Murray McDonald - Critical Error

The funding and support had been the easiest to secure but it was the Rabbis that had held up the plans. It was not until the previous evening that they had finally come to him with news that agreement had been reached and the plan could go ahead. In less than two hours, the walls would start to go up. The Army and a mass conscription of civilian contractors were ready to move and at 8 a.m., it would begin. Israel was not just tightening her borders, she was closing them down. The twelve-foot structure would encircle the land and close Israel to the outside world. The Arabs were, without exception, to be resettled in Gaza and the West Bank. By nightfall, Jerusalem would once again be completely within Israeli control.

The Air Force was already circling the skies. The message to any disagreeing neighbors would be decisive and clear. Simply put, overwhelming might would fall upon them. Israel had been pushed too far. In two months, it had not taken vengeance upon those who had orchestrated the cowardly attack on its children but that day would change all that. Israel was going to stand tall.

Ben smiled down at his grandson, his pride and joy.

“My son, what do you see?” he asked, pointing towards Jordan.

“Hmm, nothing,” replied the young boy.

“Exactly, nothing. Just miles of desert.”

“Now tell me, what do you see over there?” he asked, pointing towards Israel.

“Green plants and things.”

“Exactly. That’s what we did, the Israelis, we made this from that. Life, we gave life to this dead land!” he exclaimed proudly, stopping himself from adding ‘ and they tried their best to kill it off again. ’

As the clock ticked nearer to eight a.m., Ben boarded his waiting helicopter and headed back to Jerusalem. The shit was about to hit the fan and he was not going to miss it for anything. As they touched down, he could feel the ground shake. The roar of powerful diesel engines drowned out all other noises. The mass construction army and its machines were on the move. By nightfall, Israel would be secure. Transport ships had been arriving over the last month carrying huge concrete slabs. Massive swathes of ground had been requisitioned for their storage until that day. The whole event had been shrouded in secrecy. No one outside of Israel had any idea of what was about to happen.

As Ben entered his office in the Knesset, an office usually occupied by the Prime Minister’s Special Adviser, he noticed a young woman sitting next to his desk. As he turned to chastise his assistant for letting her into his personal sanctuary where God knows what could have been left for her to see, the young woman turned and smiled at her Uncle Ben. He had not seen his goddaughter for more than fifteen years but recognized her instantly. Rebecca Cohen looked exactly as her mother had at the same age, stunning.

“Rebecca,” he rushed and embraced the woman who, fifteen years earlier, had cut him off, blaming him for the death of her parents.

“Uncle Ben! My God, you don’t look any different! You must be… what…almost eighty?”

“You’re as old as you feel,” he said. “And just now, looking at you, I feel about thirty five!”

“I have missed you, you know,” she said with genuine sorrow. “I was young and foolish, please forgive me.”

“Not at all. I lost two great friends because of my arrogance and a loving goddaughter that I hope I can win back. I should have listened. You told me your parents were in danger and I did nothing. For that, I will be eternally sorry.”

“Please don’t. That’s the past and now’s the present. I’ve heard you’re planning something in retaliation for the attack?”

“You hear things?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, I do,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“You will see soon enough. Now tell me, how is that fine son of yours? I hear things too, you know. What’s his name, Josh isn’t it?”

Rebecca’s eyes dropped and she struggled to maintain control. Josh’s name had not been said out loud since the funeral, almost seven weeks earlier.

Ben was no fool and read the situation instantly. He embraced Rebecca for the second time in fifteen years. Both stood in silence as Rebecca fought to keep control of her emotions. After a minute, she stood up, resolute and forceful. “I hear you’re planning some kind of retaliation?” she said again. There could be no mistaking the steel in her voice.

“Yes we are.” The time for games was over.

“I want in.”

“It’s been what, seven years since you were active and on your last mission, your husband died,” replied Ben quietly.

Rebecca did not even justify Ben with a response. She merely gave him a look that suggested he not dare keep her out.

Ben averted his eyes from Rebecca’s deathly glare. Who was he to deprive Israel of one of its most talented operatives? Particularly one who was so personally motivated?

“You’re in,” he almost whispered, regretting it as he spoke. He knew he was placing another loved one in a situation of mortal danger. Those words were almost certainly sealing her fate. But Ben had given his heart and soul to Israel since its birth and could not deprive her of a weapon like Rebecca at a time she most needed it.

Mexico

July 2008

Sam’s aim was interrupted by the vibration of his cell phone. He glanced at the screen. The name of the CIA’s Director, Johnson, was flashing. The target’s truck was speeding towards him. Only seconds remained to take the shot. He touched the small bluetooth earpiece and accepted the call.

“Don’t shoot!” commanded Johnson as the call connected.

Sam stared down the scope, straight into the eyes of the terrorist driving the deadly truck towards America’s border. His finger began to tighten on the trigger. There was no way the truck should be allowed anywhere near America.

“Do not shoot!” repeated Johnson more forcefully, having received no response.

Sam continued to track the target, keeping the crosshairs trained on the center of the targets head. The range continued to drop as the truck rushed towards him. His hilltop vantage point allowed a view straight into the truck’s cabin but not for much longer as the truck would soon pass below and any chance of a shot would be lost.

“Baker! Stand down!” shouted Johnson in his ear. “Stand the fuck down!”

Sam depressed the trigger. He could feel the hammer moving back. A few more ounces and the hammer would fire into the bullet and expel the small projectile at over 3,000 ft/s into the target’s brain, ending the mission.

“Baker!!!” screamed Johnson.

Sam Baker pulled up the rifle and fired in frustration, the muzzle flash startling everyone in the communications room, almost 2,000 miles away, in Langley. Sam threw his rifle to the ground and raised his finger to the MQ-1 Predator he knew was beaming images straight to his boss. Two months earlier he had received a tip. The CNN reporter he had saved in Ahwaz had overheard mention of an attack aimed at America. Learning from her previous mistakes she passed on what she had heard to Sam and had not followed it up herself. Sam had tracked down the terrorist and the weapon, desperate at every turn to stop them but always being stopped by ‘management’ who wanted to uncover the terrorist’s contacts and command structure. Finally, he thought, he was getting the chance to stop the nonsense, only to be stopped at the last second. They were less than twenty miles from the American-Mexican border.

“Calm down!” commanded Johnson.

“Calm down?!” repeated Sam, incredulous. “You’re letting a terrorist drive a nuclear bomb into America and I’ve got to calm down!”