The three men ran off into the chaos at a crouch. About twenty meters from Mofaz Yatom could see muzzle flashes from what had to be the Iranian Guard positions.
“There!” he simply yelled and pointed, and the two commandos let loose with their M-4s. Yatom tossed a grenade, signaled the two commandos to remain in place and keep shooting, and sprinted to Mofaz.
Mofaz lay prone by the body of Yoram. Yatom slid in next to Mofaz and grabbed his arm.
“Let’s go!” he said.
“Yoram!” screamed Mofaz, pointing to the dead commando in front of him.
“Now!” yelled Yatom. “That is an order! Leave him!”
The Iranian fire had slackened thanks to Yatom’s grenade and the steady fire of Roi and Mike, the two team Gimme! commandos. They looked toward their officers, arguing over the body of Yoram.
Mofaz twisted his face into a scowl, grabbed Yoram’s body under both shoulders and began dragging him toward the capsule, blood smearing the floor behind the corpse. Yatom, realizing that arguing with his deputy would only waste time and probably their lives, pushed Mofaz from Yoram’s right shoulder grabbed hold. Together the two men dragged the body across the broken floor. Roi and Mike fell back behind them, firing to keep Iranians pinned down.
Yatom and Mofaz arrived at the capsule and heaved Yoram’s corpse inside. Then, in a well practiced drill, the remaining commandos retreated into the pod. Mike and Roi tossed smoke grenades before slamming shut the hatch.
Inside, Yatom and Mofaz strapped Yoram’s corpse into his seat, then took their own and fastened the restraining straps. Yatom took a last glance around at his men and hit the activation button. The capsule began to vibrate. Yatom heard the faint ping of Iranian bullets striking outside. The capsule bellowed like a beast, and then disappeared. One minute later, the separation halls exploded.
Chapter 2
Benny Feldhandler sat nervously in the control station of the Dimona transport facility, known as Dovecote. Although the control apparatus was behind thick tinted Plexiglas, Feldhandler and everyone else in the station also wore dark protective glasses. Feldhandler could barely see the device through all the tinted plastic, but his brightly lit management screens told him that the equipment was operating well within acceptable parameters.
Part of the vast Dimona nuclear complex, the transport facility was buried under one hundred feet of sand and rock. It mirrored in many ways the underground facility in Natanz, except that the room was almost empty except for the Device, which stood on a meter-high concrete platform. The Device looked like a large steel cradle suspended over a shallow pool of water and surrounded by a convoluted mass of cables, circuit boxes, conduits and air conditioners. Right now the cradle was empty.
Ostensibly, Feldhandler had activated the Device and sent Colonel Yatom and his men off to Natanz from where they were now returning. But in fact, they were arriving several seconds before they departed. Feldhandler knew this would occur, and so wasn’t confused. He understood that twenty seconds in the future he had pushed a button which sent off the capsule, but that now, in a slightly new timeline and new future, he would not do that.
A bright flash of light followed by a rumble and a loud thump announced the return. Feldhandler glanced away from the flash, and looked back. The black capsule was back in its cradle partly submerged in the shallow cooling tank. Steam hissed from the water as the capsule discharged its heat.
As Feldhandler watched, Israeli technicians in protective gear rushed to the pod and flung open the hatch. A similarly outfitted stand-by medical team moved in to evacuate the fallen Sergeant
Yoram Grof. Yatom and his men, still wearing their suits and respirators stepped out of the capsule. Fatigue, sadness and disorientation slowed their steps. Technicians guided the commandos to a nearby decontamination room where their protective suits and then their bodies were meticulously sprayed down to remove any traces of radioactive contamination. Grofs remains went to a special morgue.
Feldhandler didn’t share the commandos’ evident mixed feelings. He was exuberant. It the Device had functioned almost flawlessly. His management screens showed only minor discrepancies. Beaming, he turned to Mina his chief assistant, and gave her a little hug. She was his sister after all. Mina returned his smile and pulled off the protective glasses, revealing a hint of tears in her hazel eyes. The rest of Feldhandler’s scientific team shared their joy and relief, and throughout the cramped booth there were high-fives and slaps on the back. Someone suggested champagne. The festive mood was broken by the harsh commanding voice of Lieutenant General Shlomo Brom. “Why are you congratulating yourselves? What did you accomplish? We have no idea what’s happened, except that I see dead soldier carried away!”
Feldhandler rolled his eyes, but Brom was right. Nobody knew exactly what had happened, except that their computers told the scientists that the capsule had successfully entered and returned from a wormhole. There had no report during the mission, nor could there be for a variety of technical reasons. The only way to know what had happened was to debrief the commando team, or to monitor Iranian communications—nothing yet.
“Sorry Herr General,” said Feldhandler sarcastically, oblivious to the uncomfortable looks of his colleagues.
Brom, a former commando, with forearms so big that his nickname was Popeye, stepped toward Feldhandler, when a secure phone line rang his station across the room. It was the war room in Tel Aviv.
Brom picked up the handset and mostly listened for the next minute, occasionally nodding or signaling to his aides. Finally, he replaced the phone.
“Nu,” said Feldhandler in Yiddish. “Care to let us in?”
“Radio traffic intercepted from Iran indicates that several minutes ago there was a large explosion at the Natanz separation facility,” said Brom laconically. “The Iranians are confused, uncertain of the cause, and concerned that there will be radiation leakage into the city. That’s all we know right now, but it would appear that our boys pulled in off.”
Brom allowed himself a smile and added “Congratulations to you and your team Dr. Feldhandler. I’m going to debrief the raiders, and then I expect they will want us all in Tel Aviv. Probably by yesterday…”
After Brom exited the control booth Feldhandler turned to Mina, and ignoring the continuing fuss and glad-handing, smiled wanly and told her “You go up and brief them. Please.”
“Why? Benny, this is your accomplishment, not mine. They will want you.”
“Screw them.” said Feldhandler nastily. “You go. You know everything; and what to say and what not. I’m tired of it.”
“But…”
“Just go.”
A series of small briefing rooms adjoined the decontamination suite. Brom entered the first one with his military secretary and an aide. The secretary carried a digital video recorder and a tripod; the aide a laptop. Minutes later a female soldier carried in a tray containing bottled water, several thermoses of coffee, and assorted cakes and fruit.
Brom planned to interview Lieutenant Colonel Yatom first and then Major Mofaz. Other debriefing officers would talk to the lower ranking commandos, and when they were all done the entire team would be brought together for a general bull session over beers, fried schnitzels and pizza. All of which would be carefully recorded.
Yatom arrived, clad in a fresh olive drab uniform, devoid of insignia. Instead, a radiation warning card hung from his neck, like a conferee’s nametag. An IDF doctor accompanied the colonel, and pronounced him healthy, having suffered just a minor radiation dose.
“About like getting a dozen X-rays” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “Not good for you, but not likely to kill this fellow any time soon.”