Warriors by Barrett Tillman (44 page)

       Without actually stating its aim, the Arab coalition seems to have abandoned its avowed goal of merely expelling Israel from occupied Jordan and the West Bank, said one diplomat. That same concern has been expressed in statements from Geneva, Paris, Washington and the United Nations.

DAY FOURTEEN

New York. 0100 Hours

      
The Soviet ambassador's heels clicked on the concrete, echoing in the Second Avenue subway station. Twenty paces behind him two security agents kept pace with the fast-walking diplomat. Several blocks to the north was the United Nations Building. Anatoli Servenoff was one of the few old men left in the upper strata of the Soviet hierarchy. A new clique finally had replaced most of the World War II generation, but a few remained because of influence or ability. The United Nations ambassador had both.

       As a twenty-four-year-old, Servenoff had been a petty bureaucrat in the Ukraine when the Germans struck in 1941. He had saved himself from liquidation-the usual fate of Communist Party members--by offering to cooperate in locating and exterminating every Jew in his district. He had worked hard and effectively for two years before making a dash for Soviet lines. Taking with him information and marginally useful documents, Servenoff had ingratiated himself with his superiors, who commended him for his espionage work among the Nazi barbarians. By 1945 he was a security commissar, still rounding up "unreliable" elements among the Jewish population.

       The prospect of speaking directly and privately to the Israeli ambassador to the United Nations was distasteful to Servenoff. There was a metallic tinge in the Russian's mouth, and he spat several times trying to dislodge the bitter saliva. But the Soviet ambassador, like many of his Kremlin colleagues, was a master of expressionless demeanor. Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson had once remarked, "They may be a nation of chess players but their negotiating face would do credit to a master poker player."

       Servenoff glanced around to satisfy himself that nobody was within earshot. He had been directed by Moscow to present his message to the Israelis without a chance of being recorded or overheard. One hundred yards ahead, approaching from the opposite direction, he recognized the Israeli ambassador, Avrim Ran. As if on signal, the Israeli bodyguards stopped when the Soviets halted. The two diplomats continued walking toward one another, each with hands in his pockets.

       Neither man extended a hand in greeting.

       Ran stared unblinking at the Soviet. He knew Servenoff's life story, knew that this man could be relied upon at Politburo meetings to push for harsher treatment of Soviet Jews. Western efforts to increase Jewish emigration from Russia drew mixed reaction from Servenoff. On the one hand, he wished every Jew gone from the Soviet Union-even the "good" Jews who abounded in Russian life and the Communist hierarchy. On the other hand, a lifetime of harassing, prosecuting, and deporting Jews had become ingrained habit.

       Without preamble the Soviet diplomat spoke in near-perfect English. "Ambassador Ran, my government has directed me to convey to you in the most forceful terms the following: Because of our long fraternal relationship with the oppressed Arab peoples, Soviet friendship and assistance for them is a cornerstone of our Middle East policy." He swallowed but the metallic taste lingered. "We have viewed with alarm over the past twenty years the possession by your country of nuclear weaponry. Our intelligence is unassailable." He was sorely tempted to add that much of the information came from inside Israel. Some people would do anything to contact relatives still in Russia.

       "We know that Israel has approximately one hundred such weapons." This with a faint smile. But the Soviet was. slightly disappointed when Ran gave no sign of surprise.

       "Mr. Ambassador." Ran's voice was even, controlled. "What has this to do with current events in my nation? After all, your client states have invaded Israel."

       Servenoff never tired of sloganeering. "After your own illegal invasion of Jordan, and the cruelties practiced upon the Palestinian peoples displaced from their homeland, the Arabs are united in opposition to Israel's military arrogance. We Soviets have no desire to see war come again to your region, but we will supply our Arab friends with whatever weapons are necessary for their legitimate defense. This is the message I deliver to you." He held up a stubby finger. "If you Jews-" He halted from force of diplomatic habit. "If you use atomic weapons against the Arab states, the Soviet Union will immediately provide nuclear-armed artillery shells which could reach almost anywhere in your country. I tell you in candor that these weapons are in position at this very minute."

       The Russian glared at Ran for a long moment. The Israeli made no comment. Then, without another word, Servenoff turned on his heel and walked briskly toward his waiting men.

Washington, D.C. 2015 Hours

      
That night Avrim Ran flew to Washington for an emergency meeting with Tel Aviv's ambassador to the United States and the chief military attache. Already a motion condemning the Arab invasion of Israel had been defeated in the Security Council by the Soviet veto. However, Ran now held no illusions about the power of diplomacy. He intended to help press the Arnold Administration as hard as possible to intervene in some form.

       Ran told his dinner companions about the Soviet decree. They dined in Mordechai Weissman's apartment, free to converse without distraction from other Israeli embassy personnel. But Ran was visibly shaken. "I think they mean it, Mordechai. This doesn't sound like a bluff."

       The diplomats turned to General Lom Olmert. They asked his opinion.

       "I don't see that we have any choice," Olmert said. "If we do not employ our nuclear force, we'll go under in a week-two at the absolute most. On the other hand, if we issue a pronouncement, threatening their use, that may provoke the Soviets into carrying out a preemptive strike."

       Ambassador Weissman said, "Then it's over for us, one way or the other."

       Olmert shook his head and sipped some wine. "I'm inclined to believe the nuclear option should be played without announcement. It increases the shock value and forces the Arabs into a defensive mindset."

       "What might the Americans do to help?" asked Ran.

       "First, I doubt this administration wants to get directly involved. Particularly when Servenoff's threat becomes known. Even then, it's probably too late." He shrugged. "We are as we have always been-on our own."

       Avrim Ran leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. "I must say, General, that seems a remarkably detached evaluation."

       Lom Olmert looked frankly at the diplomat. "Mr. Ambassador, if I'm not objective, you should fire me on the spot." He took another sip of wine. "There's one aspect we've not addressed. Are the Soviets really going to turn over nuclear weapons to the Arabs? Just consider that prospect from Moscow's viewpoint. Atomic artillery in the hands of Muslim fanatics-heirs to the Ayatollah. There's an American fleet in the Mediterranean. What if the Syrians or anyone else fired at those ships?" He paused for emphasis. "No, gentlemen. I do not think the Russians will be so stupid."

       Weissman spoke in a near-whisper. "But Lom, what if you're wrong?"

       "Then we're finished anyway. You know, I've fought in three wars and I've seen hundreds of dead men. Not a single one ever complained about being killed by a bomb instead of a bullet."

DAY FIFTEEN

      
Solomon Yatanahu faced his pilots and maintenance and intelligence officers in the briefing room. It was evening, and the past two days had whittled down his Eagle force even further. Everyone looked tired, the ground officers as well as the fliers. Attrition had set in; the Darwinian principle applied to supersonic aircraft and proud-tired young men.

       "Boys, you know the situation." Yatanahu tapped the map.

       "These three armored columns are on a converging course. If they merge, we've lost." One glance showed that the projected axes of the Arab thrusts would meet at Tel Aviv.
The enemy is going for the jugular,
Yatanahu mused.
They've read von Clausewitz . They're concentrating on the
Schwerpunkt-the
decisive point.

      
The base commander continued. ''The Arabs have changed tactics for this new thrust. They're continuing to move tanks and troops under an umbrella of mobile SAMs, but they're concentrating their fighters better. Coordination between SAMs, anti-aircraft artillery, and fighters means a near-continuous air defense net. We can't get our strike planes at their armor without exposing them to interception." He bit his lip. "In honesty, we've lost aerial supremacy. Now we're fighting for local superiority over our own territory. "

       Those words rang with a deadened peal; not since 1948 had such a condition existed within Israel's borders. Few of the men in the room had even been born then. They had grown up with certain natural laws. The sun rose in the east. Water ran downhill. Israel owned the sky. Now it was as if the laws of nature had been suspended.

       Yatanahu asked the senior intelligence officer for his projection.

       Major Eliazar Maimonides shuffled his papers and began. "We have run these figures with every variation that occurs to us. But the fact is, we have no more than two days to effect a change. The median is one-point-eight days-call it thirty-three hours from midnight. By then, anyone or all of three things can happen."

       Maimonides looked at his notes. "Either we'll be out of fuel or out of sufficient planes to put up a worthwhile strike. Or the first tanks will reach Tel Aviv." He glanced up for a moment. "We're still outshooting them over eight to one in the air, without recent F-20 engagements, and we have enough twenty-millimeter ammunition to last. But missiles and fuel are going fast."

       "Solomon." It was Major Yehudi Ne'eman, the senior squadron commander. He was thirty-two years old but right now he looked about forty-five. He had shot down six Arab aircraft in the past two days, and landed a crippled F-15 when nobody would have blamed him for ejecting. "It's obvious we need to break the pattern, try a different approach. We have to get into their second echelon."

       Yatanahu agreed. "Precisely, but the Arabs also know the importance of their backup formations. They are what sustain the drive. That's no doubt why they allocate their strongest fighters to patrol those areas." He cleared his throat, not wanting to leave anything unsaid. "We're at parity with the Saudi F-20s, trading them essentially one for one. But it's no good, we can't afford that kind of exchange rate. We're forced to back off from the deeper strikes and concentrate over the battle front. "

       Maimonides interjected. "Gentlemen, we do have some things on our side. We're definitely superior at night, and what strikes we've flown in darkness have been pretty successful. Also, our decoy measures against the surface missiles are taking effect."

       Though he couldn't explain details to anyone likely to be captured, the major was pleased with the latter ploy. It had been his idea. When Soviet-made SS-20 surface-to-surface rockets began dropping on and near Israeli airfields, the Syrians needed spotting reports to gauge their accuracy. Israeli intelligence, already onto most of the clandestine spotters, scooped them up and sent false corrections and optimistic results. It seemed to be working, but some SS-20s still found their mark. Meanwhile, Arab fighter-bombers were freed to concentrate on the front lines.

       Mildly irritated, Ne'eman, the heavy-eyed F-15 skipper, pressed his point. "All right, that's fine. But what do we do tomorrow morning? We're faced with a vicious circle. We must stop the armored thrusts, but we can't do that without engaging their fighters. Our losses already are near-prohibitive, as you noted."

       The pilot and everyone else knew that the loss of 265 Israeli aircraft had forced the
Heyl Ha'Avir
into a defensive posture. More shot-down pilots were being saved over friendly territory, but their planes were gone forever.

       Yatanahu explained the results of the tactical panel's evaluation. But he also knew that a backup plan was being considered.

Chapter 16

DAY SIXTEEN

Ha’il, 1500 Hours

       BENNETT FACED THE THREE REMAINING TIGER FORCE instructors. He had called Ed Lawrence and Geoff Hampton to join him in a discussion with Bear Barnes, and they occupied the bunk and one chair in his billet.

       "Guys, I want to let you know my thoughts on this new development. When we signed on, it was to defend Saudi airspace against any intruder. We've done that-first with the South Yemenis and now with the Israelis." He glanced at Devil's helmet, stacked in a corner with the rest of the IP's flight gear. There were nine stars now-three yellow, six blue.

       ''This is just my personal opinion. It doesn't have to reflect your own." He bit his lip in concentration. When he looked up he said, "I'm leaving. I'll stay two more days to wrap up administration and coordination. After that, I'm going home." He did not elaborate.

       Geoff Hampton said, "John, I wonder what the effect would be if any of us stay on." He glanced at the others. "We're not actively engaged over Israeli territory-just the odd interception in South Jordan. That shouldn't pose any problems, should it?" The Briton was still considering his options.

       "No, I don't think so," Bennett replied. "My reasons are ... well, they're personal." From the expression on Lawrence's face, Bennett knew his friend had surmised the reason.
Claudia's too closely involved with the Israelis in his mind,
Devil thought.