Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

“Meanwhile,” Damian Smith is saying, once again hauling out the same predictable connective without which television news would be mute, “here at home, many churches have declared Sunday a national day of prayer for Israel. Rev. Gerry Stallwell, pastor of Nashville’s Christ the King Family Mega-Church, leads a group calling itself Christ 4 Israel. Rev. Stallwell, your group has chartered two ships to bring aid to Tel Aviv. Is that true?”

The pastor’s moonlike visage fills the screen. Middle-aged, his hair so elaborately styled, straightened, and oiled that it vies for attention with the huge gold medallion he wears on a gold chain high on his chest: a cross superimposed on a blue Star of David. “Damian, that’s now six ships,” he says with evident pride. “Seems like the plight of our poor Hebrew brethren in the holy land is worsening fast. We’ve got people over in Europe buying up food, water, and medicine. Folks sometimes forget that right in the middle of Jesus Christ there’s the letters U and S plain as day, and that stands for the name of this great believing nation, which is to say, us . You might say every one of us here in the US is part and parcel of Christ our Lord. Which translates out to a simple message: sometimes the Good Lord can use a bit of help.”

“Rev. Stallwell, are you aware the Islamic Liberation Force has announced it will open fire on any ship trying to break its blockade of Tel Aviv?”

“Son, as aware as Daniel in the lion’s den, but we believe on the people of Israel as God’s chosen. Don’t forget Jesus of Nazareth was a humble rabbi, his stepdad a regular old Hebrew carpenter. Far as scripture is concerned, we’re doing the Lord’s work, and if those Muslimites blow us out of the water we’ll just keep on a-doing it.”

“There’s been some criticism of these efforts, Rev. Stallwell, on the grounds that your group is actually creating and implementing an independent US foreign policy. Have you had any consultations on this with Washington, pastor? The White House?”

“Don’t have to. You know why? These Friday people, today they’re coming after the Saturday people. Know who’s next? The Sunday people. Just like the Constitution gives every citizen the right to bear arms, so it gives us freedom of assembly. We are assembling a Christian effort to save the besieged Israelites, and in so doing we are defending our own Christian selves sure as we might with firearms. These people over there that invaded and are despoiling the holy land got a simple agenda: destroy the Jews, then annihilate the Christians. You know what, they got no use for Hindus and Buddhists neither. We people of faith got to hang together or we going to hang separately.”

“So you see this as a religious conflict?”

“Damian, if it isn’t, why are these fanatics knocking down churches all over the holy land along with the synagogues? Chew on that one for a while. Trouble is, the president of these United States won’t lift a finger to help. He’s afraid he may not get reelected if the price of oil keeps going up. Well, I got a message for our president, the Lord bless him and keep him: this county don’t get off its heinie and save our Israelites, then the wrath of the Almighty is going to descend upon our elected leader for failing to do God’s will and then for sure he won’t be re-elected. Son, I got folks in my church vowing to vote for a dead skunk just to see the president punished for what you and I know, and every God-fearing Christian in America knows, is a sin that makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like a three-legged race at a county fair on the Fourth of July.”

Damian is getting signals from his control room: get this crank off the air before he starts talking assassination. “And thank you, Rev. Gerry Stallwell, pastor of—”

Accustomed as he is to talking directly with the Almighty, the good reverend is not about to be shut up. “You folks at home. Visit with us right now at christ4israel.org . Reach down in your pockets. Time’s a-running out. Save the Israelites!”

The control room goes immediately to station break, with no bridge from Smith, no teaser about what’s coming up next.

Again Jimbo cuts off the sound. “Y’all heard the man. Tick tock. Time’s a runnin’ out.”

“A-rabs gonna blow them Christian ships right out the water,” Chris says.

“I ain’t just sayin’,” Jimbo says.

“We ain’t just sayin’,” Chris echoes. “Not no more.”

Stan looks from one to the other. He has never felt so un-alone in his life.

DESPITE THE WORLD’S CONTEMPORARY dependence on technology, not all communication requires electric current. This is evident in any prison, where within hours, sometimes minutes, news can be transmitted via relay, either through voice or agreed signals. The prison that is Ghetto Tel Aviv is no different. That the State of Israel has come under new management becomes known in every part of the crowded city so quickly that it is difficult to believe this is the same Israel once dependent for information on radio broadcasts and newspaper reports amplified by a network of cell phones that kept every citizen in a constantly refreshed loop of fact, rumor, innuendo and, inevitably, falsehood. A photo of any prewar Israeli street would show a cell phone pressed to the ear of every pedestrian; it was not uncommon for Israelis to be seen strolling down Dizengoff Street, Tel Aviv’s main drag, with a cell phone at either ear. Such a nation of communicators can hardly stop communicating despite no electricity, no radio, no Internet, no mobile telephony. The chief of staff learns of Yigal’s coup in an hour.

Twenty minutes later, Pinky and twelve of his most senior officers—minus Major General Ido Baram, who is under guard in a tent at Camp Yarkon—pull up to the office tower that headquarters Isracorp, formerly the nation’s most successful corporation, now just a brass plate outside a bank of elevators stalled in their shafts.

The lobby desk holds a familiar sign, with one alteration:

The desk is manned by a white-bearded old-timer in a skullcap reading Psalms—the study and discussion of biblical texts has become a common pasttime in a city with no newspapers or magazines, even among the secular, many of whom now crowd Tel Aviv’s once underused synagogues. “Peace be unto you,” the receptionist says. Now in wide use, the once casual greeting has taken on a kind of bottomless urgency.

The chief of staff’s adjutant, a colonel, has no interest in pleasantries. “Where’s Yigal Lev?”

“Has the distinguished officer an appointment, sir?”

“This is the chief of staff, you fool. Tell us where Yigal Lev is or I’ll shake it out of you.”

Before he can grind out another threat, the very compelling sound of multiple guns being cocked echoes in the two-story lobby.

As one, the officers look up and around them. From doorways on the same floor and from the circular balcony above, a collection of Misha’s gangsters point their firearms like accusing fingers.

The man at the desk stifles a bemused smile. “Please allow me to try the prime minister’s secretary.” He picks up a pink battery powered walkie-talkie bearing the insignia My Little Pony . “Alona? Mendel downstairs. The Chief of Staff is here. Shall I…?”

In the silent lobby, the voice on the other end is tinny and laden with static. “Yigal has been expecting him. Please send him up.”

The receptionist turns to the visitors. “For the moment, our elevators are in a state of rest. Fourth floor. Kindly leave your firearms in the basket.”