Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

Aside from the recon jeeps watching the coastal road to the north of the ambush point, another three jeeps guard the rear of the 1 stBattalion from surprise from the east, just outside the communal settlement called Lohamei HaGeta’ot, the Kibbutz of the Ghetto Warriors. The settlement is named in memory of the Jewish revolt in the Warsaw Ghetto when, in spring of 1943, several hundred Jews armed with pistols and rifles took on thousands of heavily armed Wehrmacht and SS troops. At the kibbutz it is even worse: with every able-bodied man and women called to their units, defense has been left in the hands of mothers, children, and old men armed with little more than the weaponry of the original Ghetto fighters—rifles, pistols, grenades, and a single light machine gun.

The decision to fight rather than flee is based on experience gained in previous wars, when Arab soldiers seized every opportunity to kill Jews. However, in this war, bloodlust has been sacrificed to the grand strategy developed by Iran. The Muslim tank force on its way south from Lebanon intends to bypass such minor outposts in its rush to a target of strategic importance, the port at Haifa, just as in the south Egyptian armor will circumnavigate the outlying settlements, including the city of Ashkelon, as they drive for the port of Ashdod just to the north. Iran’s war planners are intent on cutting off resupply from the sea.

Standing atop the roof of his tank, Yigal sweeps the northern horizon with his field glasses. The coastal road is empty in the gathering dawn, the best time outside of dusk for an armored attack. In a matter of minutes the field of muted grays before him will explode into light, but just now, if the damned Iranians will hurry up, his tanks are all but invisible, just so many gray lumps. The road below is gray, the beach beyond is gray, the sea itself calm as an ironed gray tablecloth in a dimly lit room.

He switches on his radio and speaks into the mic suspended from his helmet. “Roller One to all units, Roller One to all units. Final briefing. Recon gives the first of our tourists three minutes. If you need a refresher: rise to ridge, acquire target, fire. If Svirs are in play, drop below ridgeline, wait for next missile to pass, rise to ridge, acquire target, fire. Enemy requires twelve seconds to reload. That’s our window. Twelve seconds. Commanders: status. Over.”

“Noam here. Awaiting tourists. All in order. Over.”

“Amir reporting. Ready to rock, Yigal. Over.”

“Nasdarovia, over.”

“Identify yourself, over.”

“Yigal, you know it’s me, over.”

“Misha, I will fucking relieve you of command. This is not Dizengoff Street. You will pretend to be an officer. Over.”

“I’m a staff sergeant, over.”

“Misha!”

His voiced laced with irony, Misha offers the vocal equivalent of an exaggerated salute. “Yes, sir! Sir, Sgt. Misha reporting. Sir, all primed and ready. Sir! Over.”

“You’ve picked up a gunner, over?”

“As you ordered. Sir! Over.”

“Misha, remind me to have you court-martialed after the war. Over.”

“Gladly, over.”

“To all personnel,” Yigal says, his voice now official, cool, as devoid of emotion as a machine. “If any of your cans is in less than fighting order, report now. Over.” He waits precisely five seconds on his wristwatch. “Beautiful. On my signal then, over.”

He is lowering himself through the command hatch when his radio buzzes.

“Super Skull to Roller One 1-1-2. Over.”

“Roller One here. How goes it, Ido? Over.”

“Is it you, Yigal? Over.”

“No, it’s the Queen of Sheba. Ido, we’re about to make boom-boom. I can’t chat with you now. Over.”

“Forget boom-boom. You are ordered to abort. Over.”

“Abort? We’re in position. Over.”

The voice of General Ido Baram almost cracks. “Straight from the top. You are ordered to fall back immediately to Herzlia. Full speed. Over.”

Yigal is half in the tank, his head and shoulders exposed. “There’s a timeout? What is this, the World Cup? Over.”

“Pinky is setting up a defensive perimeter: Herzlia-Ramle-Rishon. Over.”

“You’re telling me we’re sacrificing Haifa, also Netanya and Rishon? Over.”

“Yigal, the situation…”

“Fuck the situation. I have work to do.”

“Yigal, fall back to Herzlia. Now . Over.”

“Ido, we’re the only thing between the Revolutionary Guard and Haifa. Over.”

“Roger that, Yigal. Order stands. Confirm. Over.”

“Why? Over.”

There is a moment of deep silence on the other end of the line. “Jerusalem’s fallen, over.” This is met with an even deeper silence, as though communication has broken off. “Yigal?”

“I’m here, over.”

“A broad defensive perimeter is being formed around Tel Aviv. It’s all that’s left. Abort and fall back. Repeat: confirm receipt of this order. Over.”

Yigal does not need his field glasses to see what is approaching at speed on the coastal road from the north. He can hear it. The sound of four hundred tanks is no whisper. He lowers himself fully into the Chariot, pulling the hatch cover tight and securing it. The hatch cover seal will keep out dust, flames, and poison gas. But not reality. “Aborting in one hour,” he says into his mic. “Over and out.”

What Yigal now sees again through the 360-degree video screen in front of him is both mortally frightening and oddly comforting: four parade-straight columns of Iranian tanks shoulder to shoulder speeding south down the four lanes of the coastal road as though late for a wedding. “Or early for a funeral,” Yigal says under his breath.

Ephraim the tank driver picks up the muttered phrase in his earphones. “Commander?”

“Good where we are, kid,” Yigal says, then taps his headset. “Roller One to all units, Roller One to all units. You will be pleased to know our guests are bang on time. Try first to kill those babies closest to the beach so they block the rest from going to the sand. Each gunner work back by fours so the entire column is bottled up. Whoever taught these Persians tactical approach was probably named Ginsberg. Misha, bottle our tourists from the rear. Same instruction. Don’t bother with prisoners. Repeat, I don’t give a damn about enemy personnel. For all I care they can swim back to Lebanon. We are here to destroy these tanks. On my command.”

IN THE FIRST LIGHT of dawn over the Negev Desert, three Israel Air Force F-16s fly south in broad formation at 1500 feet, just below the radar of one hundred twenty-two Egyptian F-16s closing at two thousand feet above. In the lead plane, Major Alex scans the horizon as he applies lipstick, a muted peach. It’s daytime, after all. “Take it off, put it on,” he says to no one in particular, his talk button un-depressed. “The story of my life.” He absolutely hates applying lipstick without a mirror. On the other hand , he thinks, who the fuck is going to see my corpse?

Certainly not the two pilots on either wing three hundred feet behind him. He picked these men himself out of the hundred or so who showed up at the air base to find themselves riders without horses. Of these, twenty-three were detailed to pick up El Al and Arkia civilian aircraft at neighboring Ben-Gurion Airport, the passenger planes to be loaded with bombs meant for Egyptian infantry. These are fighter pilots flying buses, and there is little doubt in their minds they will be blown out of the sky by enemy air-to-air missiles. For the Egyptian F-16s, this will be like shooting cows in a pasture.

Alex slips the lipstick into the slit chest pocket of his drab-green flight suit, ostensibly a standard-issue but—thanks to a certain talented dressmaker—cut exceedingly well. He taps his headset.