“If this is a chemical attack inside Israel …"Ben David was shouting, clenching and relaxing his right fist, his face flushed.
“I don’t think so,” Yuriden counseled. “We’ve told them if they use gas on our people, we’ll use nuclear weapons. It’s logical for them to strike at our nuclear delivery systems, our Jericho missiles.”
The damage reports started to filter in. The incoming missiles had all been armed with conventional warheads and thetargets had been known Jericho missile sites. The Ganef was surprised at the accuracy of the Arabs’ targeting and immediately wondered if the Soviets had used their satellite reconnaissance to help locate the Jerichos for the Arabs.
Ben David was settling down until the final results were tallied: The rocket attack had knocked out 28 percent of Israel’s Jericho missiles. “Upload our warheads!” he shouted. Again, Yuriden calmed him, telling him that it was far too early to upload their nuclear warheads. Ben David smashed his fists down onto his console, hard, fighting for self-control. For a few moments he stared at his fists; then he jerked his head yes, agreeing with his minister of defense.
The Ganef decided it would be better if he waited a few minutes before he told Ben David about the Iraqi preparations for a new attack in Lebanon and slipped out of the room, into the corridor. His experience warned him not to overburden the prime minister and to be careful how he presented bad news. The man needed rest and was not in full command of his emotions. Besides, the ground commanders in Lebanon were aware of the impending attack.
A heavyset figure was lumbering down the passageway: Avi Tamir. The Ganef stopped him. “We need to talk,” he said and motioned toward an empty part of the corridor. “Is it ready yet?” he asked.
Tamir’s head snapped up. Of course, he had seen the old man with Ben David when they had last discussed the progress he was making, but he didn’t know who the man was or what he did. “I’m the chief of Mossad,” the Ganef told him, establishing his authority.
“We all need to talk,” a voice behind them said. It was Benjamin Yuriden. He led the two men down the hall and into an office. He chased the occupants out and closed the door. “What’s the status of the ‘weapon'?” he asked.
“It’s finished and is being moved right now,” Tamir answered. “Once in place, it can be uploaded on a missile in about three hours.”
“If the Arabs hit Israel with gas,” Yuriden said, “he’ll use it.” The “he” was Yair Ben David.
“I thought the Iraqis had already used nerve gas,” Tamir said, puzzled.
“That was in Lebanon,” Yuriden explained, “not in Israel and in a limited tactical situation. Our intelligence from thefield indicates it hurt them more than it did us. In fact, I think that’s why they broke off the attack when they did. Levy’s Luck again.”
Now Yuriden was pacing the floor. “We’re pushing the Arabs back and they’re showing signs of aligning their political posture to support the Egyptian cease-fire proposal in the UN. But Ben David wants a military solution first. He wants territory to justify the sacrifices we’ve made. But I’m worried that the Arabs will resort to widespread chemical warfare if they think they are going to lose too much of their land.”
“They know we’d go nuclear if they did that,” the Ganef said.
“Who said the actors in this war were rational?” Yuriden snapped. “Not only that, since the VR Fifty-five they used in Lebanon was ineffective, I’m certain the Iraqis will use their newest nerve gas now.” Yuriden paused. “And we don’t have a defense against it. Thank God they haven’t deployed it into the field yet.”
“Then why don’t we destroy the nerve gas before they move it?” the Ganef asked. “Jericho missiles with conventional warheads should do the job.”
“Believe me, we thought about it,” Yuriden said. “The only warhead we have that can penetrate the arsenal’s hardened walls at Kirkuk is too heavy and reduces the range of the Jericho. Kirkuk is simply out of range with a conventional warhead that can do the job.”
“Has somebody been working the problem?” Tamir asked. “Trying to develop a conventional warhead that matches throw weight with range?”
“Of course,” Yuriden answered. “Israeli Military Industries. But they haven’t come up with …” Tamir spun around, cutting him off, and ran out of the room, heading for his next challenge.
Yuriden studied the open door in the silence. “I’m going to have to order another air strike against the arsenal,” he said. “It’s suicide.” The man drew himself up. He had been a fighter pilot, had flown Israel’s first F-16s, and was still current in the aircraft. “Damn, I’m going to lead the attack myself.”
“That would win an award for stupidity,” the Ganef grunted, but he sympathized with Yuriden’s yearning to takean active part in the war. “I think I know how to destroy the Iraqis’ nerve gas before they deploy it.”
“It’s got to happen soon,” Yuriden said. “I’m not sure how much longer we can contain this war.”
The Ganef closed the door and stood close to Yuriden, his voice low and almost inaudible…
Dennis Leander was sitting at the simulator’s control console, working furiously, trying to nail Mad Mike Martin who was in the simulator. His partner, Larry Stigler, was asleep on the floor, totally exhausted from the forty-eight straight hours they had spent programming the sim’s computer. They had missed their first deadline and drawn the full force of Martin’s large and obscene vocabulary. Now the simulator was ready and Leander wanted revenge. “Oh, shit!” he roared when Martin skillfully avoided the latest combination of SA-6 and SA-11 SAMs Leander had engaged him with. “Damn it, Stig! Get your ass up here and help me.”
Stigler staggered to his feet and scanned the color monitors that repeated the scene Martin was seeing inside the cockpit. Martin’s wizzo had the nerve gas plant and arsenal on the Target FLIR and they were on a bomb run, doing their own lasing. “I thought they were using B’nai tactics and Martin’s wingman was going to do the lasing,” Stigler observed.
“I shot his wingman down,” Leander said, his teeth grinding.
For a fraction of a moment, Stigler considered sandbagging the colonel inside the sim, but discarded the urge immediately. Too much was at stake here and this was not the time for games. “Don’t cut him any slack, but make it realistic.”
“How about him cutting me some slack?” Leander yelled. Then he relaxed and laughed. “This guy is tough.” They watched the color monitor as Martin’s first bomb exploded on target.
Thirty-five minutes later, Martin safely landed at Diyarbakir, Turkey, the launch and recovery base for the attack 240 miles away. The canopy that covered the cockpit swung up and Martin crawled out, his flight suit wringing wet and his face glistening with sweat. For a moment he stared at the Gruesome Twosome. “That was a neat twist, moving SA-Sixes in like that,” he said. “Totally unexpected but realistic. I liked it. Get every swingin’ dick through here today.” The Gruesome Twosome exchanged tired looks as Martin barreled out the door. The colonel stuck his massive head back in. “You did good. Thanks.” Then he was gone.
24
Brigadier General Leo Cox was sitting next to the President on one of the sofas in the Oval Office, going over the agenda for a meeting of the National Security Council that would start in a few minutes. It was his first day on the job as Zack Pontowski’s chief of staff and he was impressed by the efficient organization Fraser had left behind. It had been easy for him to step in and take over the position. But he would have to make some changes. “This, Mr. President”—Cox handed him a briefing book on the Arab-Israeli war—“is how the CIA sees the current status of the war.”