A Touch Of War Read online

  A Touch of War

  A Novel

  Isaac Storm

  This story is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places, are used fictitiously. Any relation to people or events is entirely

  unintensional and/or coincidental.

  Copyright 2017

  For Nan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter One

  Washington, D.C.

  May 14

  6:27 A.M. Eastern Standard Time

  Blue flashed and blurred through the silent streaks of rain as the wind curved them into jagged lines down the centuries-old windowpane. They pooled and simmered upon the sill, then sprayed off to drown in the flooded greenery. Lightning split the sky again, reaching over the city’s expanse, vanishing into a deep bellow, rolling as a wave back through the window to rattle the floor beneath him.

  A thought echoed. Someone’s coming…no…it’s alright.

  His eye struggled under the weight of its lid trying to follow shadows swooning within the dizzy night.

  Another flash shot through the window.

  Hands clapped his ears. Thunder roared over the ceiling. The bed stand shook. A shiver raced across his shoulders, then down into his spine. The cool of sweat. Too much, too damn much. He grimaced, pitching over to face the clock under the lamp. He watched the pale greenness of numbers change and accepted surrender. He swore something red also blinked, yet its reason escaped. Sleep now began its reclaim. Calm embraced him.

  He never recalled the creaking hinge of the door.

  A shape stepped toward him. A thin sliver of light from the hallway shone through the way, revealing a hand extending downward.

  He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. No...Can’t be. Rest counterattacked, and then retreated. Fingers nudged his arm.

  "Mr. President…please, Mr. President…"

  He propped himself up on an elbow, hand reaching for the lamp. "Miles?" A click and a weak light illuminated the man.

  The Secret Service agent watched his boss raise up and fight through a needed yawn.

  President Paul Anderson rubbed his eyes, winced and looked up at the balding man’s slender face.

  "Sir," he said, "the Secretary of Defense is on the phone. He says it is most urgent." He pressed the pulsing red button and handed over the receiver.

  He took it, propped it on a shoulder and watched Miles exit with a silent close of the door.

  Secretary James Mitchell spoke. "Sir, I was halfway across the Atlantic when I heard the news." The low background whine of a jet engine underscored his sentence. “I’ve been analyzing the information, trying to make sense of it all." He paused a second, then sighed as if trying to choose the right words. "It looks like we'll be able to confirm it...Iran has just achieved a nuclear detonation."

  Anderson’s eyes gaped, stomach tightening as he drew in a deep breath. "My God." He looked down at the floor, trying to fit the pieces of his next thought "When?"

  "Approximately three hours ago, seismic stations in Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan picked up a magnitude 2.7 earthquake in northern Iran. The footprint it left was brief but consistent with a decoupled explosion, meaning they tried to mask it with a conventional blast. The tail end of the reading is what told us, it matched all the wave activity of a nuclear device."

  Anderson rubbed his forehead slowly, worry growing with each stroke. "Damn it. We were told at the briefing last week they were still at least twelve months away."

  "I know, sir." Mitchell had to hear the frustration in his voice, sense he needed to offer more than what came out. "I’m sorry. We’ll find out what went wrong."

  "It’s too late for that now. How far out are you?"

  "Be landing at Andrews in about twenty. And sir," he added, "just after three, I dispatched a detection aircraft to the area. It should be there within twelve hours."

  "Notify our people. I want them in the situation room to give me a rundown in two hours.” He rose and pressed at the creases of the black pajamas. “And James, what about the Israelis?"

  "Elevated activity in the government."

  Anderson deduced it based on his past briefings. “The cabinet is meeting. Any further indication they’ll launch?"

  "Not yet. No military bases appear to be alerted. Tonight will be a go if it is to happen. Right now, there’s just lots of calls being made between the cabinet and senior military officials, but other than that everything seems calm. I suspect we’ll be hearing from them."

  "I need to call them first, try to defuse things before those jets take off. I’ll see you later." He pressed the button for the communications room and sat back down. "Connect me to the Israeli prime minister’s office."

  "Paul. What is it?" It was Jennifer, arms tucked under her pillow, eyes squinting in the light.

  "Some trouble." Before he could say any more, a female with a soft English accent answered the call.

  "This is President Anderson. I need to speak with the prime minister immediately."

  "I’m sorry, sir. He is, at this moment, away."

  "Have him call me as soon as possible. This matter requires immediate attention."

  "Yes, Mr. President, I’ll contact him now."

  "Thank you." He hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom. Turning around, he looked back at his wife. Lightning reflected off her face as she walked past the window toward him.

  "Remember when I told you we were on the verge of a historic agreement in the Middle East?" he said, thinking of the tentative cease-fire agreement with Hamas and the release of Palestinian prisoners Israel agreed to two weeks earlier.

  "Yes?"

  "Well, signing pieces of paper, handshakes and everything else we groveled for just got pushed to the bottom of the list."

  "What? Are they at it again?" she replied, probably never suspecting his next words.

  "I wish it were as simple as that." He opened the shower door and twisted the faucets, smelling their clean aroma as he adjusted until sufficient steam flowed from the shower to fill the room. He slid the glass door shut and unbuttoned his shirt. Then he turned, locking eyes with hers and revealed the secret. "The Iranians have just exploded an atomic bomb."

  "How? I mean, I thought everyone said—"

  "That they were at least a year or so away? That’s what I thought…So did every other person in this administration, Great Britain, the European Union…Even the Russians." He shook his head. "Everyone seemed so sure."

  "What will you do?"

  "Don’t know, yet. I hope to have an answer by sunrise. If the prime minister calls, someone knock."

  "I’ll make some coffee."

  "Make mine black." he said, "and Jennifer, don't mention this to anyone." She nodded and he closed the door. Steam lighted on his body and fogged the mirrors as he walked to the shower. ‘Think only blank thoughts…lose myself from this moment.’ He slid the glass back and stepped into the drumming spew. Final words left his lips. "God help us," he muttered, and closed his eyes in the spray.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  24 m
inutes later

  The building was a large, stepped multi-story complex made of medium brown brick and sat beside busy roads that flowed heavy with traffic. Unlike the majestic parliament building with its squat rectangular shape and Frank Lloyd Wright futuristic architecture, it appeared just as ordinary and dull like the multitudes of office buildings springing up around it. Yet, every citizen in the country was under no illusion that the real power of the State of Israel resided within these walls. Every department, civilian and military, all possessed several offices with large windows permitting views of the young city's expanse, like the eyes of a doting mother, keeping reigns on a favorite son, while on the topmost floor resided her brain, whose policies held sway over daily life. The office of the prime minister.

  A silver elevator door slid open and two men stepped out to begin the walk down the shiny white hall. Their reflections stared back from the polished floor, revealing one wearing a light blue, short-sleeve, buttoned down shirt with black tie and pants. The other wore the standard olive drab uniform of the Israeli Army with the red beret of Special Forces tucked under his left shoulder epaulet where a colonel’s insignia rode. Unlike most of the world’s countries, the Israeli government played loose with clothing formalities. Such types were seen everywhere in this building and this day was no different. And, as their footsteps tapped a strange rhythm down the vacant passageway, they turned to the right and stopped in front of a cherry wood door. Just above their eyes read a blue rectangular placard with white Hebrew letters saying ‘Office Of The Prime Minister.’

  "Come in."

  Michael Philpot, head of the MOSSAD intelligence agency, opened the door and Colonel Jessy Foxmann, head of Depth Corps, the newly formed expeditionary Special Forces unit, followed him through.

  "Sit down, please," Grozner said. "I want you here when I do this."

  Foxmann’s eyes darted round the room. This was his first time here and he was anything but impressed with the layout. Two bullet-proof windows looked in on a pair of table lamps at the furthermost corners with a sitting area consisting of a couch and two chairs. On the opposite wall were sliding glass bookcases partially filled with history and autobiographies. Then there were the two seats they took in front of the prime minister’s desk.

  Ariel Grozner had two phones on either side of him. A black one for domestic and international calls and a red one for national emergencies. He held the black one’s receiver to an ear, pressed a button and said, "The president." Then he rubbed a finger over the smooth wood, wondering about the tone this discussion would take.

  "Prime Minister?"

  "Yes, Mr. President. I’m sorry I was unable to be reached when you called. I know you are aware of the situation both our countries face as a result of today’s news."

  "Yes... But I must add that on our end, the results may still be inconclusive."

  The prime minister looked across at the two men with a curious expression. "I’m afraid I don’t understand."

  "Our Intelligence assets in Iran have provided no indication there was a successful detonation. What’s more, the most important part right now, the seismic readout, appears to be just a fragment. We’d have a hard time selling it to the world until we have substantial proof."

  "And what is that?"

  "We have an aircraft en route. It will be in the area in half a day. Take air samples, transmit them in real time. In fact, we'll share them with you. If it shows anything, I would ask that you delay any strike for twenty-four hours until we determine whether we should join you. We’ll have to share information on routes and what targets to hit. Whatever the results, I’m asking for your postponement while we create a case and take it to the U.N. Even if nothing happened, what we have may give us much more leverage for wider sanctions."

  "My country is at risk, Mr. President! He formed his hand into a fist and bumped it on the table. “This is our Independence Day. They were sending a message aimed directly at us...If we do not attack soon, we—"

  "I understand,” he interrupted. "I know the pressure you’re under; Believe me. The United States would never let your country be at such a risk that it would be destroyed." Grozner sensed him curling fingers around the phone tighter, fixating on the wall, and proceeding slowly and deliberately with a warning. "Don’t send those jets, Mr. Grozner. We cannot afford to start a war without absolute proof."

  Grozner realized the tone was more a concern instead of a warning. It came because of the Iraq WMD argument in front the world in 2003, not so much because Anderson was squeamish. Any falsehoods this go around would damage America far more than Israel. For the moment, Grozner seemed affected, and backed off suddenly. "Alright, Mr. President, I am willing to live with your request for now. We'll wait for your aircraft's readings. Please be assured that Israel reserves the right to defend itself even if these results are inconclusive. Remember what the alternative for my people has been since independence."

  "And what is that?"

  "There isn’t one," he chuckled a bit, breaking the tension. "I will speak with you again when your aircraft retrieves its data. Good day to you."

  He laid the receiver down and again looked over at Philpot whose furled brow spoke volumes.

  "Dear God, you're not serious, are you?" Philpot wondered aloud, nostrils drawing into a sneer. Surely not this man who has an iron will when it came to security. “Everything is ready. We must—"

  "Not certain it’s necessary right now. I’m willing to let the president gather more information and play diplomat for a day. If it is not to our satisfaction though, we will still strike." He clasped his hands to emphasize. "We hold the cards now. And he knows it."

  At once, Philpot understood the reluctance of the man and what it meant. "You have doubts too, don’t you?"

  Grozner nodded, his lips constricting a bit. "Yes. We have one agent, only one out of the entire network that’s confirmed it. The rest vary between possibly they might have to absolutely not. Then we have the seismic data which is so flimsy that it wouldn’t hold up in an international court. In my gut feeling, I’m certain they succeeded. But we need more proof. We’ve had seismic fragments over the years almost matching what we received this morning. And we also have an ally who doesn’t realize how much we’re going to need him if things turn ugly." He shifted his attention to Foxmann. "That’s why you’re here, Colonel."

  Washington, D.C.

  7:32 A.M.

  He turned into the hallway, holding the gray cup of coffee. Running fingers through moistened, silvery hair, he gave no thought to the hundred-year-old paintings, statues from dignitaries and their countries, or any other gift staring at him from either side of the storied walls as he strode by. He tugged at his tie, slackening it a bit so he could turn his head without chafing. Its dark blue complimented the black pinstripe suit and polished shoes that reflected the lights in quick points with each step. He still heard the rain pummeling the roof and saw light shining from an open door a few paces down to his right.

  Rounding the entrance, he saw the six men. To the left, were Vice President Joseph Mason, Secretary Mitchell, and Central Intelligence Agency Director, Peter Krause. On the right, were National Security Advisor Seth Greene, Defense Intelligence Agency Director Collin Williams, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Army General Robert Ramsey, whose half-smile appeared more nervous than welcoming.

  Anderson was surprised Krause didn't speak up and start offering apologies for what might be one of the worst intelligence disasters in the nation's history. The attentive silence told him all seemed at a loss for words, and wanted him to open the conversation, maybe even control it. He decided he would, and withhold questions of failure for later on.

  He sat down into the high-backed chair in front of an open laptop and phone at the head of a long, brown, rectangular table that ended near a wall. A digital clock reading Eastern Standard Time sat above a large three-by-five-foot monitor that remained dark and partially blocked by the laptop screen before him, as the res
t of the group sat themselves down in front of their computers and waited for Mitchell to begin the briefing.

  "Before we begin," Anderson stated, trying to ease everybody, "let me say that I spoke with Grozner a short while ago. I sensed that he wants a definitive answer like we do.”

  "Meaning they're not sure." Greene asked, watching Anderson down a healthy gulp of brew.

  "I believe so. We are standing down,but, only for twenty-four hours if we get bad news. He also reiterated Israel's right to defend itself whatever the results, which for some reason I found a bit hollow. I'm sure he already proposed offering us a delay during his cabinet meeting and I can only imagine he got quite an earful from some of the true believers who wanted to go right then.”

  "Would have been nice to have been a fly on the wall," Williams said, pressing a key to adjust the contrast on his screen.

  Anderson's eyes left him and looked at the screen. He heard Mitchell's fingers plod a few keystrokes, then begin.

  "This briefing will be in three parts. The seismic evidence, then photographic and finally intelligence support." He cleared his throat.

  "At twelve oh one a.m Iranian time, seismic stations in Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan detected a small continuous subterranean earthquake whose epicenter was located twenty-seven miles southeast of the city of Zanjan and approximately twenty-two hundred feet below ground." The screens synced together now, turned into a map of southwest Asia and showed small pulsating orange orbs riding along the borders of the three labeled nations. These marked each seismic station while a larger blue circle blinked just below them within Iran. It joined in tempo sending white concentric circles radiating outward into nothingness except toward the three borders where the pulses swallowed them. It gave little detail until the screen vanished, changing into three black boxes above which displayed the detection countries in alphabetical order along with the time and a number reading zero point zero in the top right hand corner. In the center of each box, streamed a steady green line and the time begin counting down from fifteen seconds.