John Nance - Lockout

In truth, he was on the fence, teetering on a knife edge of indecision with his country’s fate in the balance. Everything he’d ever read or studied about great men making great decisions made him feel small and terrified in the face of such awesome responsibility. He was no John Kennedy facing down Nikita Khrushchev, yet… hadn’t even Kennedy waffled back and forth with agonizing indecision as his generals begged him to have it out?

“Gershorn,” the air force chief was addressing him.

“Yes?”

“This is the last chance to consider shooting Flight 10 down ourselves.”

“Are you recommending that we do so?” he asked, as evenly as possible.

“No, but… we must decide. That… would eliminate the provocation to Iran without question.”

“I understand that.”

“We’ve ordered our lead pilot to make one last attempt at transmitting that disconnect code, then they are to fall back into firing position awaiting your orders if the pilots don’t regain control and turn back.”

“Only if I give the order, understood?”

“Understood.”

So the challenge was joined, he thought. Pangia 10 was over the border, an air battle was already underway, and he could either eliminate the provocation of the Iranians by shooting down the Airbus and killing hundreds of innocent people, or let the flight continue, permitting the Iranians to do the hideous deed of murdering everyone aboard.

And, he thought, there would never be a better moment, a more justified moment, than this. Iranian fighters were essentially attacking a civilian airliner, and hundreds of miles ahead Iranian ballistic missiles had been erected, fueled, armed, and clearly targeted at Israel, at least one of them carrying a nuclear weapon. He had every reason and every right to push the metaphorical button as fast and as hard as he could and launch the very preemptive strike Lavi had proposed so passionately. Yes, the world would be outraged, and Israel would be hamstrung with sanctions pushed mainly by the Russians and Chinese. And yes, oil prices would go through the roof, and the planet could end up in an unprecedented economic depression.

But, Iran’s nuclear program would be back to the stone age, especially since the Iranians had no idea how much Israel knew—how vulnerable they had been to human intelligence, and how successful Mossad’s efforts had been. At a great cost, of course, measured in the lives of seven Mossad agents—some barbarically tortured before being killed—Israel knew where the fissionable material was and how to destroy it. Information not even fully shared with Washington.

Now, indeed, was the moment, and why not launch? Didn’t the mullahs want to slaughter every man, woman, and child in Israel? Wasn’t radical Islam’s hatred and lethal intent just another version of Hitler’s final solution? Wasn’t he dealing with mad dogs who did not deserve the consideration afforded fellow humans?

Gershorn took a deep breath, registering in the back of his mind the fact that an Israeli jet had been hit, the pilot trying to limp back to the west with considerable damage. He looked into a sea of faces all belonging to serious and experienced men and women, and all of them looking to him for a decision.

Aboard Pangia 10 (0535 Zulu)

Ten minutes before the Iranian border, the digital fuel readouts indicated the engines were seconds from flameout. Jerry asked Josh Begich to return to his seat, touching his arm as he climbed out of the copilot’s chair.

“Josh?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to apologize for my conduct hours ago in yelling at you and scaring you.”

“That’s okay. I understand.”

“You’ve really helped us up here. I won’t forget that.”

“Thanks. What’s… going to happen now?”

“I’m not sure, Josh, but go back and strap in, grab that little girl’s hand you’re sitting next to and say a few prayers. Carol told me you were trying to impress her, and now’s your chance.”

“I will,” he answered, his face suddenly ashen.

Bill Breem had come off the jumpseat and moved the short distance to Jerry’s side, putting a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do to assist?” he asked.

Surprised, Jerry shifted as far around as he possibly could.

“No, Captain, other than watch carefully and let me know if I’m missing something.”

“You haven’t so far, Jerry. I…” He was searching for words that didn’t come easily, but there was no time to indulge in an apology.

“Thanks. Okay, everyone strap in.”

With Carol once again on her knees by the hatch, Dan was poised below waiting for the order to cut the power lead, his gloved hands holding the wooden handle of the crash axe. Frank had been sent back to his seat as well, since the time for analysis was long past. This was their last chance, and both men knew it.

What appeared to be a flash of an explosion to the left in the distance with the Israeli fighters apparently engaging an unseen enemy ahead would have unnerved Jerry, if he wasn’t already so numb. Without the ability to hear the tactical channel the Israeli pilots were using, his imagination was being fueled by his own experiences as a navy fighter pilot trying to imagine what was going on: radar lockups, missiles fired, possibility of being engaged by a ground-to-air battery, and basically flying through their own little war with no munitions, no defenses, no chaff, no flares, little visibility even at dawn, and no options. The whole thing would only last a few minutes. He assumed the unseen enemies were Iranian fighters determined to shoot them down. Who else would they be? And against a sky full of armed fighters, Pangia 10 was a fat, sitting duck.

Jerry hadn’t noticed the Israeli F-15 sliding back alongside his left wing, and he had not even imagined the possibility that another Israeli pilot was in trail formation, the targeting icon on his tactical screen locked on Flight 10 as he awaited orders from Tel Aviv.

He caught himself wondering what the last conscious seconds were like for the pilots of Malaysia 17 when they were blasted out of a clear blue Ukrainian sky by a surface-to-air missile. Blessedly, they had had no warning, he thought. But here we are waiting for the end. The cold certainty of death began to enfold him, and despite the determination to fight, somewhere inside he was already letting go.

The Kirya, Tel Aviv, Israel (7:42 a.m. local / 0542 Zulu)

With one all-consuming thought demanding his attention, the Israeli prime minister closed his eyes to meet it head on. What, exactly, was going through the diseased minds in Tehran? Were all of them nothing but murderous bastards to whom infidel humanity was no more sacrosanct than insects?

Or were the Iranians the insects, and Gershorn the appointed exterminator?

The confidence level was high, he had just been told that control of the nuclear weaponry had not been shifted to outlying commanders. At least, not yet. Was it one of the religious mafia in Tehran hesitating or merely a professional military man using logic and not religious hysteria?

Or could there be, in the midst of that cultish insanity, someone like him, even at this moment weighing the moral as well as the strategic consequences of taking the next step? The mere thought seemed heresy, and with Hamas or ISIS and any other insane collection of genocidal maniacs it would be. But maybe, just maybe, someone in Tehran could still understand the concept, if not the benefits, of restraint.

He glanced again at the screen. No movement at the various missile sites, and especially none at the launch site Mossad had identified as most likely to be carrying what was perhaps their only nuke.