Post by sicarii on Jun 18, 2008 13:30:13 GMT -5
Will appreciate some critique on my new project. The post contains two parts, a prologue and the first chapter.
I wonder whether it is gripping enough for a beginning of a novel.
Thanks.
“Revenge is an act of passion, vengeance is an act of justice”.
Samual Johnson,
British author, 1704-1789
Prologue
June 7th, 1967
The third day into the Six-Day War
08:00AM
The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, outskirts of Nablus
on the West bank.
47-year-old Saad Al Sharif, holding the rank of Bikbashi in his Majesty the King Hussein’s army, a rank equal to a Lt. Colonel, stood atop the second floor of his two-story villa. Holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes he scanned the foot of the hill for any signs of the approaching Israeli forces. The villa, overlooking the ancient city of Nablus, was given to him as a personal gift from King Hussein on his wedding day to the 22-year-old Alya, the daughter of Abdullah Al Sharif, the Sheik of the Hawyatat Bedouin tribe, only a year ago.
He could hear the sounds of the exploding shells fired by the Israeli artillery pounding the positions of the Jordanian Legion as they defended the roads to the city; he knew they could not hold for long. He must leave now.
“Fatima”. He called to the 19-year-old nanny who helped his still weak wife with the three day old twins.
“Help Alya get dressed then both of you go down to my Land Rover. It is parked behind the villa. Make sure you cover the babies. There will be much dust.”
“Ayiwa, Ya Bikbashi,” the girl said. Yes, Colonel. And she went back into the villa.
The Lt. Colonel was about to turn back when his eye caught a movement at the foot of the hill. He raised his binoculars again. His heart sank. Two Israeli Jeeps, probably a reconnaissance team, both equipped with 75mm Recoilless rifles, just arrived. He could see two men on each Jeep preparing to fire at the the old world war II era Marmon-Harrington armoured vehicle that stood in front of his Villa. Watching from atop of his balcony he could see the touret of the armoured vehicle beginning to swivel, turning its 2 pounder cannon towards the Israeli Jeeps. Faster, faster d**n you,his mind raced, faster, faster, shoot, shoot, his mind shouted. The distance was about 500 yards, an easy shot for a recoliess rifle of 7000 yards.
“Out, out, everybody out!” he screamed at the top of his lungs while running back into the bedroom where his wife was getting ready. The first shell hit the Armoured car setting it up on fire, sending exploding munitions all over the front courtyard and into the house.
Entering the bedroom from the terrace, he saw his wife’s horrified face and heard her scream, “The babies!”
At that moment exactly, the second shell entered the bedroom through the wide open door and exploded into the large mirror hanging on the wall across. In that split second, the last thing his brain registered was the small and fragile body of his beloved wife, already covered in blood, being lifted like a broken doll and heralded at him. Then there was darkness.
Three vehicles approached the villa slowly, the men scanning the area. The soldier in the lead vehicle, Lt. Avi Shaham, slowly moving the barrel of the 0.3 caliber-browning machinegun from left to right, searched for targets. There were none. Only the still smoldering armoured vehicle, black smoke bellowing from it, and a couple of badly burnt bodies of Jordanian Legionnaires. The three vehicles stopped at the entrance to the villa, Lt. Shaham rose from his seat on the Jeep, picked up his Uzi submachine gun, his right hand grabbed the knob on top of the weapon and pulled it. The breech locked itself behind the first bullet, ready to feed it into the barrel and fire.
“All wait here, I am going to have a look see”, he ordered.
“Hey Avi”, the voice from the third vehicle sounded. It was a dirt brown colored Studebaker SUV with white large lettering indicating the word “PRESS” on each side.
“Yes, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Oh, call me John, enough with that Mr. Crap.”
“Ok, John, what is it?’
“Can I come in with you?”
John Reynolds was a war correspondent with the Washington Post. It was the new idea of the Israeli army to allow foreign journalists to be embedded with the advancing forces. Someone amongst the higher echelons thought it would serve as a good PR move. It was his other job that no one but his employers knew about; John Reynolds was also a CIA officer tasked with observing the advance of the Israeli forces.
“It’s your *ss, stay close behind me”. Exclaimed Lt. Shaham.
Both entered the Villa, Lt. Shaham scanning carefully the large anteroom through the submachine gun sights. He started a slow and methodical reconnaissance of each room on the first floor. There was no one. He looked up the staircase and started climbing up the stairs with John Reynolds a short distance behind him. The carnage created by the 75mm recoilless shell revealed itself to them with all its ugliness and horror the moment they entered the bedroom.
“Oh my god, what have I done, I killed a woman and her babies,” the visibly shaken Israeli officer said while lowering his weapon, noticing the two quiet infants and their young nanny. The American journalist picked up his camera, only to hear the snapping voice of the Israeli soldier.
“No, you are not going to photograph this, no!” shouted the Israeli officer, raising his Uzi for emphasis.
“Ok, Avi, calm down, I will not. You couldn’t have known. All you saw through your binoculars was a Jordanian army officer standing on the terrace and watching you with his. You also saw an armored car in the yard. It was a valid target; don’t beat yourself over your head. Anyone in your position would have done the same.”
“Where is he, where is the officer?”
“Here, on the terrace, don’t come out.” John tried. The Israeli Lt. pushed him aside and exited the room into the terrace to see the mangled and bloody body of a woman lying on top of the Jordanian officer. Both seemed dead.
“I don’t think I can ever erase this picture from my mind. Why do they keep doing that, why do they keep attacking us, why do we need to kill to survive?” Avi said and went back into the bedroom, following Reynolds.
“The babies, I think they are alive,” he suddenly heard the correspondent say, followed by the sounds of the babies crying.
“They are, aren’t they, the little buggers. Oh, thank god.” A wave of emotion swept over him and he started laughing uncontrollably.
“Look for a blanket while I go down to radio the medic,” he managed to say when he got control of himself.
“Hold on, Avi, I have a better idea, a much better idea, especially for the infants,” interjected Reynolds, getting closer and laying down his idea.
The sun was just about to disappear behind the Judean hills when Lt. Colonel Sharif regained his consciousness. The first thing he felt was his wife’s body lying on top of him. Very gently he removed her from on top of him. He then checked her pulse and when there was none, he gently cradled her head in his arms and set there watching the sun setting down beyond the hills.
It suddenly hit him; he laid her head gently on the floor, rose and ran into the bedroom. He could see Fatima, the young nanny lying on the floor near the door. He reached her with a couple of long strides, kneeled and checked her pulse. He felt it and started slapping her face gently to try to bring her out of her unconsciousness.
“The infants, the twins where are they?” he shouted when he noticed her coming around. The nanny looked at him completely dazed then she realized what he was asking her, looked around, and when she saw that the infants where not there, started screaming, tearing her hair with each scream. The Colonel raised his hand and slapped her hard over her face. She stopped screaming. Someone took the babies and it could only be the Israelis.
A wave of white hot hate surged in his veins. He exited the bedroom onto the terrace, stopped near his dead wife, then raised a fisted hand at the sky.
“Hear me, oh Allah the Great, oh ye the merciful. Forgive me for taking thy name Al Mumeed, the Slayer. This I swear. From now on and till the day I die, I will kill Israelis and Jews where ever they are. I will make the streets of their cities rivers of blood. Vengeance will be my food, vengeance will be my drink, and vengeance will be the air I breathe, from now on and forever more. I will kill them, kill them, kill them!” he screamed into the darkening skies.
March 4th, 1996
Dizengoff Center, the shopping mall - Tel Aviv, Israel.
10:53 AM
The 6 foot 2 inches tall 29-year-old Major Roy Shaham, a company commander in one of Israel’s elite Special Forces unit known as Duvdevan, literally meaning Cherry, was a happy but a very stressed man. He was on his way to meet the love of his life, Galit. A man who typically faced the prospect of death operating undercover in the Palestinian cities when tracking down terrorists, was today stressed about money, better yet, the lack of it. The only question on his mind was whether the jeweler would extend him the payments necessary to purchase his fiancée her engagement ring?
He was granted only an eight-hour leave to go and meet his future wife; it will have to do. A wide smile appeared on his face as he thought about what they would do with the remaining time after they pick up the ring.
The bus dropped him across from the entrance to Israel’s largest mall. It was sprawled across both sides of Dizengoff Street, named after the first mayor of Tel Aviv, with an overpass that made it possible to move between the many stores without crossing the busy street.
Stepping of the bus he hung his M-4 across his back. Israeli soldiers were required to carry their firearms with them everywhere they went.
Major Shaham entered the mall and started looking around searching for the beautiful face of his fiancée. He found her sitting in a small café located in the center of the mall, one level down.
“Galit!” he called, his voice swallowed by the loud mall chatter. When she did not respond, he called again, “Galit!” She heard him the second time, her head turning around searching for him, and then she saw him standing at the level above her. She raised her head and with a wide and loving smile waved at him to come down.
It was the last moment that he saw her alive, for at that instant a huge fireball rose from the middle of the small café. The shockwave rising from the enclosed space knocked him on his back, causeing him no harm. He quickly rose to his feet and looked down at where only moments ago stood his beautiful fiancée with many others.
There were only body parts--heads, hands, legs--and a large pool of blood. His mind went numb. It was impossible to comprehend, she was standing there only a second ago, where has she gone? He raced down, jumping two, three steps at the time, almost losing his balance. He reached the bottom level. He tried to walk to the middle of the café where she stood when he saw her first. It was impossible that she was gone. His rubber sole boots slipped on a pool of blood and he fell to the floor. There she was. The tables that covered her protected her body from blowing apart, she was as beautiful as ever, but she was dead. Her eyes still open and her mouth still smiling, but she was dead.
“No!” He screamed.
He raised his head and looked around. His eyes caught a young Palestinian busboy. He was standing there as dazed as all the others that remained alive, either shocked or wounded. Without a thought the Major raised his M-4, cocked it and was about to shoot the young Palestinian when a voice behind him said, “No, please do not do that, I can’t let you do that. Please lower your weapon.”
He turned around to see a police officer aiming his handgun at him,“Please lower the gun.” Major Roy Shaham fell to his knees, sobbing. The policeman reached him, helped him back to his feet and gave him a hug. He then took his weapon and removed the magazine before handing it back to him.
That evening on the 8PM news, a short video aired, the already familiar image of a young Palestinian standing in front of a green flag depicting the land of Israel slashed by two scimitars, the Arabic phrase “Al Intikam”, Vengeance, splashed across the flag. The Young Palestinian looked into the camera and said in perfect Hebrew, albeit with a slight Arabic accent, “We will kill you until there are nor more of you to kill.”
Back at his army base, Major Shaham watched the news.
He rose and approached the TV screen until he was a couple of yards from it. His comrades around him said nothing; there was a complete silence in the room when he said, “I will kill the man responsible for this and all his followers, I promise you Galit, if this is the last thing I’ll do. I will not rest until I will kill him. Vengeance isn’t yours anymore, Lord. Vengeance is mine and I will repay.”
April 3rd, 1996, Afternoon
On Approach to Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport, Croatia.
The terrified scream piercing US Air force’s Captain Ashley J. Davis’ ears came through his earpiece in the midst of his preparation for the final approach to Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport. The aircraft he piloted, a VCT-43a, the air force’s version of the Boeing 737-200, was mainly used for re-current training of air force crews and sometimes also doubled as a cargo carrier. The V designation was added only recently when it was decided to convert it for usage of government officials or VIPs. And the VIP this time was the US Secretary of Commerce, the Honorable Ron Brown, accompanied by 35 business men from a myriad of US Corporations.
“ Oh, my god, oh, my god. It is the secretary; he has a huge hole in his head. He was shot. He is dead!”
Despite the terrified scream he recognized the voice to be one of the two flight attendants, Ms. Shelly Kelly, who usually attended to the Aft of the aircraft. Turning his head from the instruments panel while making ready for landing and waiting to break the 2000 feet cloud cover, Captain Davis uttered at the his co-pilot, Tim Shafer, “Go see what is happening, Tim. I think you’d better have your sidearm with you, you heard what she screamed.”
Without a word Captain Tim Shafer quickly unbuckled himself, then rose from his seat and started turning towards the cockpit door while his gaze still focused outside the cockpit front window. They broke the cloud cover as he started rising from his seat and what he saw made the blood in his veins freeze. The extremely loud claxon of the ground proximity alarm blared along with the red warning light that started flashing in his face.
The alarms as well as the horrified expression that drained the blood from Shafer’s face caused Captain Davis to turn his head back and face the cockpit’s front window. His heart missed a bit. Despite what he already perceived to be a futile effort, his instincts and many years of training took over. The right hand instantly grabbed the throttles and pushed them to full power position. The aircraft immediately responded. The co-pilot, sank back into his seat and at the same time, his left hand shot up and grabbed the flap’s handle, pushing it up to upright position. Captain Davis already started pulling on the yoke while his right foot pushed against the right rudder actuator to bank to the right.
The high-pitched sound coming from the powerful duo Pratt and Whitney engines added to the cacophony of screaming noises in his ears, indicating they are at full power and trying to raise the aircraft above the remaining 150 feet of rocks and boulders that raced at him in an ever increasing speed. The nose started rising in an attempt to clear the top of the jagged edged cliffs.
While performing all those tasks automatically and without a thought, his eyes scanned the instrument panel in front of him trying to figure out what went wrong with his preparations for landing at Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport.
Unlike most people facing imminent death, their thoughts drifting to a loving wife or kids, the only thing that raced through his mind was:
Were have I gone wrong?
The last instrument he looked at just before they slammed into the side of mount Sveti Ivan with the aircraft, almost evaporating in the huge explosion, was the ADF, the Automatic Direction Finder. It still showed the correct bearing of the final approach course to runway 12 at Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport, 119 degrees.
Were have I gone wrong?
The Analog watch above the ADF showed 2:58PM.
Standing on top of mount Sveti Ivan that lay to the north of Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport, the large Croat made himself busy with loading a portable NDB unit, a Non-Directional Beacon, back on his mule. He performed what he was tasked to do and earned his share of half a million American dollars. He felt the ground shaking when the aircraft hit the side of the mountain about 500 yards to the west of his position.
He could see how most of the aircraft disappeared in the explosion, all broken to small bits and pieces, all but the tail section that miraculously remained intact. A childish smile appeared on his face when he watched the tail section tumbling like a broken toy and eventually brought to a halt when it hit a large boulder. There was nothing in his mind, or his heart, for the people that have just perished in front of his eyes as a result of his action.
He finished tying the unit to the back of his mule and started making his way down the mountain to his village, his mind already thinking on what he is going to do with his share of the money. The only question on his mind was why is his comrade Niko Jerkuic, the maintenance chief at Clipi airport, getting a larger share of the money. All Niko had to do while sitting on his fat *ss at the airport was to turn off the NDR, the Non-Directional Radio, at the airport. It was his actions operating the NDB that caused the aircraft to veer off course. It was me that had to climb to the top of this cursed mountain in the middle of the cursed storm. He made a point to himself to discuss the issue with Niko; he is entitled to at least half of the money.
A hundred yards behind him, a man dressed in US army fatigues removed from one of many pockets a satellite phone and quickly dialed a number. It took a few seconds for the connection to be made. A person on the other side of the world picked up the call, “Yes?”
“It is done”
“Good, you know what to do next.”
“Yes.”
“Ok, then. Proceed.”
The 6 foot 2 inches tall 29-year-old man, CIA field agent Jack Reynolds, terminated the call and then started on his way down the mountain following the man with the mule.
Chapter one
North Africa – June 1942
Like a swarm of angry hornets, the small Jeeps attacked the German fuel supply depot in Buerat, west of Sirte in the North African desert, present day Libya. The men on the 0.303 caliber Vickers mounted vehicles spewed continuous fire at the guards while their comrades threw satchels of TNT at the fuel tanks, lighting them one by one. There was total chaos. Some of the German guards were running aimlessly trying to distant themselves from the sea of fire that suddenly erupted around them while others, the brave ones, tried to form a defensive line, kneeling and aiming their weapons at the attacker.
The raiders, the British Special Air Service squadron, known by its acronym SAS, were led by Second Lieutenant John Hoffmann. He was driving a German made Kubelwagon, a vehicle similar to a Jeep, but unlike the other SAS vehicles, his was fitted with two newly issued MG42 light machineguns. To his right his sergeant, Paddy Lewis, fired well-aimed bursts, mowing down the defenders like a farmer mowing his wheat field. Reaching the far end of the depot the pack of the attack vehicles braked to a screeching halt, turned and started the same run again, this time towards the exit of the camp. The two machine guns on each of the vehicles kept their fire, riddling the guards with a nonstop stream of lead. Arriving close to the depot’s gate, Hoffmann suddenly noticed two armored cars blocking his way out. Each of the armored cars had a quad heavy machine gun turret used mostly as anti aircraft weapons. The four barrels on each turret were aimed and firing directly at his squadron. Noticing the two armored cars, the attacking vehicles scattered all over looking for a way out of the depot and trying to avoid the heavy fire coming from the two German armored cars. Second Lieutenant Hoffman broke to the left, depressing the accelerator pedal to the maximum.
The loud explosions coming from the burning fuel tanks muted the sounds of the small vehicle’s roaring engine. The Kubelwagon, loaded with three men, 2 machine guns, water and fuel, and many boxes of ammunition, responded like a trained horse to its rider and pushed itself up the gentle sandy hill. Reaching its top, it leaped into the air as if to say, “I made it, I survived”.
It was at this moment that Second Lieutenant John Hoffmann realized his life and the lives of his two comrades are about to end. The sign “Mines”, half buried in the sand, screamed it’s warning at him. It was too late. There was nothing he could do.
It was true, your life does pass as a film in your mind on those last seconds of your life.
He was born as Johan Hoffmann to a well-to-do Jewish family in Nuremberg, Germany in 1920. His early childhood was filled with parental love and affections from all. It all changed on one night in November 1938.
Krystalnacht, they called it. All the Jewish owned businesses where destroyed, his father’s business was not spared. It was an SS officer who was married to a Jewish woman who warned him to leave Germany immediately and so they did, they left for Palestine.
Johan’s ear for languages did not escape his teachers at the Haifa’s Israel institute of Technology University where he was studying for a degree in civil engineering. He had this uncanny ability to learn the language in an incredibly short time. So he did. With in less than a year Johan Hoffmann could converse in Hebrew, Arabic, and English as a native of each of those countries. It wasn’t long before he was enlisted into the SHAI, the Hebrew acronym for Information Service, the intelligence arm of the Hagana--the Jewish resistance to the British rule in Palestine. A short time later he found himself roaming Arab villages tasked with collecting information.
It wasn’t too long after the war started that the Hagana put aside its operations against the British army and sent its best and brightest to join the Brits and fight against Nazi Germany. Johan Hoffmann was one of the first. Next, he found himself in a unit called SIG, the Special Intelligence Group. All its members were Jews of German decent who could easily pass as German soldiers or officers.
The SIGs were attached to the newly formed SAS, the Special Air Service, and started after a grueling period of training to attack and inflict much damage and many casualties on the German Army infrastructure in North Africa.
It was earlier that day, dressed as a German officer, from dog tags to boots driving a German made vehicle, that he made it possible for the attack pack he led to get into the German Fuel depot. And now all that was about to end on top of a German landmine.
The front right wheel of the leaping vehicle landed on top of the mine. The explosion that followed lifted the small vehicle into the air, throwing Second Lieutenant Hoffmann out of the driver’s seat and onto the sand. The Kubelwagon landed again on the desert sand only to hit a second mine. This time the explosion shredded the small vehicle to pieces together with its two occupants sitting to the right and behind Second Lieutenant Hoffmann.
The lone Bedouin rider, sitting on his camel, watched the minefield with his binoculars. He was scouting for the Germans, he was sent to search and locate the escaping vehicles from last night’s attack. The forty-year-old Sheik Abed Al Sharif, the leader of the Hawyatat, the largest Bedouin tribe of Southern Jordan, was a devout Muslim. So when the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem called on all Muslims to join the German forces in order to defeat the British, he did just that. He was about to leave when he thought he saw some movement near the German made Kubelwagon. He raised his binoculars again and carefully watched the ground near the demolished vehicle. All he could see was a booted foot, it moved. Abed Al Sharif started making his way into the minefield. The Bedouin Sheik knew a lot about minefields, they were scattered all around the desert of North Africa.
This minefield was put there as a defensive line against vehicles, not men; it needed the weight of a vehicle to detonate. He got off his camel and started making his way slowly towards the vehicle. Near the Kubelwagon lay a German officer, “Allah the merciful, he is alive,” the Bedouin said aloud in Arabic.
“Maya, maya,” Water, water, he heard coming from the injured officer. The German officer spoke Arabic.
“Where are you hurt?” asked the Bedouin.
“Ma’arafsh,” answered the German officer in perfectly accented Arabic. I do not know. The Bedouin scout opened the water flask he carried and slowly trickled a few drops on the officer’s lips, then some on his forehead. It seemed to have done him very good because the officer attempted to rise.
“Lie down, too early, wait a bit. What is your name?”
“My name is…” he fell silent.
“What is your name?” repeated the Beduin.
“Ma’arafsh,” I don’t know. “I cannot remember, I do not know.” A panic attack took over the German officer. He wanted to say something but a sudden jolt of pain seemed to have hit his body, causing him to lose consciousness.
I wonder whether it is gripping enough for a beginning of a novel.
Thanks.
“Revenge is an act of passion, vengeance is an act of justice”.
Samual Johnson,
British author, 1704-1789
Prologue
June 7th, 1967
The third day into the Six-Day War
08:00AM
The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, outskirts of Nablus
on the West bank.
47-year-old Saad Al Sharif, holding the rank of Bikbashi in his Majesty the King Hussein’s army, a rank equal to a Lt. Colonel, stood atop the second floor of his two-story villa. Holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes he scanned the foot of the hill for any signs of the approaching Israeli forces. The villa, overlooking the ancient city of Nablus, was given to him as a personal gift from King Hussein on his wedding day to the 22-year-old Alya, the daughter of Abdullah Al Sharif, the Sheik of the Hawyatat Bedouin tribe, only a year ago.
He could hear the sounds of the exploding shells fired by the Israeli artillery pounding the positions of the Jordanian Legion as they defended the roads to the city; he knew they could not hold for long. He must leave now.
“Fatima”. He called to the 19-year-old nanny who helped his still weak wife with the three day old twins.
“Help Alya get dressed then both of you go down to my Land Rover. It is parked behind the villa. Make sure you cover the babies. There will be much dust.”
“Ayiwa, Ya Bikbashi,” the girl said. Yes, Colonel. And she went back into the villa.
The Lt. Colonel was about to turn back when his eye caught a movement at the foot of the hill. He raised his binoculars again. His heart sank. Two Israeli Jeeps, probably a reconnaissance team, both equipped with 75mm Recoilless rifles, just arrived. He could see two men on each Jeep preparing to fire at the the old world war II era Marmon-Harrington armoured vehicle that stood in front of his Villa. Watching from atop of his balcony he could see the touret of the armoured vehicle beginning to swivel, turning its 2 pounder cannon towards the Israeli Jeeps. Faster, faster d**n you,his mind raced, faster, faster, shoot, shoot, his mind shouted. The distance was about 500 yards, an easy shot for a recoliess rifle of 7000 yards.
“Out, out, everybody out!” he screamed at the top of his lungs while running back into the bedroom where his wife was getting ready. The first shell hit the Armoured car setting it up on fire, sending exploding munitions all over the front courtyard and into the house.
Entering the bedroom from the terrace, he saw his wife’s horrified face and heard her scream, “The babies!”
At that moment exactly, the second shell entered the bedroom through the wide open door and exploded into the large mirror hanging on the wall across. In that split second, the last thing his brain registered was the small and fragile body of his beloved wife, already covered in blood, being lifted like a broken doll and heralded at him. Then there was darkness.
Three vehicles approached the villa slowly, the men scanning the area. The soldier in the lead vehicle, Lt. Avi Shaham, slowly moving the barrel of the 0.3 caliber-browning machinegun from left to right, searched for targets. There were none. Only the still smoldering armoured vehicle, black smoke bellowing from it, and a couple of badly burnt bodies of Jordanian Legionnaires. The three vehicles stopped at the entrance to the villa, Lt. Shaham rose from his seat on the Jeep, picked up his Uzi submachine gun, his right hand grabbed the knob on top of the weapon and pulled it. The breech locked itself behind the first bullet, ready to feed it into the barrel and fire.
“All wait here, I am going to have a look see”, he ordered.
“Hey Avi”, the voice from the third vehicle sounded. It was a dirt brown colored Studebaker SUV with white large lettering indicating the word “PRESS” on each side.
“Yes, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Oh, call me John, enough with that Mr. Crap.”
“Ok, John, what is it?’
“Can I come in with you?”
John Reynolds was a war correspondent with the Washington Post. It was the new idea of the Israeli army to allow foreign journalists to be embedded with the advancing forces. Someone amongst the higher echelons thought it would serve as a good PR move. It was his other job that no one but his employers knew about; John Reynolds was also a CIA officer tasked with observing the advance of the Israeli forces.
“It’s your *ss, stay close behind me”. Exclaimed Lt. Shaham.
Both entered the Villa, Lt. Shaham scanning carefully the large anteroom through the submachine gun sights. He started a slow and methodical reconnaissance of each room on the first floor. There was no one. He looked up the staircase and started climbing up the stairs with John Reynolds a short distance behind him. The carnage created by the 75mm recoilless shell revealed itself to them with all its ugliness and horror the moment they entered the bedroom.
“Oh my god, what have I done, I killed a woman and her babies,” the visibly shaken Israeli officer said while lowering his weapon, noticing the two quiet infants and their young nanny. The American journalist picked up his camera, only to hear the snapping voice of the Israeli soldier.
“No, you are not going to photograph this, no!” shouted the Israeli officer, raising his Uzi for emphasis.
“Ok, Avi, calm down, I will not. You couldn’t have known. All you saw through your binoculars was a Jordanian army officer standing on the terrace and watching you with his. You also saw an armored car in the yard. It was a valid target; don’t beat yourself over your head. Anyone in your position would have done the same.”
“Where is he, where is the officer?”
“Here, on the terrace, don’t come out.” John tried. The Israeli Lt. pushed him aside and exited the room into the terrace to see the mangled and bloody body of a woman lying on top of the Jordanian officer. Both seemed dead.
“I don’t think I can ever erase this picture from my mind. Why do they keep doing that, why do they keep attacking us, why do we need to kill to survive?” Avi said and went back into the bedroom, following Reynolds.
“The babies, I think they are alive,” he suddenly heard the correspondent say, followed by the sounds of the babies crying.
“They are, aren’t they, the little buggers. Oh, thank god.” A wave of emotion swept over him and he started laughing uncontrollably.
“Look for a blanket while I go down to radio the medic,” he managed to say when he got control of himself.
“Hold on, Avi, I have a better idea, a much better idea, especially for the infants,” interjected Reynolds, getting closer and laying down his idea.
The sun was just about to disappear behind the Judean hills when Lt. Colonel Sharif regained his consciousness. The first thing he felt was his wife’s body lying on top of him. Very gently he removed her from on top of him. He then checked her pulse and when there was none, he gently cradled her head in his arms and set there watching the sun setting down beyond the hills.
It suddenly hit him; he laid her head gently on the floor, rose and ran into the bedroom. He could see Fatima, the young nanny lying on the floor near the door. He reached her with a couple of long strides, kneeled and checked her pulse. He felt it and started slapping her face gently to try to bring her out of her unconsciousness.
“The infants, the twins where are they?” he shouted when he noticed her coming around. The nanny looked at him completely dazed then she realized what he was asking her, looked around, and when she saw that the infants where not there, started screaming, tearing her hair with each scream. The Colonel raised his hand and slapped her hard over her face. She stopped screaming. Someone took the babies and it could only be the Israelis.
A wave of white hot hate surged in his veins. He exited the bedroom onto the terrace, stopped near his dead wife, then raised a fisted hand at the sky.
“Hear me, oh Allah the Great, oh ye the merciful. Forgive me for taking thy name Al Mumeed, the Slayer. This I swear. From now on and till the day I die, I will kill Israelis and Jews where ever they are. I will make the streets of their cities rivers of blood. Vengeance will be my food, vengeance will be my drink, and vengeance will be the air I breathe, from now on and forever more. I will kill them, kill them, kill them!” he screamed into the darkening skies.
March 4th, 1996
Dizengoff Center, the shopping mall - Tel Aviv, Israel.
10:53 AM
The 6 foot 2 inches tall 29-year-old Major Roy Shaham, a company commander in one of Israel’s elite Special Forces unit known as Duvdevan, literally meaning Cherry, was a happy but a very stressed man. He was on his way to meet the love of his life, Galit. A man who typically faced the prospect of death operating undercover in the Palestinian cities when tracking down terrorists, was today stressed about money, better yet, the lack of it. The only question on his mind was whether the jeweler would extend him the payments necessary to purchase his fiancée her engagement ring?
He was granted only an eight-hour leave to go and meet his future wife; it will have to do. A wide smile appeared on his face as he thought about what they would do with the remaining time after they pick up the ring.
The bus dropped him across from the entrance to Israel’s largest mall. It was sprawled across both sides of Dizengoff Street, named after the first mayor of Tel Aviv, with an overpass that made it possible to move between the many stores without crossing the busy street.
Stepping of the bus he hung his M-4 across his back. Israeli soldiers were required to carry their firearms with them everywhere they went.
Major Shaham entered the mall and started looking around searching for the beautiful face of his fiancée. He found her sitting in a small café located in the center of the mall, one level down.
“Galit!” he called, his voice swallowed by the loud mall chatter. When she did not respond, he called again, “Galit!” She heard him the second time, her head turning around searching for him, and then she saw him standing at the level above her. She raised her head and with a wide and loving smile waved at him to come down.
It was the last moment that he saw her alive, for at that instant a huge fireball rose from the middle of the small café. The shockwave rising from the enclosed space knocked him on his back, causeing him no harm. He quickly rose to his feet and looked down at where only moments ago stood his beautiful fiancée with many others.
There were only body parts--heads, hands, legs--and a large pool of blood. His mind went numb. It was impossible to comprehend, she was standing there only a second ago, where has she gone? He raced down, jumping two, three steps at the time, almost losing his balance. He reached the bottom level. He tried to walk to the middle of the café where she stood when he saw her first. It was impossible that she was gone. His rubber sole boots slipped on a pool of blood and he fell to the floor. There she was. The tables that covered her protected her body from blowing apart, she was as beautiful as ever, but she was dead. Her eyes still open and her mouth still smiling, but she was dead.
“No!” He screamed.
He raised his head and looked around. His eyes caught a young Palestinian busboy. He was standing there as dazed as all the others that remained alive, either shocked or wounded. Without a thought the Major raised his M-4, cocked it and was about to shoot the young Palestinian when a voice behind him said, “No, please do not do that, I can’t let you do that. Please lower your weapon.”
He turned around to see a police officer aiming his handgun at him,“Please lower the gun.” Major Roy Shaham fell to his knees, sobbing. The policeman reached him, helped him back to his feet and gave him a hug. He then took his weapon and removed the magazine before handing it back to him.
That evening on the 8PM news, a short video aired, the already familiar image of a young Palestinian standing in front of a green flag depicting the land of Israel slashed by two scimitars, the Arabic phrase “Al Intikam”, Vengeance, splashed across the flag. The Young Palestinian looked into the camera and said in perfect Hebrew, albeit with a slight Arabic accent, “We will kill you until there are nor more of you to kill.”
Back at his army base, Major Shaham watched the news.
He rose and approached the TV screen until he was a couple of yards from it. His comrades around him said nothing; there was a complete silence in the room when he said, “I will kill the man responsible for this and all his followers, I promise you Galit, if this is the last thing I’ll do. I will not rest until I will kill him. Vengeance isn’t yours anymore, Lord. Vengeance is mine and I will repay.”
April 3rd, 1996, Afternoon
On Approach to Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport, Croatia.
The terrified scream piercing US Air force’s Captain Ashley J. Davis’ ears came through his earpiece in the midst of his preparation for the final approach to Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport. The aircraft he piloted, a VCT-43a, the air force’s version of the Boeing 737-200, was mainly used for re-current training of air force crews and sometimes also doubled as a cargo carrier. The V designation was added only recently when it was decided to convert it for usage of government officials or VIPs. And the VIP this time was the US Secretary of Commerce, the Honorable Ron Brown, accompanied by 35 business men from a myriad of US Corporations.
“ Oh, my god, oh, my god. It is the secretary; he has a huge hole in his head. He was shot. He is dead!”
Despite the terrified scream he recognized the voice to be one of the two flight attendants, Ms. Shelly Kelly, who usually attended to the Aft of the aircraft. Turning his head from the instruments panel while making ready for landing and waiting to break the 2000 feet cloud cover, Captain Davis uttered at the his co-pilot, Tim Shafer, “Go see what is happening, Tim. I think you’d better have your sidearm with you, you heard what she screamed.”
Without a word Captain Tim Shafer quickly unbuckled himself, then rose from his seat and started turning towards the cockpit door while his gaze still focused outside the cockpit front window. They broke the cloud cover as he started rising from his seat and what he saw made the blood in his veins freeze. The extremely loud claxon of the ground proximity alarm blared along with the red warning light that started flashing in his face.
The alarms as well as the horrified expression that drained the blood from Shafer’s face caused Captain Davis to turn his head back and face the cockpit’s front window. His heart missed a bit. Despite what he already perceived to be a futile effort, his instincts and many years of training took over. The right hand instantly grabbed the throttles and pushed them to full power position. The aircraft immediately responded. The co-pilot, sank back into his seat and at the same time, his left hand shot up and grabbed the flap’s handle, pushing it up to upright position. Captain Davis already started pulling on the yoke while his right foot pushed against the right rudder actuator to bank to the right.
The high-pitched sound coming from the powerful duo Pratt and Whitney engines added to the cacophony of screaming noises in his ears, indicating they are at full power and trying to raise the aircraft above the remaining 150 feet of rocks and boulders that raced at him in an ever increasing speed. The nose started rising in an attempt to clear the top of the jagged edged cliffs.
While performing all those tasks automatically and without a thought, his eyes scanned the instrument panel in front of him trying to figure out what went wrong with his preparations for landing at Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport.
Unlike most people facing imminent death, their thoughts drifting to a loving wife or kids, the only thing that raced through his mind was:
Were have I gone wrong?
The last instrument he looked at just before they slammed into the side of mount Sveti Ivan with the aircraft, almost evaporating in the huge explosion, was the ADF, the Automatic Direction Finder. It still showed the correct bearing of the final approach course to runway 12 at Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport, 119 degrees.
Were have I gone wrong?
The Analog watch above the ADF showed 2:58PM.
Standing on top of mount Sveti Ivan that lay to the north of Clipi Dubrovnik’s airport, the large Croat made himself busy with loading a portable NDB unit, a Non-Directional Beacon, back on his mule. He performed what he was tasked to do and earned his share of half a million American dollars. He felt the ground shaking when the aircraft hit the side of the mountain about 500 yards to the west of his position.
He could see how most of the aircraft disappeared in the explosion, all broken to small bits and pieces, all but the tail section that miraculously remained intact. A childish smile appeared on his face when he watched the tail section tumbling like a broken toy and eventually brought to a halt when it hit a large boulder. There was nothing in his mind, or his heart, for the people that have just perished in front of his eyes as a result of his action.
He finished tying the unit to the back of his mule and started making his way down the mountain to his village, his mind already thinking on what he is going to do with his share of the money. The only question on his mind was why is his comrade Niko Jerkuic, the maintenance chief at Clipi airport, getting a larger share of the money. All Niko had to do while sitting on his fat *ss at the airport was to turn off the NDR, the Non-Directional Radio, at the airport. It was his actions operating the NDB that caused the aircraft to veer off course. It was me that had to climb to the top of this cursed mountain in the middle of the cursed storm. He made a point to himself to discuss the issue with Niko; he is entitled to at least half of the money.
A hundred yards behind him, a man dressed in US army fatigues removed from one of many pockets a satellite phone and quickly dialed a number. It took a few seconds for the connection to be made. A person on the other side of the world picked up the call, “Yes?”
“It is done”
“Good, you know what to do next.”
“Yes.”
“Ok, then. Proceed.”
The 6 foot 2 inches tall 29-year-old man, CIA field agent Jack Reynolds, terminated the call and then started on his way down the mountain following the man with the mule.
Chapter one
North Africa – June 1942
Like a swarm of angry hornets, the small Jeeps attacked the German fuel supply depot in Buerat, west of Sirte in the North African desert, present day Libya. The men on the 0.303 caliber Vickers mounted vehicles spewed continuous fire at the guards while their comrades threw satchels of TNT at the fuel tanks, lighting them one by one. There was total chaos. Some of the German guards were running aimlessly trying to distant themselves from the sea of fire that suddenly erupted around them while others, the brave ones, tried to form a defensive line, kneeling and aiming their weapons at the attacker.
The raiders, the British Special Air Service squadron, known by its acronym SAS, were led by Second Lieutenant John Hoffmann. He was driving a German made Kubelwagon, a vehicle similar to a Jeep, but unlike the other SAS vehicles, his was fitted with two newly issued MG42 light machineguns. To his right his sergeant, Paddy Lewis, fired well-aimed bursts, mowing down the defenders like a farmer mowing his wheat field. Reaching the far end of the depot the pack of the attack vehicles braked to a screeching halt, turned and started the same run again, this time towards the exit of the camp. The two machine guns on each of the vehicles kept their fire, riddling the guards with a nonstop stream of lead. Arriving close to the depot’s gate, Hoffmann suddenly noticed two armored cars blocking his way out. Each of the armored cars had a quad heavy machine gun turret used mostly as anti aircraft weapons. The four barrels on each turret were aimed and firing directly at his squadron. Noticing the two armored cars, the attacking vehicles scattered all over looking for a way out of the depot and trying to avoid the heavy fire coming from the two German armored cars. Second Lieutenant Hoffman broke to the left, depressing the accelerator pedal to the maximum.
The loud explosions coming from the burning fuel tanks muted the sounds of the small vehicle’s roaring engine. The Kubelwagon, loaded with three men, 2 machine guns, water and fuel, and many boxes of ammunition, responded like a trained horse to its rider and pushed itself up the gentle sandy hill. Reaching its top, it leaped into the air as if to say, “I made it, I survived”.
It was at this moment that Second Lieutenant John Hoffmann realized his life and the lives of his two comrades are about to end. The sign “Mines”, half buried in the sand, screamed it’s warning at him. It was too late. There was nothing he could do.
It was true, your life does pass as a film in your mind on those last seconds of your life.
He was born as Johan Hoffmann to a well-to-do Jewish family in Nuremberg, Germany in 1920. His early childhood was filled with parental love and affections from all. It all changed on one night in November 1938.
Krystalnacht, they called it. All the Jewish owned businesses where destroyed, his father’s business was not spared. It was an SS officer who was married to a Jewish woman who warned him to leave Germany immediately and so they did, they left for Palestine.
Johan’s ear for languages did not escape his teachers at the Haifa’s Israel institute of Technology University where he was studying for a degree in civil engineering. He had this uncanny ability to learn the language in an incredibly short time. So he did. With in less than a year Johan Hoffmann could converse in Hebrew, Arabic, and English as a native of each of those countries. It wasn’t long before he was enlisted into the SHAI, the Hebrew acronym for Information Service, the intelligence arm of the Hagana--the Jewish resistance to the British rule in Palestine. A short time later he found himself roaming Arab villages tasked with collecting information.
It wasn’t too long after the war started that the Hagana put aside its operations against the British army and sent its best and brightest to join the Brits and fight against Nazi Germany. Johan Hoffmann was one of the first. Next, he found himself in a unit called SIG, the Special Intelligence Group. All its members were Jews of German decent who could easily pass as German soldiers or officers.
The SIGs were attached to the newly formed SAS, the Special Air Service, and started after a grueling period of training to attack and inflict much damage and many casualties on the German Army infrastructure in North Africa.
It was earlier that day, dressed as a German officer, from dog tags to boots driving a German made vehicle, that he made it possible for the attack pack he led to get into the German Fuel depot. And now all that was about to end on top of a German landmine.
The front right wheel of the leaping vehicle landed on top of the mine. The explosion that followed lifted the small vehicle into the air, throwing Second Lieutenant Hoffmann out of the driver’s seat and onto the sand. The Kubelwagon landed again on the desert sand only to hit a second mine. This time the explosion shredded the small vehicle to pieces together with its two occupants sitting to the right and behind Second Lieutenant Hoffmann.
The lone Bedouin rider, sitting on his camel, watched the minefield with his binoculars. He was scouting for the Germans, he was sent to search and locate the escaping vehicles from last night’s attack. The forty-year-old Sheik Abed Al Sharif, the leader of the Hawyatat, the largest Bedouin tribe of Southern Jordan, was a devout Muslim. So when the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem called on all Muslims to join the German forces in order to defeat the British, he did just that. He was about to leave when he thought he saw some movement near the German made Kubelwagon. He raised his binoculars again and carefully watched the ground near the demolished vehicle. All he could see was a booted foot, it moved. Abed Al Sharif started making his way into the minefield. The Bedouin Sheik knew a lot about minefields, they were scattered all around the desert of North Africa.
This minefield was put there as a defensive line against vehicles, not men; it needed the weight of a vehicle to detonate. He got off his camel and started making his way slowly towards the vehicle. Near the Kubelwagon lay a German officer, “Allah the merciful, he is alive,” the Bedouin said aloud in Arabic.
“Maya, maya,” Water, water, he heard coming from the injured officer. The German officer spoke Arabic.
“Where are you hurt?” asked the Bedouin.
“Ma’arafsh,” answered the German officer in perfectly accented Arabic. I do not know. The Bedouin scout opened the water flask he carried and slowly trickled a few drops on the officer’s lips, then some on his forehead. It seemed to have done him very good because the officer attempted to rise.
“Lie down, too early, wait a bit. What is your name?”
“My name is…” he fell silent.
“What is your name?” repeated the Beduin.
“Ma’arafsh,” I don’t know. “I cannot remember, I do not know.” A panic attack took over the German officer. He wanted to say something but a sudden jolt of pain seemed to have hit his body, causing him to lose consciousness.