to tug their noses down to force an impact with a pre-determined point on earth. Before their fuel had been exhausted, the hackers had stretched that flight path out by changing the algorithm used to project the grid from several satellites over the earth, and the missiles were allowed to fly well out into the Meditteranean. Like a Mercator projection, the distortion was most evident at the extremes and it was unlikely it was noticed by the Americans, Iraqis or Iranians. No civilians would have been affected.

In the cold October dawn, Avi, Jael and Alon looked into the Eastern sky, expecting to see flaming telephone pole-sized projectiles zipping past. But the missiles had long since consumed all of their fuel. A few were indeed visible framed against the indigo sky as the rising sun reflected off their sand-colored skin. Some still had a trail of smoke or vapor tailing them. But the sheer numbers were better appreciated by the sonic booms. Each missile created a double boom as it passed overhead at a speed greater than the speed of sound, and the ground around Jerusalem reverberated with the concussion of dozens of aerial explosions.

“Alon, you’ll be needed in a few moments if the Americans decide to strike. Don’t get lost,” cautioned Avi.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” promised Jael.

“Yeah, right,” replied Avi as he left the deck and headed for the elevator.

Alon had been standing near the railing with his arm around Jael as the three were watching for the missiles, so it was easy for him to curl his arm around and turn her toward himself.

“Did you make a wish?” she asked, as though the two had been watching falling stars.

“I suppose you could say that,” whispered Alon.

“Then why don’t we go back inside so I can make your dreams come true?” asked Jael with a sly smile.”

Alon did not argue. He raised his left hand and swept a cascade of blonde hair from her right cheek and sent it streaming over her ear and onto her shoulder. As he leaned forward to kiss her, his hand traced the strong lines of her face. His fingertips followed her neckline, tracing a gently curving and descending path to her open blouse.

There his hand met hers,

Jael slipped two more buttons through their mated buttonholes and lowered her arms. Alon accepted her invitation.

It had been almost two years since Jael had kissed a man with abandon the way she was kissing Alon. She was particular, yes, but also she had desperately needed to heal. Jael thought of it as needing time to forget, but after 18 months she finally began to realize that she was never going to forget Eli - and, in fact, she didn’t want to forget. Such a Jewish thing, to have so much you wish you could forget, yet such a strong desire to remember it all, to celebrate it, to enshrine it, study it, defend it and maybe someday understand it.

But this feeling for Alon was simpler than that. This was a palpable tug at her heart that Jael felt from the first time she saw Alon. She had first regarded him as a sort of stuffed animal - cute and cuddly, but not handsome. He was innocent-looking, like he would be receptive to some good old-fashioned nurturing and affection. He could take her teasing without complaining, and he’d responded with growing fervor to her flirting. That was good, because it meant to her that he was making an emotional investment. That was important to her, because she didn’t want just a lover. She was ready to fall in love again and rebuild that part of her life - the part that had been destroyed by an 18 year old Palestinian girl, Hiba Jaradat, a girl who had never met Eli, who had never seen his brown eyes flash in the candlelight. A girl whose desperate need to be appreciated in a culture that offers women little in the way of a future, and nothing in the way of romance had played a large part in Hiba’s willingness to wear the bomb. She may have been told that the 72 houri-el-ein would be awaiting her at the gates of heaven to cleanse her of her sins and provide to her every pleasure of mankind that Allah has provided - that was the usual line. Or, she may have been told that if she refused, she would be raped and sold into sexual slavery. These were the methods that the terrorist cowards used to enlist children to do their evil bidding. In essence, her handlers used her innocence to destroy her and to shock Israel into believing that this war of terror against them would never end.

So, one June night at a club in Natanya, while Jael stood on the beach making a cell phone call to her parents in East Talpiot, Hiba walked into the club carrying an armful of roses, pretending to offer them to the gentlemen who might buy them for their lady friends. Eli, who had been sitting at a table near the edge of the dance floor saw her and got up to buy a flower, no doubt for Jael.

The surveilance tapes show Eli walking up about eight feet behind her as she drops the bundle of flowers. Hiba kneels, as though to pick them up, but instead, she reaches into her left sleeve and the video ends.

Magan David Adom arrived within three minutes to treat the wounded and transport them to hospital. In that three minutes Jael was unable to find Eli and believed he had escaped. But ZAKA found him. ZAKA is a group of deeply religious volunteers who will scour a suicide bombing scene to recover every piece of flesh, fragment of bone, tuft of hair or human organ, catalog it, identify its owner, and provide it for the traditional rapid interment. Eli’s body had been shredded, returned to his family in a sealed metal cask, inside of a plain oak casket emblazoned by a Menorah and a beautifully carved Shin. Jael never even got to say goodbye.

In the apartment building, their barracks, the couple were in nearly absolute darkness. Jael knew that there were cameras all over the flat, but even with IR chips she knew they couldn’t see through a blanket. She ran to her bunk, removing her blouse as she felt her way through the darkness, returning to Alon and shrouding him with the scratchy, thin, IDF-issue bedcover. He was sitting on a kitchen chair, fighting to remove his boots.

“Alon. Leave the boots. You may need to run if we get paged. Let me help. I want to take your trousers off of you.” She giggled as she heard herself say the words.

“You do?” Alon asked, “We are so alike. I have been wanting to help you do the same.”

Jael stooped, lifted the edge of the blanket and crawled under on her hands and knees.

Alon reached forward and felt her lovely blonde hair in his hands. “I can’t kiss you if you’re down there,” he said with a half-hearted attempt to raise her shoulders

“Ah, but I can,” she said. Alon just crossed his legs behind her and caressed her head in his hands. After a moment she stood. Alon reached out for her belt and in a second she had freed a leg from its confinement.

She moved closer.

“Alon?” She needed to ask him something, anything that would assure her that this would be real, not merely physical, but maybe the beginning of forever.

“Yes, my love?” he whispered.

“Is there anyone else in your life?”

“No,” he said without hesitation, kissing her stomach and exploring her warm and moist body with a gentle touch. “And I hope that is the last time I ever say ‘no’ to you, Jael.”

She reached down and steadied him as she rested on his lap, content and happy, truly happy for the first time in so long. She moved her feet to rest on her toes and she began to sway and rock and move her head front to back, left and right. Alon showered her with kisses, his mouth found every ready nerve, her neck, under her chin, he could feel with his lips her heart pounding between her breasts. She rose and fell as it suited her and she lost herself in the heat and the sensations momentarily trapped under the army blanket and forever in their memories.

The war could bring long periods of loneliness. It could bring death. Jael was going to make sure that there were no wasted moments. Life was to be lived and, while it was still crazy, it was beginning to make sense again.

The Hueys had delayed over their targets after dropping their baby Bunker Busters. Even at about 2 miles altitude, the circling chopper crews could see quite a bit of detail. There was no visible indication of impact, but momentarily a towering explosion followed. After that, there was nothing, nothing to see from above the blast. After fifteen minutes, several dozen Revolutionary Guards poured from their emplacements and began clearing debris, searching for survivors, gloating that only the first few subterranean stories had been compromised. It was equivalent to a victory.

“Mr. President, we’re getting satellite recon from Qom and several other sites. Analysts say the strike was a failure. Direct hits. Looks like a one-ton bunker buster. They were delivered by the Hueys and they failed to penetrate. Maybe damage to fifty feet.”

“How deep are those facilities, do we know?”

“No, sir. We have speculated on the basis of the truckloads of debris that the volume removed from the sites could represent 200 to 300 foot-deep facilities.”

“Crap! They just swatted at a fucking wasp and did nothing but piss it off!” interjected the President’s Chief of Staff.

“Yeah, it’s not good,” agreed Obama. “Leon, I thought you said they were the best in the world.”

“I did,” said Panetta humbly.

“Admiral Mullen,” Obama leaned on the conference table with both hands and looked his Chairman Joint Chiefs in the face. “I’m canceling the mission to...”

“Shit, sir!” exclaimed Morrell. “Oh shit!”

“Talk to us,” ordered the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

“There’s been a secondary explosion at Qom, sir. I don’t know. It’s blown the side of the fucking hill off.”

“Put it up, Major.” ordered the President. With two fast flicks of his fingers, the officer manipulating images and data sent the live images, streaming from a high-resolution satellite feed, to the 60-inch display.

“Sirs, that’s where Qom used to be. Here, Major, please insert the image we took just 30 minutes ago. Hang on. Hang on. There, see? The semi-circle is where the mountain was carved away and the facility was directly beneath.”

“Mike?” General Holland was calling through the speaker phone.

“Bill?” Holland replied.

“Mike, it was brilliant. They engineered a one-two punch, and I mean engineered it. There’s so much debris in those holes now if anyone WAS left alive underneath it’ll take months to dig them out. They’re not gonna’ bother. Damn brilliant. Brilliant! I’d say the Iranian nuclear program is dead AND buried.”

"Where'd it come from?" asked Admiral Mullen.

"No one knows, sir. Spooky as hell." added Morrell.

“They’re the best in the world.” said Leon Panetta with a smile.

Chapter 9. The Levant

The great arcing curve of the eastern shore of the Mediterranean is known as the Levant. The word Lebanon is a derivative. A student of romance languages might conclude the meaning if they recognize the verb, “to rise” within the word.

The Levant had a mystical connotation for the Sea Peoples who first ventured from Sicily, Sardinia and the Greek islands to explore and eventually populate the Levant. They were the antecedents of the Philistines, drawn to the area now sometimes called Palestine by the promise of the rising of the sun, and the implacable human need to explore and conquer.

They discovered that other tribes living beyond the Levant had the same reverence for the East. It was there that the Sun began its daily march across the sky, the Sun that gave life to the Earth and punished the desert. This sort of dual personality exhibited by gods of the time when evidenced in a heavenly body easily explains how simpler people could attribute god-like status to a burning ball of hydrogen gas. Ra, the Egyptian sun god, depicted as a golden orb, is a prime example.

The Sumerians, an ancient people who once built a flourishing nation where northern Iraq is located today, called the East, ‘Asa’ and the West, ‘Osa’. Asa, the word, grew to embody a dual meaning, both the compass direction, and the land it represented, Asia.

Today, war in the East arose with the Sun. Israel’s helicopters and fighter jets made great loops around their targets to approach them so that the sun would be in the eyes of their defenders. Even though most defensive weapons were computer controlled, men still feared their attackers and wanted to be able to see them coming. With the sun in their eyes, defenders were always handicapped.

“I don’t get it.” confessed Admiral Mullen.

“You mean how pointless it is?” asked general Holland from the speakerphone.

“Exactly.”

“What am I missing?” asked the President.

“After all this is said and done. We’ve got a war, but no resolution. None of these weapons even approach taking out Iran’s hardened nuclear facilities. Plus, Israel’s about to be obliterated.” commented Holland.

“Maybe, I know this sounds crazy, but maybe Israel thinks they can take the punch and run Iran out of candles.” suggested Mullen.

“The Iranians are gonna’ take out Tel Aviv, probably leave Jerusalem alone, but Tel Aviv and Haifa, Joppa, Netanya, they’re toast.”

“How long have they got?”

“Missiles are just about to start crossing Jordan, sir, that’s 150 miles to Haifa and Tel Aviv...at Mach 1? say 10 to 15 minutes.”

“Sir, Ehud Barak on Secure green 6.” called the Major.

Obama punched a button on his phone and picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Barak. I’m surprised to hear from you at this moment.”

“Communicating in a while may be problematic. So, it must be now. Bibi wants to speak with you, but he is on the line with Alon Pinkus. Should be soon. I have an urgent matter he has asked me to convey.”

“Please.”

“We have a highly placed operative in Muqtada al-Sadr’s entourage. This has taken us a matter of many years of diligence and patience. Al-Sadr has been in the company of Hassan Nazrallah, the Hizbollah leader, ever since he fled Iraq. We have followed many munitions from Iran to Iraq and even on to Israel that flowed into our midst because of their collaboration. This has brought extreme violence and tragic consequences to both our countries.”

“I am aware of much of that, Mr. Barak.”

“Three days ago a man joined them for a meeting. One just one occasion he has been referred to as “The Sheik.”

“Bin Laden?”

“He has been called “The Sheik.” We have a description of a tall, thin Yemeni with a leg injury. I believe we know who it is. We suspect he traveled into Iran from a southern route. Maybe by ship. Eveyone had been looking for him in the mountains, in Tora Bora or in the caves. He’s not there. The target is in Teheran at this very moment..”

“Are you going to attack. Can you get him?”

“Oh, yes, we are certain we can. He is in a residential area. I expect they are all together.”

“But you are not going to attack?”

“Probably not...for two reasons. First, we have a special covert relationship with the Saudis and the Jordanians, the Egyptians, also. That would be severely damaged and we cannot risk it - especially at this time. Second, he is just another bad guy to us. But he is an almost mythical enemy to you. Bibi and I believe there is a lot more value in your being the one to bring him to justice than if we should be the ones to do it.”

“I see.” Obama also realized it would make all the efforts of his administration look feckless if Bin Laden was finally brought down by little Israel.

“Of course, please understand, I can not reveal how we have targeted him, but I can tell you that we have a signal and it is coming from his person. I can send you an image of the signal and its GPS coordinates by a secure data link. You can do with it what you wish. I can also promise you that our aircraft will not molest yours and that you will have little or no resistance between the Green Zone and Teheran. In just a few minutes, we will have completed taking apart their air power.

Now, Mr. President, my Prime Minister wishes to speak with you and I must attend to other urgent matters.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barak.” said the President, but Ehud Barak had already handed the telephone to Benjamin Netanyahu.

“Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Mr. President.”

“What can I do for you?” asked Obama with great compassion in his voice.

“Barack, I want to thank you for your forbearance. Thank you for allowing us to defend our homeland against this genocidal maniac and his regime.”

“You’re welcome, Benjamin. It was the right thing to do.”

“I agree, and very smart. I’m sure you will understand that I will not be available for the next several hours, Mr. President. Please contact Ambassador Pinkus, personally or through your representative, as you choose. You will be my first call upon my return, I promise.”

“Very good.”

And with that, Netanyahu was gone. Obama had wanted to discuss the matter of Ahmadinijad with Netanyahu directly, but now that would not be possible. He placed the handset in its cradle and asked for the group’s close attention.

“It appears the Israelis have handed us UBL, if we want him.”

“Let’s get the bastard,” roared Biden.

“Are they holding him?” asked Mrs. Clinton.

A momentary chaos erupted in the room. There were lots of questions, stunned disbelief, joy, and years of pent-up anger being released in one moment.

“Whoa, whoa..Here’s the story,” pleaded the President. They have an operative in the midst of the Hizbollah-Mahdi Army cabal and he claims Osama has just joined them. There’s a device that’s somehow on him and transmitting. Can they do that, Leon?”

They’re the best in the world, if they said they did it, they probably did”

“So, if we want him. We have to bomb him.”

“Mr. President,” interrupted Biden, “You need to be the one that gets Bin Laden. The joy that would bring to America! Now the political implications can’t be denied, and think of the demoralizing effect that success would place on our enemies. There’s no downside.”

“Can we do it, General Holland?”

“Sure, especially now. There’s not much resistance left.”

“Mrs. Clinton, the heat will be on you.”

Hillary was watching her presidential candidacy become an asterisk on a Wikipedia entry. She just smiled broadly. It brought a big smile to every face in the room.

“Alright then,” acknowledged the President. CENTCOM or the Pentagon should be getting a feed from Israel with a signal and coordinates. That’s our target.”

Admiral Mullen spoke up, ‘Can we verify?”

Obama shook his head. “They’re gone into bunkers or wherever,” said Obama. “Leon, what can you do for us?”

“Whew! We have zero assets that close up,” said Panetta. You have to believe they’ve got a bead on him. They’re the best in the world,” he repeated.

“Okay.” said Obama. He finally felt like he had accomplished something, like a decision had been made that was Presidential. Even the Nobel committee would have to conclude that the death of a terrorist brought the world closer to a peaceful state. There had been too much criticism of Obama as an undeserving warmaker in the days following the Peace Prize announcement. It was a lot more pressure on him than he had expected.

Admiral Mullen spoke up, “I want to overlay our own hi-res satellite imagery on those coordinates and see if we’ve got human movement - room to room, building to building. I want to make sure we’re not tracking a camel.”

“Go for it.” said Obama. He was feeling pretty good about how this day would dawn in Washington.

In Tel Aviv, word was reaching command centers that the Hueys were at 10,000 feet over their targets and all eight bunker busters were being dropped on a single command. That would add to the fog of war because when damage reports were being conveyed, people would think it impossible that all facilities were damaged and believe that reports were erroneous.

Fighters had been recalled and were releasing any remaining armament on secondary targets. They needed to fly back without any extra weight, too much fuel had been spent and their credit cards were only good in Israel. One limping aircraft did get permission to land in Bagdad, although he was first refused by an Iraqi controller who was only overridden when he buzzed the tower twice and caught the attention of a US Lieutenant General.

Uri Oren received a page and picked up the phone. In his best Farsi he told the tower he was getting out of there, that he was ordered out. Oren was told that the military had shut down the airport but there were no obstacles on the runway. “Then I am leaving now,” he said and hung up the phone. Oren understood the current state of chaos, the low probability he would create a problem for the military and the general loose control the Iranians had over commercial air traffic. If he went away, it would be one less variable for everyone to think about. The second aircraft had already arrived and would pull the same stunt within a few minutes, just before the first giant bunker buster hit the ground.

With the perfectly choreographed help of his ground crew, Oren got the massive aircraft backed up and the jets started whining. Two crew members jumped aboard through the open bomb bay and immediately operated it and sealed it up. Three crew remained. The fuel load was about half capacity.

Oren had reviewed the route when in Amman the night of the bomb bay installation and had decided he would fly a loose S-shape which would cover all his targets. The S-shape would make it appear that he was always flying away from the next target until he was close enough to make the turn and drop. The last turn of the S sent him westward, toward home, toward Israel.

Off the end of the runway, the Giant Airbus climbed steep and slow. Uri could begin to see columns of smoke rising from innumerable locations beyond the airport district. He maintained his climb and requested 35,000 feet from air traffic control. There was no reply. Smoke around the airport had created a thick fog of low level haze to about 1500 feet, but as the blunt nose of the Airbus escaped the haze, the shock of the bright morning light filling the cabin disrupted Uri’s concentration like the first intonations of the Call to Prayer.

He was en route to Qom. It was time for him to put an end to the madness.