army?’ The man in his arms was dying. He cut the lock-tie behind the wounded man’s back, freeing his arms, one of which was broken. For years they’d been trying to infiltrate the Hezbollah. Finally, they’d managed the unbelievable only to have their own army come along, surround him and kill him. Beautiful! Kakat! Shit! The Mercedes dashed through the streets, heading for a Shin Bet safe house that contained a fully staffed OR with trauma specialists on hand. ‘Jacob, you kakat , hang on. Hang on!’ he screamed.
‘He’s saying something. What’s he saying?’ said Ahron Mandelberg, ripping open Jacob’s shirt, checking for chest wounds as the Mercedes bounced along.
‘ They will vex us in the east ,’ said Jacob as his heart gave out. He said it softly, almost in a whisper.
‘Jacob! Jacob! What did you say? Horah!’ Mandelberg placed his ear against Jacob’s chest. He slammed his fist against the man’s chest, cracking his sternum, trying to get his heart started.
‘He said, “They’ll vex in the east.” Does anyone know what that means?’ Mandelberg shouted, his ear close to the dead man’s lips. ‘Jacob! Where? East Jerusalem?’
‘Lie him down,’ called out Mandelberg as the car raced through the narrow streets. ‘Jacob! What did you say?’ yelled Mandelberg. ‘Is it some kind of fucking proverb?’
‘Forget it. He’s dead,’ said one of the other men. The concussion from a grenade had done its job well, shattering Jacob’s internal organs as completely as if a truck had hit him.
Baruch fingered the report of the operation. Two crack soldiers had died in the op, the platoon commander – one of his best – would be laid up in recovery for a month at least, and a Shin Bet agent working undercover had also died of his wounds. How the hell was he to know that one of the terrorists wasn’t a terrorist at all? The man ran with the enemy, fired on innocent people and then took on the army, for God’s sake. The whole fucking thing had happened so fast. And what would Shin Bet have done had it known one of their own was in that apartment building? Told everyone to pack up and go home? The icing on the cake was the loss of the UAV. It wasn’t one of theirs. It was on loan, on trial from the manufacturer in the United States, sponsored by the US military. And, of course, both were pissed about the disappearance of the multi-million-dollar toy, which meant his superiors were pissed at him too. Another excuse for them to hold back his promotion. A fifty-one year old lieutenant colonel in a young person’s army? Horah! Baruch snapped the folder shut.
The media had reported it differently, of course. They said it had been a great victory. Four senior members of the hateful terrorist group Hezbollah cornered, shot andkilled. And this time, no civilian casualties to account for. He was a hero. Everyone was a hero. The unwinnable war was being won. What would winning it mean? Baruch had no real idea. He shook his head, trying to clear it of doubt. He buried the report under a pile of papers on his desk. There was a tight feeling in his chest. Stress. It would be another night of non-performance in the marriage bed, no doubt, staring at the ceiling.
Australian Defence Force HQ, Russell Offices, Canberra, Australia
Sergeant Tom Wilkes had been ordered to the briefing by the commanding officer of the regiment himself, Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Hardcastle, the same Hardcastle who’d single-handedly destroyed two mobile Scud missile launchers in Iraq during Desert Storm, and rescued a downed American pilot in Bosnia, carrying the man on his back for four days across hostile territory. And yet, like many in the SAS, the colonel was hardly the muscle-bound matinee idol type. He was of average height and weight with short brown hair that was now greying slightly at the temples, and large, friendly brown eyes. His was the face that disappeared in a crowd, a kind of Everyman, yet he was fearless,
‘He’s saying something. What’s he saying?’ said Ahron Mandelberg, ripping open Jacob’s shirt, checking for chest wounds as the Mercedes bounced along.
‘ They will vex us in the east ,’ said Jacob as his heart gave out. He said it softly, almost in a whisper.
‘Jacob! Jacob! What did you say? Horah!’ Mandelberg placed his ear against Jacob’s chest. He slammed his fist against the man’s chest, cracking his sternum, trying to get his heart started.
‘He said, “They’ll vex in the east.” Does anyone know what that means?’ Mandelberg shouted, his ear close to the dead man’s lips. ‘Jacob! Where? East Jerusalem?’
‘Lie him down,’ called out Mandelberg as the car raced through the narrow streets. ‘Jacob! What did you say?’ yelled Mandelberg. ‘Is it some kind of fucking proverb?’
‘Forget it. He’s dead,’ said one of the other men. The concussion from a grenade had done its job well, shattering Jacob’s internal organs as completely as if a truck had hit him.
Baruch fingered the report of the operation. Two crack soldiers had died in the op, the platoon commander – one of his best – would be laid up in recovery for a month at least, and a Shin Bet agent working undercover had also died of his wounds. How the hell was he to know that one of the terrorists wasn’t a terrorist at all? The man ran with the enemy, fired on innocent people and then took on the army, for God’s sake. The whole fucking thing had happened so fast. And what would Shin Bet have done had it known one of their own was in that apartment building? Told everyone to pack up and go home? The icing on the cake was the loss of the UAV. It wasn’t one of theirs. It was on loan, on trial from the manufacturer in the United States, sponsored by the US military. And, of course, both were pissed about the disappearance of the multi-million-dollar toy, which meant his superiors were pissed at him too. Another excuse for them to hold back his promotion. A fifty-one year old lieutenant colonel in a young person’s army? Horah! Baruch snapped the folder shut.
The media had reported it differently, of course. They said it had been a great victory. Four senior members of the hateful terrorist group Hezbollah cornered, shot andkilled. And this time, no civilian casualties to account for. He was a hero. Everyone was a hero. The unwinnable war was being won. What would winning it mean? Baruch had no real idea. He shook his head, trying to clear it of doubt. He buried the report under a pile of papers on his desk. There was a tight feeling in his chest. Stress. It would be another night of non-performance in the marriage bed, no doubt, staring at the ceiling.
Australian Defence Force HQ, Russell Offices, Canberra, Australia
Sergeant Tom Wilkes had been ordered to the briefing by the commanding officer of the regiment himself, Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Hardcastle, the same Hardcastle who’d single-handedly destroyed two mobile Scud missile launchers in Iraq during Desert Storm, and rescued a downed American pilot in Bosnia, carrying the man on his back for four days across hostile territory. And yet, like many in the SAS, the colonel was hardly the muscle-bound matinee idol type. He was of average height and weight with short brown hair that was now greying slightly at the temples, and large, friendly brown eyes. His was the face that disappeared in a crowd, a kind of Everyman, yet he was fearless,
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