FIFTY
Ethan March stood in baggage claim at the airport. He was leaving a voicemail for Deborah: “All right, Deb, I know what I’m about to tell you sounds crazy, but your voicemail said you were in Israel with your father. Then I happened to meet up with a friend of mine in the Air Force, active duty, detailed to the Pentagon. Without going into specifics, he hinted that Israel is digging in for a tough stand against an attack, probably from Iran. So … well, I really appreciated the chance to protect you on that flight out of JFK. Deborah … okay, I’m sorry, I haven’t been more up front about how I feel. But the truth is … I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. I know this is all very fast, but maybe our being on the same flight was fate or something. Not that your father can’t protect you. Please don’t think I would ever say that. I just want the privilege of looking after you myself. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
He took a deep breath, then finished his message. “Anyway, Deb, I’m here in Tel Aviv. I flew to Rome, then caught the last flight into Israel. I don’t think Israel is letting any more flights in. Now I hear that Israel bombed Iran’s nuclear site. So the … well, chicken feathers are going to start flying … I guess that’s the polite way of saying it. I’d like to see you and make sure you’re safe. Call me. Okay? Thanks.”
Ethan clicked off his Allfone and watched the baggage conveyor. After a while, his bag came by and he snatched it. Through the glass doors he could see that it was early evening in Israel and darkness was falling. While he waited for Deborah to return his call, he had one question.
In the presidential palace in Tehran, an aging Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran’s long-reigning leader, was seated behind his ornate gilded desk. His hands rested comfortably on it, next to the special high-command Allfone. He was thinking.
Behind him, on either side of the floor-to-ceiling golden silk curtains, was a portrait of the grey-bearded Ayatollah Khomeini, the founder of the modern Islamic republic of Iran. Ahmadinejad had managed to hang on to power over the years, despite the sniping and complaining from the ruling imams. He had even been able to suppress the ever growing prodemocracy movement, though to his infernal rage, the “addicts of freedom,” as he called them privately, would still surge onto the streets of Tehran with banners calling for reform, free elections, and an end to his own push for the nuclear destruction of Israel. Yes, he had been able to hang on to power. But barely. The people in the street protests were swelling in number. He could arrest, imprison, or torture only so many per day.
Often Iran’s president would wonder to himself: How did Saddam Hussein do it so effectively for so long?
But now it was decision time. He would give the order to launch Iran’s three nuclear warheads on the newest version of their Qiam — “Uprising” — missiles. Two of the targets within Israel were easy to choose: Tel Aviv and the harbor at Haifa. Some of his advisors wanted to destroy Jerusalem, but that posed several problems. The mosques on the Temple Mount in the heart of the Old City were Islamic holy sites. “That,” Ahmadinejad told them, “would be very bad public relations.” Then there were the Sunnis to be placated. That was critical in his attempt to unite the Arab Islamic world in preparation for his war against Israel and the West. As a Shiite, he didn’t share their view about the location where the future Islamic messiah, the Mahdi, the “twelfth imam” long awaited and prophesied in Islam, would end up appearing. But the Sunnis envisioned it taking place on the Temple Mount.
He didn’t mind preserving Jerusalem. It belonged to Allah anyway. So Ahmadinejad had decided that the third site would be Galilee. The city of Tiberias on the sea. It was a popular tourist site. Christians would cross the sea of Galilee in their tourist boats and sing to their Jesus, about His Godlike powers and His being their savior, the suffering Son of God. Ahmadinejad and his fellow Muslims considered them infidels. Yes, Islam considered Jesus a prophet, but when the twelfth imam, their true savior, appeared — and his appearing was very close now — Jesus would step back and bow to his authority. So the nuclear incineration of Tiberias along with Tel Aviv and Haifa would be a good choice.
Iran’s president savored the moment. Decades of dreaming about the decimation of Israel, reducing its major cities to smoldering garbage dumps, was about to bear fruit. Still, there were lingering questions about Israel’s Return-to-Sender systems. He had received word from the interrogators that the American inventor of RTS had given them no information. What a pity. Effective torture was an art form. Apparently, Iran’s secret police were losing their touch.
But he wasn’t worried. According to media accounts, RTS had failed to protect the American airliner that was blasted from the sky after departing O’Hare airport. Also, there was credible intelligence that Israel had obtained a less-than-reliable system. Although the Iranian secret police disagreed among themselves on whether that intelligence was credible, even if it were not, there was a new component in the guidance system of Iran’s Qiam missile. The Russians had provided an antilaser shield in the nose cone to protect it from the RTS laser intrusion.
Most important of all, surely, Allah would be with them. Ahmadinejad was certain of that.
He picked up the receiver. A voice on the other end, from Iran’s nuclear launch site at Bushehr, said, “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Commence the attack, General.”
Dr. Abdu was still trying to raise a response, but so far nothing. Then he thought he heard some stirring in the cell next to his. More rustling. Then the sound of something shuffling on the floor. Dr. Abdu had poked his head out of the window in the door to his cell, craning his neck to see Joshua’s cell.
Then something appeared in the food window of Joshua’s cell. Joshua’s head slowly emerged. He turned toward Dr. Abdu, who could see that both of Joshua’s eyes were blackened, and he had blood running from his ears and nose. Dr. Abdu gave a start and jerked his head slightly when he saw it.
Joshua noticed it. He mustered the strength for a weak attempt at humor: “Who’s … worse looking now?”
Shaking his head and beaming with a wide grin, Dr. Abdu said, “So happy to see you alive my friend. So very good to see you again.”
“Have you … heard anything … about war … with Israel?”
“No, Joshua. Nothing.”
“Think I’ll rest now … then we’ll talk …”
With that Joshua drew his head back into his cell and collapsed onto the floor.