The colonel concentrated on the screen as the technician cycled through various options and magnifications, demonstrating the Prowler’s direct control capabilities, using cameras to zoom in on individual soldiers, then cutting back to infrared. Points of light danced and sparkled against the building that had become no more than a shell, marking the contact of full metal jackets striking the concrete. Baruch had to admit he’d been wrong. He’d called it a toy, but the battlefield intelligence provided by the unmanned aerial vehicle was astonishing. The UAV circled the building, scribing lazy figure eights in the air several hundred metres above it. The platform was virtually silent (certainly its compact gasoline engine couldn’t be heard above the small arms fire) and, painted low-intensity grey like any other military aircraft, it was almost impossible to pick out against the hot blue sky. Yet the overhead view it afforded allowed a commander to position his forces for greatest effect. This sort of role was usually ascribed to helicopters, but that was an expensive option, even if the aircraft wasn’t shot down, which had been known to happen. At a couple of million US, the UAV was cheap — certainly when compared to a piloted vehicle — and, as such, expendable. Why put another of God’s children in the line of fire unnecessarily?
The picture transmitted by the Prowler was pretty straightforward. The terrorists, around four of them, were pinned down and cornered. There had been a drive-by shooting close to the temple, and a quick-thinking policeman had commandeered a motorcycle and tailed the criminals from a safe distance, calling in for assistance. The army, on constant alert, responded quickly, but then things bogged down. The fugitives had cynically taken cover in the middle of a densely populated residential area. Baruch did not want the deaths of innocent people on his hands, but so many innocents had died over the years in this unwinnable war. And that’s what it was, unwinnable. It was impossible to tell who was friend and who was foe amongst the Palestinians, and so it was easier to label them all killers. But were he and his men any different? How many lives of innocent women and children had he inadvertently ended in his relentless pursuit of the enemy? He often thought of himself as being like a brain surgeon who operated with a cleaver instead of a laser, hacking away at a tumour rather than delicately burning it away, leaving the patient alive but better off dead. These were the thoughts and images he’d been struggling with for some time, lying awake staring at the ceiling, depressed and impotent beside his wife. But protecting his country was his job even if he was sick of having to wield the meat cleaver.
‘Sir…? Colonel…?’ It was one of the American technicians. Baruch realised he’d been daydreaming and snapped out of it. He ignored the young man with the disconcerting nest of green pimples on each cheek and contacted the lieutenant commanding the platoon on the ground. The UAV had done its job. It was a worthy addition to the inventory and he’d make his recommendation accordingly.
‘Yes, sir,’said Lieutenant Deborah Glukel into the handset. Baruch’s orders were easier said than done. ‘Benzona!’ she said to herself. Son of a bitch!
The skirmish had been a vicious encounter. Two of her people were wounded and that was two too many. The proximity of noncombatants meant the gunships were useless, and so were tanks and other high-explosive options. This was a committed enemy. If they stormed the building, more of her own people would be put at unnecessary risk. But there was simply no other option.
‘We have to fucking take this fucking building one fucking room at a time. Horah!’ she said, working herself into it. Glukel sucked in the air and blew it out several times, like an athlete at the start of the hundred-metre sprint. Her people knew what to do. She made the hand signals clear and screamed the words out in her head at the same time: ONE…TWO…THREE…GO! GO! GO!
Baruch saw the platoon move in on the screen followed shortly after by the increased clatter of small arms fire. One of the advancing soldiers fell to the pavement, dropping his weapon and lying still as others stormed the windows and doors. An incendiary hand grenade preceded the troops as they closed with the enemy, gasmasks fixed. The accompanying flare had turned the entire screen white and then it went completely blank, as if the intense light and heat had fused its millions of microprocessors.
The technicians, at first stunned, hurriedly checked connections and components with increasing panic. Baruch guessed the problem was bigger than a hardware crash. He resisted the temptation to make the banal observation that TV programs always seem to get interrupted at the climax.
Mushtaq had never tried to shoot down one of these pilotless planes before. His experience told him it would be tricky, but it had proved more than that. Ordinarily, he could hit the worm in an apple from four hundred metres on a still day, especially with this US-made M82A1A .50 calibre Special Application Scoped Rifle. The ‘Special Application’ designation referred to the fact that it was specifically designed as an anti-material weapon, rather than for anti-personnel work. He’d chosen HEAP — high-explosive armour piercing — rounds for the job. Overkill? Perhaps. But he wanted to make sure of success. It was a beautiful weapon: muzzle velocity of eight hundred and fifty-four metres per second, and an effective range of around eighteen hundred metres. But this was no ordinary target. The plane didn’t stay still like a worm. Also, the thing was painted a shade of grey that blurred its edges, made them fuzzy and ill defined, especially with the intense blue of the sky behind it. Just watching it, trying to focus on it, made his eyes watery and sore. His commander wanted one of these things for reasons unknown. Orders had come down from the highest place. And they wanted it with as little damage done as possible, which is why they had brought him in rather than a man with a machine gun. One clean shot. He’d thought about where he’d put the bullet and decided on removing a wing where it met the body — the strongest point of the aircraft. That would bring it down. Simple enough, he’d thought, but in reality, not simple at all.
He counted the number of explosive-tipped bullets in his case. Twelve. That meant he’d taken eight shots at it and still no result.
Mushtaq sat at the top storey window behind a lace curtain, four blocks from the fighting, and waited. The owners of this flat had been accommodating but, really, what choice did they have? The man and his wife sat on chairs against the opposite wall, where he could keep an eye on them. They were Palestinian, but not all Palestinians were as committed to the fight as he and his comrades were. They had each other and they had children, their smiling faces beaming from framed photos chequering the wall behind them.
‘You have a beautiful family,’ said Mushtaq. He wished he still had his family, but a stray round from an Israeli helicopter gunship had pierced the brick walls of his home and exploded, killing everyone and starting a fire. The Israelis asserted in the nightly television news bulletin that the people killed — his wife and three little children — were just more Palestinian terrorists.
The man and his wife smiled and nodded enthusiastically. They were scared, and they had every right to be. If the Israelis caught him shooting at them from this place they would blast it to rubble.
Mushtaq tried to recall his wife and children. He had loved then, but now he only hated. The Israelis hadn’t killed any terrorists that day but they had certainly given birth to one. And Mushtaq wouldn’t rest until he had shot a thousand Israelis dead in return.