north, Ramallah, Nablus and Jenin, and not far from Jenin was the festering little pustule of Deir Azun. The slightest excuse and he would erase it from history.
‘Get me the Commander of the 45th Brigade.’
The Director of Operations nodded to his communications officer.
‘Eight Nine Zulu this is Zero Alpha, fetch Falcon, over.’
The speakers in the Command Centre crackled and the voice of Brigadier General Ehrlich boomed in loud and clear.
‘Zero Alpha, this is Eight Nine Zulu, Falcon speaking over.’
Halevy took the handset and depressed the transmit button.
‘Eight Nine Zulu, this is Eagle. Confirm H-hour, over.’
‘In ten minutes, over.’
‘Roger. Minimum force might apply but should there be any resistance, the lives of your soldiers are not to be put at risk and you are to respond accordingly, over.’
‘Understood, over.’
‘Be prepared to stay as long as is necessary,’ Halevy said, adding yet another layer of interpretation to the Prime Minister’s original direction. ‘Out.’
Brigadier General Eliezer Ehrlich towered over his commanders with an understated presence. His demeanour was quiet and self-contained. Highly respected by superiors and subordinates alike, the tank general was a soldier’s soldier. He always made sure he was never far from the front. General Ehrlich passed the handset back to his signaller. Privately he didn’t have much time for politicians and even less for generals who followed them like an arselick. Whatever had happened in Panic Palace today, he thought, had caused old rubber dick Halevy to get his knickers in a right royal twist. Something was not making sense. Fleetingly he recalled the conversation he’d had with his wife Marilyn as he’d left his house the previous morning.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go. I have a bad feeling about this, Elly. When will they see this is not the answer?’
‘I know. One day they will try for peace,’ he’d answered, giving her a hug, telling her not to worry. Marilyn and his two sons, Yoram and Igael, waved until his staff car was out of sight.
As dusk approached Brigadier General Ehrlich kept his troubling thoughts to himself. It was not his place to complain, especially in front of his men. His task was to minimise the danger. For both sides. Ehrlich knew better than anyone the difficulties of the operation they were about to conduct. It was a filthy war and the expectations of those who judged from the comfort of their leather armchairs in the Cabinet Room were well nigh impossible to meet. Expectations that men who were trained to kill could, in the heat of a fire fight, somehow determine the difference between an innocent civilian and a terrorist. It was an advantage that terrorists and insurgents had been putting to devastating use ever since Nebuchadnezzar had patrolled the banks of the Euphrates.
‘There are three suspect houses,’ he said, ‘Here, here, and here.’ General Ehrlich tapped his finger on the map. ‘The one at the end of this track is highest on the list. Regardless of resistance we should remember that the majority of these people are innocent civilians. Only use as much force as is necessary. Any questions?’
His commanders shook their heads in unison. Eliezer Ehrlich looked at his watch.
‘Synchronise watches. Ten, nine, eight…
Deir Azun
Salim a’Shami was only nineteen but was already a veteran of more than twenty hit-and-run attacks against the Israelis. The Israelis had killed his two brothers, and Salim’s hatred was etched on his soul.
Hamas had trained him well, and the wiry young Salim had been a good pupil. His dark eyes were clear and his face devoid of emotion as he showed his two fifteen-year-old accomplices where to set up the mortar base plate behind some rocks in the hills overlooking Deir Azun. To the south, the outline of the Mar’Oth minaret could be seen clearly against an orange skyline; to the east, he picked out Mount Malkishua in the Gilboa range. Taking a battered compass from his pocket he took a back bearing on each. Working deftly, Salim converted the magnetic bearings to grid and marked the exact position of their mortar base plate on his precious 1:100 000 map. Taking an equally battered and treasured pair of binoculars, he scanned the road leading in to the village below. He stopped scanning and adjusted the binoculars to get the clearest possible focus. The tall figure of Brigadier General Ehrlich was unmistakable. This man had been pointed out to him on more than one occasion. The general and some of his officers were looking at a map that was spread out on the bonnet of a jeep. Salim knew they would not get a better chance than this. The two boys had finished setting up the mortar and were eagerly waiting for orders. Motioning to them with a slow hand movement signalling they should remain calm, Salim took a bearing on the jeep and made a rough alignment of the mortar bipod. More deliberately he calculated the range and direction to the target and adjusted the direction and elevation on the mortar sights. There would be no time for any corrections as this would allow the Israelis to take cover. The four high explosive rounds had all their charge bags attached and he gave the thumbs up to fire.
Chooonk. Chooonk. Chooonk. Choonk. One after another the rounds were dropped down the tube. Looking up Salim could see the small black shapes of death arcing silently towards their target. With all four rounds gone and without waiting to be told, the two younger boys quickly dismantled the tube and sight from its base plate. Salim didn’t move as he observed his target through the binoculars. All four rounds exploded either side of the road and a slow smile spread across his young face.
Death to the Israelis.
‘Let’s get out of here! The next hill. And stay low!’ he hissed. The hunters were now the hunted.
Death to the Arabs.
‘Watches synchronised at 17:52.’ These were the last words General Ehrlich uttered. With a thumping roar the first mortar round landed barely 20 metres away. Red earth shot skywards and a lump of hot, jagged shrapnel ripped a great chunk out of General Ehrlich’s skull, spattering the jeep and his officers in blood and flesh, killing him instantly. Another piece of shrapnel tore his wallet from his shirt pocket and it lay open 10 metres away. A photograph of Marilyn and the two boys covered in dirt. Three more explosions peppered the Israeli position but the soldiers of the 45th Armoured Brigade were already hugging the red earth in the ditch at the side of the road and the rest of the casualties were light.
‘Medic!’ David Levin, General Ehrlich’s young Brigade Major, knew that it was a futile gesture and with a murderous look in his eyes he reached for his compass and took a bearing on the muffled thumps he had recognised as coming from a Palestinian mortar. Crouching in the ditch he called up the lead Cobra gunship.
‘Hawkeye One Five, this is Eight Nine Zulu. Bearing Three Eight Five Zero. Enemy mortar base plate in the hills south-west of here, approximately one two hundred metres over!’
‘Hawkeye One Five, copied out.’ Captain Raanan Weizman hauled on the collective and banked the aircraft into a tight turn. The Cobra AH-1G gunship, made famous in the Vietnam War, was barely a metre wide with the gunner’s seat in the nose and the pilot on a raised seat behind. Captain Weizman had only been flying this particular machine for ten months, but it felt like an extension of his flying gloves. The 1800 horsepower Lycoming T53-L-703 turbo shaft engine whined effortlessly as the rotors swatted the air.
‘Did you copy that, Dan?’ Two quick bursts of squelch on the intercom between pilot and gunner indicated that he had and Raanan checked his heading while his gunner readied the Cobra’s rockets and three-barrelled 20mm cannon.
Like an angry wasp with a blue Star of David in a white circle tattooed on its body, the sandy-coloured Cobra’s nose tilted forward as it touched on 130 knots. Captain Weizman put the aircraft into a dive and he and his gunner scanned the hills in the distance, while on the road below the men of the 45th Armoured Brigade prepared to avenge the death of their Commander.
‘Got ’em! Eleven o’clock, bottom of the second ridge.’
‘Roger.’ Captain Weizman calmly adjusted his heading.
Thirty seconds later the aircraft recoiled slightly as two rockets snaked towards the ground. Before they exploded below the three fleeing figures, the 20mm cannon smoked like a chainsaw and Raanan’s young gunner held the crosshairs on the targets as the deadly rounds followed the trajectory of the rockets. The young Muslims were torn into shattered fragments of flesh and bone as the Cobra’s rockets and 20mm cannon found their mark.
Death to the Arabs.
Death to the Jews.
