Firebreak (37 page)

“That’s a good starting place,” Martin said. “Work up a target briefing for me in, say”—he looked at his watch—“an hour. I want to be impressed. Carroll, get with Plans and put together an ops plan for striking that target. Call it Operations Plan Trinity. I want it at headquarters in two days. Go. Kill.” There was no doubt they were dismissed.

Out in the hall, Matt pulled Furry aside. “Is that the same Carroll you told me about?”

“Yeah,” Furry answered. “Just the best damn intelligence puke in the Air Force.”

The prime minister of Israel took his place in the command room of the bunker. He was freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, refreshed after a six-hour sleep. His eyes scanned the situation boards, and for the first time, a feeling of success warmed Yair Ben David’s resolve. Don’t get overly confident yet, he warned himself, we’ve got a long way to go.

A cup of hot tea appeared at his elbow and he took a sip. He glanced around the room. The men and women manning the bunker were weary to the point of exhaustion, the emotional strain telling, and the stale stench of unwashed bodies filled his nostrils. Still, he could sense a change—optimism had replaced the sense of foreboding doom that had hung there like a dark fog only twenty-four hours before.

A sergeant was working behind the Plexiglas map of the Sinai, posting new information. The room fell silent as every eye watched the sergeant mark up the latest disposition of Egypt’s armed forces. Scattered applause greeted the sergeant when she was finished. The Egyptians had moved back into garrison and were standing down from their “exercise.” Israel’s southern flank was no longer threatened and they could use the full resources of Southern Command to defeat the Syrians and Iraqis in the north. With resupply from the United States going full bore, they could do it.

Ben David turned his attention to the other three fronts. The battle on the northern border with Lebanon had stalemated and was seesawing back and forth across the border. On the Golan Heights, the Israelis had been pushed back to the very edge but were stubbornly holding on. A commando assault force had retaken Mount Hermon but at a terrible price. Over 70 percent of the commandos had been killed or wounded. Only the last-minute insertion of reinforcements with Black Hawk helicopters fresh from the United States’ arsenals in Germany had given the Israelis a much needed victory. But they had lost over half the helicopters.

The situation on the West Bank was the most serious. The Syrians, reinforced with three Iraqi armored divisions, had pushed across the Jordan River and were within sixteen kilometers of Jerusalem. The Arabs were shelling the city around the clock but thanks to the fresh troops that had been rushed out of the Sinai and massive supplies now arriving from the United States, the line was holding.

More good news appeared on the boards; the first of ninety-five F-16s being ferried in from the United States had landed and were being turned for combat. But the major general in charge of Hel Avir, the Israeli Air Force, was worried. The air force was suffering from a severe shortage of pilots and every available body was in the cockpit. He had recently recalled to active duty retired pilots who were in their fifties and was rushing them through refresher training. They would soon be thrown into the battle.

Out of habit, Ben David scrutinized the “Status of Casualties” board last. His lips compressed as his eyes ran across the columns. He was caught up in the type of war he most dreaded, a long and protracted conflict, and the numbers told the story. His countrymen were in a war of attrition. How long could they hang on? he asked himself. But he knew the answer—as long as they had to.

An aide appeared at his side. “More good news, Yair,” he said. “The Egyptian ambassador to die United Nations has placed a resolution in front of the General Assembly calling for an immediate cease-fire.”

Ben David stood up and his presence filled the room. He knew they could do it! They could, without doubt, survive! The Egyptian call for a cease-fire was the first crack in the solid Arab front. Long experience had taught him how fast the Arabs could realign and seek an accommodation with Israel.

An old worry came back to haunt him, driving him back into his seat. Before a cease-fire was forced on him, he had to secure his borders and hold the best defensive position possible. He had to think ahead—to the next war. And punish them! he raged to himself. Those casualties, the cold numbers on the “Status of Casualties” board, had a personal meaning for him and every Israeli. In a country as small as his, every family had paid a price—a father, son, daughter, killed or wounded, maybe a POW. Please, not our daughters as POWs, he pleaded. An old wrath swept over him. So the Arabs would degrade his children in captivity, drive his people into the sea. I hope they are looking at the desert sands behind them, he told himself, for that is where I will send them.

“Get Avi Tamir,” he ordered. Then he picked up the phone and made a brief call to Mossad. When the call was completed, he started issuing orders. Every person in the room responded to him, buoyed by his presence, feeling his resolve. They all could sense it—in spite of Iraq’s entry, the war had been stabilized and now they were going on the attack.

Avi Tamir’s face was worn and haggard, matching the way he felt, when he answered the summons to the command bunker. At least, he thought, I have some news that Ben David will like. He was surprised when the guard cleared him in without an escort. Inside, he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Loud discussions rang out and people were scurrying through the corridors. And then he caught it—the scent of victory. “Finally,” he mumbled to himself. The door to Ben David’s small office was open and he walked in.

The prime minister greeted him warmly and waved him to a seat next to the other man in the office. Tamir sank into the soft cushions and, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. All the signs were there. The tide of the war had turned and they would not have to use nuclear weapons. Ben David rose and closed the door himself while Tamir greeted the stranger. The wizened gnome uttered some perfunctory words but did not introduce himself. He rubbed at his bulbous nose with a handkerchief and focused his attention on Ben David, ignoring Tamir.

“Have you made progress?” Ben David asked.

Tamir nodded. “I’ve solved the boosting problem.” For a moment, he considered telling them how he had devised a method of injecting lithium-6 deuteride directly into the core of an atomic bomb, making a thermonuclear reaction. He had even refined the process, and the yield of the weapon could be changed by throwing three switches in the warhead. “Five days and it will be ready.”

“How big is it?” Ben David asked.

Tamir wasn’t certain what the question was. “It will fit into the warhead of a Jericho Two missile,” he answered.

“I meant how big …” the prime minister stammered, not knowing how to ask a question the scientist would understand.

“Yair wants to know the kiloton or megaton yield,” the gnome said, still not looking at Tamir.

“Oh. It’s selectable,” Tamir answered. “Two point two, thirty, fifty, or one hundred twenty kilotons.”

“I was hoping for a bigger bomb,” Ben David said.

“There are problems …” Tamir protested. Then his anger flared. “My God! You have no idea how big a hundred twenty kilotons is.”

“Please, Avi, I did not mean that as a criticism. You have done good work.” Ben David put on his serious-but-relieved face. “We are stabilizing and I don’t think we’ll need to use our nuclear weapons. You know, I had always planned to use them only as a last resort to save our people from destruction.”

A feeling of relief engulfed Avi Tamir and, for a moment, tears swelled in his eyes. His work would not give the world another Holocaust.

Ben David caught Tamir’s obvious relief. “Still,” he cautioned, “there are dangers ahead of us and we cannot afford to lose. When you say ‘ready in five days’ does that mean it can be mated to a missile?” Tamir told him yes. “Good.” The prime minister stood up. “Please don’t worry, Avi. The war is going our way and we won’t need to use it. But I must take every precaution … our people have suffered too much … I must end this war quickly.”

Tamir understood he was dismissed and left.

Ben David immediately punched at his intercom and ordered up a meeting of the Defense Council in ten minutes.

“Well?” the Ganef asked, blowing his nose again. “Why did you want me here for this?”

“Didn’t you believe me when I said there were many dangers ahead of us?”

“That’s obvious,” the old man replied.

“I’m going to make sure the Arabs cannot start another war like this one. It will be interesting to see how they react when we create more defensible borders and establish a security zone in depth.”

“That could prove difficult,” the Ganef said. “Our success might force them to use chemical weapons.”

“I’m aware of that possibility and you’re going to prevent it. I’m going to load Tamir’s bomb on a Jericho missile and program it for one of two targets—Damascus or Baghdad. I will launch it against the first one foolish enough to use chemical weapons.”

“And you want me to—”

“Make sure the Arabs know we have the bomb and how we will use it if they use chemical weapons.”

It all made sense to the Ganef. “What size yield?” he asked.

“The biggest.”

“The war has taken an unfortunate turn,” Sheik Mohammed al-Khatub said, watching for the old woman’s reaction over his coffee cup. Khatub was one of the few people not impressed with B. J. Allison’s mansion, her jewels, or power. He had more. Still, he felt comfortable in her palatial home in western Virginia and had enjoyed the private dinner. But he hated the discussion that came afterward.

For her part, B.J. was enjoying the evening and the chance to spar with the sheik, a man she liked and respected. Besides, she told herself, he is most handsome and only in his mid-thirties. He does remind me of a young Omar Sharif, she thought. A fleeting image of Tara and Khatub together flashed through her mind and she made a mental note to pursue the idea. How convenient that liaison might be, she decided, considering Khatub was OPEC’s minister of finance. “Ah, the war. So, I’ve been told,” she said, returning to the subject at hand.

“We cannot ignore what your government is allowing to happen,” Khatub said, “and must consider our interests, perhaps a change in policies.”

“Surely, you are not thinking of another oil embargo?”

“It is foremost in our thinking at this time,” the sheik replied.

“Is there anything I can do to, ah, persuade you to take other actions?”

The sheik smiled, skillfully masking his feelings for the woman. In his world, women were relegated to their proper position and he would never discuss such important matters with them. It was beneath his dignity to deal with Allison. “We were hopeful that the scandal about illegal campaign funds would preoccupy your President, perhaps limiting or moderating his actions in support of the Jews.” He sighed. “But that all appears to be dying on the vine.”

“If the press were to uncover new evidence,” Allison said, “as we say, ‘find the smoking gun,’ would that convince you that other voices are speaking out for a more equitable solution to the war?”

Khatub leaned forward and asked for another cup of coffee, smiling. They understood each other perfectly.

Tara Tyndle had been waiting for the call and was fully dressed and ready when the phone rang at one in the morning. Three minutes later, she was on her way to the helipad to catch a hop to her aunt’s home.

“You do spoil your aunt,” Allison said, greeting Tara when she entered the elegant drawing room she used as an office. The handsome young secretary escorting Tara closed the door behind her, leaving them in privacy. Allison came right to the point. “I must limit Pontowski’s support of Israel or we will be facing an oil embargo. Do you know what that means?” She didn’t expect Tara to answer. “Government control of my industry, my company. Tara, I won’t have it! I will destroy that man.” She was pacing the room. “What else have you learned about his campaign financing?”

Tara related how Fraser had funneled money into a network of offshore corporations and secret bank accounts in the Bahamas and had linked them together with the electronic transfer of funds through Hong Kong. She still didn’t know the details of how he moved the money back into the United States and the campaign. “He’s very clever, Auntie, and does it all in his head, and he used a middle man to direct the money into political action committees and get-out-the-vote groups at the right moment. But Fraser orchestrated it all. Auntie, you weren’t the only contributor. I think Fraser tapped some of the Mafia families and no income taxes were ever paid on much of the money.”

B. J. Allison smiled. “There’s the smoking gun. Imagine, the President’s campaign financed by the Mafia and being investigated by the IRS.” Her mind wheeled with the implications. “We’ll need proof. I’m positive that the middle man is the only link to Pontowski and everything hinges around him. Can you find him?”

“Oh, I think so,” Tara promised.

“When are you seeing Fraser next?”

“Tonight. We’re having dinner at his Watergate apartment.”

“How appropriate,” Allison said. “Can you have something for those nice reporters by tomorrow?” Tara reassured her that she would. “Have you met that young man we talked about the other day? The congressman who …” lira told her that they had met and the congressman was nibbling at the bait.

“Drop him,” Allison ordered. “After you finish with Fraser, there’s a more interesting person I’d like you to meet. But it will have to be carefully arranged.”

Mad Mike Martin was pacing back and forth in RAF Stone-wood’s Intelligence vault like a caged tiger, his limp more pronounced than normal. When he was worried, deep in thought, or the weather suddenly turned damp, his old war wound flared up and his hip would stiffen. All three conditions were affecting him as he listened to Matt cover the Iraqi defenses that they would have to penetrate in order to hit the nerve gas plant near Kirkuk.

Furry was dozing on a couch, worn out by the long hours he had spent with Carroll and Matt trying to put something together that would satisfy the colonel. But true to form, Martin was knocking their planning into the dirt—again. Carroll stared at his feet as he listened to Matt cover the fate of Dave Harkabi when he tried to lead a strike against the plant. When Matt was finished, Martin grunted an obscenity and turned to Carroll. “Okay, Roger Rabbit Redux, what’ve you got?”

Carroll caught the allusion, no, he corrected himself, a double allusion to fantasy and fiction. Why did Martin go to such lengths to cover a brilliant mind? “Colonel, the DIA sent us a videotape on that engagement Matt just briefed you on. Never seen anything like it.” He shoved a cassette into a VCR. The videotape was a copy of the radar tapes from the orbiting AWACS that had monitored the engagement. The radar returns on the tape had been color-coded to separate the F-16s from the SU-27s and captions summarized the battle. The audio on the tape recaptured the radio transmissions between Johar and Samir and had been synchronized with the action.