The Faithful, North African and Middle Eastern Islamic nations, are plotting to seize the oil resources of the Middle East. By controlling the earth's oil and its major trade routes, they plan to bring the world to its knees. Then, when the entire world is kneeling, the Faithful of Allah will read to them from the Koran, preaching the message of Islam, the True Faith. The Faithful will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. But how far will they go? And how many lives will it cost?

1 Beginnings

1.3 Israel

1.3.1 David Weissman

David Weissman sat in his corner office studying his plans for a new high-rise scheduled for ground-breaking next spring. This had been his baby from the beginning, and today he’d gotten it! What a birthday! Tel Aviv’s finest architect was thirty-six years old, today.

Samantha had been elated when he told her. She’d made him promise to be home early tonight. She had something special planned. More than likely, she’d invited Dad and Mom down for a little get together. Then again, she could have invited over the whole gang. If so, he’d be in big trouble. A hangover on the Sabbath was no way to end the week.

"Sir," his secretary’s voice bellowed over the intercom.

Regardless of how many times he told her that yelling into the telephone receiver was the same as yelling into his ear, she didn’t listen. Every time she did it, his heart leapt into his mouth!

"Yes, Susan," he mumbled.

"Turn on your TV! It’s important!"

Because of the wars in the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s, all Israelis lived next to some form of communications gear. Even farmers out in their fields had radios to let them know what was going on, and whether they were at war again. Even after the separate Palestinian states were founded, Israelis had lived in a troubled peace. They’d helped the Syrians revover and rebuild after their devastating civil war, which had smoothed the way to this watchful peace, but neither side trusted the other.

Recently, Syria had begun to mass its armies next to the demilitarized Golan Heights. In response, the Israeli Defense Forces had stepped up their training schedules. Dave had spent one week in four training with his battalion for the past six months.

It had been a brutal schedule, and everyone hoped that it was just a quirk of international politics. Dave’s father, Joe Weissman, had not been so sanguine. Just the other evening, he’d announced that war with the Syrians was coming, and that they’d all better be prepared. It was scary, and Dave’s thoughts immediately went out to his wife and his two boys.

He flicked on the set. It was always tuned to CNN. The screen showed the usual split picture. A pretty, American woman of some indeterminate race was talking. On the other side, an oriental man wearing a flak jacket and helmet was crouching down, holding his hand to his ear while he spoke into a microphone.

"Yes, Jenny. The Ayatollahs are completely in control. Elements of Tunisia’s First Division have taken control of the city and declared an Islamic Republic. Apparently, the Navy has joined in on their side. However, the Air Force and other segments of the armed forces are still disputing the revolution. A while ago a number of aircraft tried to approach the city and a big naval gunship out in the harbor shot them down with missiles."

The screen blanked for a moment, and hazy, jerky video rolled. Small shapes appeared, and a great white cloud erupted from the harbor. Seconds later tiny flashes of light appeared where the dots had been.

The scene shifted back to the dual personalities. "I don’t know if you could see it clearly, Jenny, but the gunboat fired missiles at eight or ten aircraft and shot them down! The whole city is in an uproar. Crowds are running around cheering. A couple of people started throwing rocks at us, yelling "Yankee go home." Then, this religious fellow came along, found out we were with CNN, and broadcasting to the entire world. He has been our guardian ever since. We can’t go anywhere or see anything, but the crowds aren’t stoning us anymore.

"We tried to get this fellow to appear on camera, but he wouldn’t let us. Instead, he just stands behind the camera and watches. He won’t even tell us his name. He has a radio and is in contact with someone. Every once in a while he tells us about the fall of another town, the destruction of some barracks or some other sign that the Islamic Republic of Tunisia is at hand.

"There isn’t much more I can add at this point. We’ll be back to you as soon as we have more news. To recap, the Tunisian government has been overthrown in a military coup led by Ayatollah Abdul Khalil Kamsanni. A new government, the Islamic Republic of Tunisia, has been declared. Stay tuned to CNN for the latest from Tunis. I’m Gerald Hiroto, CNN News."

Dave punched the off-button and sat back. Maybe Dad was right. But, Tunisia is a long way from here. Still . . . the Muslims . . .

The phone rang. It was a recorded message. "All personnel of the following units are to report to their armories at 18:00 hours. The units are . . . " The list went on and on. David listened hoping that his battalion wouldn’t be one of them, but in his heart he knew better. In his other life, David Weissman was the CO of 1st Armored Battalion, 3rd Armored Regiment.

Historically, Israeli Air Force units were always called first, but the armored units were right behind them. Infantry could move quickly across this small country, but it took time to prepare a tank, and even more time to get it to where it’d do some good. Israel had learned a long time ago to get its tanks moving first and to worry about the social, political and economic consequences later.

There it was! David Weissman, architect, had just become Major David Weissman, IDF. What a way to spend your birthday!

David carefully stacked his drawings and documents, put them back into their folder and stored them in the drawing file. "Susan," he called, "I don’t know how long this will take, but it looks like a big one this time. Tell Myron to proceed as usual. I’ll be in touch."

Susan tried to smile, but it was difficult. Like all Israelis she had learned the history of their land. She knew about the wars of 1948, 1956 and so forth. She knew that Israel had to defend itself. But, she couldn’t help asking herself why they were doing this? There was no reason to attack Israel. There hadn’t been a shooting war in her lifetime.

As her mind tried to encompass the awesome thoughts of war, she suddenly realized that if David had been called up, then her boyfriend, Ben Tallman, would also have received the call. In a panic, she dialed the pharmacy where he worked. "Yes, Benjamin is here."

"Ben Tallman, how can I help you?"

"Ben! Ben, have you heard? Dave’s been called up. Have you heard anything?"

"Ah . . . yes, Sue, I have. I was trying to figure out what to say to you. I’m afraid we won’t be able to see each other tonight. I’ll be leaving early and heading over to the armory. I don’t really expect anything to happen, though. The Syrians will see us mobilizing and will back off. It’ll only be a few days."

He had tried to sound very self-assured. Yet Susan knew him too well to be fooled that easily. He was putting on a good show, and it was up to her to do the same. "Yes, I know. But I am still worried. I love you, Benjamin."

"I love you too, Dimples. I’ll call as soon as I know what’s going on."

The phone went dead. Susan, left alone in the office, wept uncontrollably.

1.3.2 The Armory

David arrived home in the middle of the afternoon. It had been a terrible commute. He worked downtown and drove to work from his apartment in Bene Beraq. He avoided rush hour, because he hated sitting in his car baking under the hot Mediterranean sun.

He’d figured that at two o’clock in the afternoon he’d miss all the traffic. Had he been wrong! Kaplan Street was bumper to bumper, and Route 11 across the Yargon River was virtually at a standstill. It took him over an hour to travel the distance that normally took him fifteen minutes. By the time he got home, he was tired and grumpy.

Even the parking lot under his building was packed. He waited five minutes for the elevator, and then it stopped at almost every floor letting his rushing neighbors on or off. Everybody seemed in a great hurry, but nobody talked about it. They had all learned the need for security when they were just children. So, each man and woman just went along doing what they had to do without divulging any part of Israel’s mobilization plans.

Samantha was waiting at the door for him with a tall, cool lemonade, with just a little something "extra" in it. She was obviously worried, but wasn’t about to let on. Suddenly, they were attacked by their two boys.

"Daddy!" they both screamed. "Are you going to war?"

David desperately sought for some kind of response. His sons were as excited as only young boys can be about the prospect of battles, bombs and rockets. How could he explain reality to them? They felt indestructible and immortal, but he knew that’s not the way things are. He wondered, "Do I tell them the truth and scare the hell out of them, or go along with it and let them live as children?"

He looked into their eager, cherubic faces, and decided on the truth. "I hope not! Gabriel, Samuel, war is an awful thing. We pray to Jehovah for peace, but sometimes we don’t get it. So, we prepare for war. With Jehovah’s help, maybe we won’t have to fight."

But, children are irrepressible. "Oh, that’s OK, Dad. We know that you’ll protect us. Those Syrians don’t stand a chance, not against my Dad." Seemingly satisfied with their irrational view of the world, they went back to their rooms and their TV cartoons.

There was a knock on the door. It was Nablus Brenner, their young next door neighbor. He was a mechanic in Dave’s battalion. "I’ve been called, but I’m worried about Judith." Judith was expecting their first child any day now. "I don’t want to take the car, so I figured I’d ask you for a ride down to the armory. I was hoping that Samantha could watch over Judith while we’re gone."

"Of course, Nabby, no problem, but the traffic is murder. I figured on starting at about 17:00. If we get there a little early, it won’t be a problem. But, if we’re late, Colonel Hiram will skin us both!"

The young sergeant grinned at his CO’s little joke. Lt. Colonel Jake Hiram was about the nicest man he’d ever met. A big part of their regiment’s success was because nobody dared to disappoint the regiment’s XO and see that slightly crestfallen look on his face. Everyone worked their tails off for him. "Great, Major. I’ll be ready." He was off at a trot down the corridor.

Samantha grabbed David around the waist and led him to their bedroom. His uniforms were laid out, and most of his kit was already packed. Six months of weekend call-ups and drills had done wonders for their organization. Sam knew exactly what need to be packed, and how her husband did things.

It was a simple matter for him to grab a quick shower, shave, get dressed and finish packing his kit. By the time he was done, Samantha had the meal ready, and the boys were at the table. He rushed to the table without thinking about his appearance, but the boys noticed.

"Major!" they shouted, jumped to attention and snapped off a couple of pretty fancy salutes.

He grinned, returned their salute and ordered, "At ease, men. Let’s eat!" They sat quietly at the table, and David led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. The moment he pronounced the final "Amen", a wild scramble ensued as father and sons fought a mock battle for possession of the bread, soup and meats.

It had taken Samantha a long time to get used to this rough-housing at the table. She had been brought up in a very strict family. As a child, she had sat quietly, listened attentively to the adults and only spoke when she was spoken to. But, David’s father, Joe, was an American. According to Joe, next to Israel, America was the most wonderful place in the whole world. Forty years ago, he had brought his American ways and American attitude to Israel and had never changed at all. It was from his father and his grandfather, who was even worse, that David had learned this rough and tumble, "horsing around."

She objected to it, but it was infectious. She loved the way Dave and his sons enjoyed each other’s company. Very few fathers, including her own, enjoyed their children like Dave did. Yet, their boys respected him, too. Although they were both good at wheedling, when Dave made a decision, it was made. And, the kids respected him enough to accept it even when it wasn’t exactly what they wanted. "Oh, God of Israel," she prayed, "protect him and bring him home safely!"

Seventeen hundred hours arrived all too quickly. Dave grabbed his bag, kissed Samantha passionately, gave both the boys a hug, and strode out the door. He walked down the corridor, and banged on Nablus’ door. The sergeant was ready, and the two men headed for the elevator.

The trip to the armory was long and frustrating. The combination of rush hour and the call-ups had clogged every avenue, street and alley. The police were out in force and were being even stricter than usual. They kept the traffic moving, even if it was at a snail’s pace.

Dave flipped on the radio to hear the latest news. For the most part everything seemed normal. There were small bits about a fire here, a robbery there and a lost dog. It was just the usual kinds of things that went on in a country of four and a half million. No panic, no problems were evident. There was just a routine call-up of some reserves, except that every car, bus and truck throughout the city seemed to be filled with men and women in uniform. Something big was going on, and the government wanted things to go smoothly before curtailing the activities of its people or causing a panic.

Finally, they arrived at a small gate leading into a tunnel below a large office building just off Jabotinski Street, near Hammedina Circle. Like everything else in Israel, the building served both its intended users and the IDF. To look at it, one would never know that his battalion’s armory was concealed deep in its bowels. The only obvious discrepancies in the building’s design were the massive, reinforced doors that led beneath it. Anywhere else, except in Israel, such doors would have indicated a large trucking or transportation company. In this case, it meant that the largest IDF main battle tanks could quickly and easily emerge, ready to do battle.

They stopped at the gate. The corporal on guard knew them both, but inspected their passes anyway. He ordered both David and Nablus out of the car to search the trunk and under the hood for "devices." Only after the noncom was satisfied did he salute again, and let them pass.

"Good man," the major thought. "In spite of everything, or perhaps because of it, that kid is making sure and not letting a uniform intimidate him."

They parked in the already crowded visitor’s lot and headed down into the substructure of the building. Men and women hurried along corridors and stairwells, intent upon their own purposes. Noises of metal on metal and the low rumble of large engines echoed loudly as they approached the lowest, bombproofed levels of the building. Two men with rifles guarded the entrance. They were MP’s attached to David’s battalion, but they acted as though they didn’t know him. Once again, Major Weissman and his sergeant underwent a thorough investigation.

Going through the door was like entering another world. The noise deafened Dave almost immediately. Every sound was amplified as it bounced off concrete ceilings, floors and walls until it was a cacophony. He had to stop to let his senses adjust to the assault upon them.

A lieutenant rushed up to him. "Sir, we have been waiting for you. Please come to the HQ. Colonel Hiram is waiting for you in your office."

Dave nodded, turned to Nablus and extended his hand. "Good luck, Nabby. Take good care of those babies," he said, motioning towards the rows of Lion of the Desert tanks, Badger fighting vehicles and Impala armored cars. Nablus grinned, shook his CO’s hand firmly and trotted off. Dave spun on his heel, and within two minutes was in the relative quiet of his office, where Lt. Colonel Jake Hiram was waiting.

"Dave! How good to see you," Jake said hurriedly. "Come over here and look at these maps. Here’s what we have to do.

"The Intel guys have been keeping track of Syrian movements around Golan for months now. We’ve been trying to warn them off by increasing our training routines and with our spot call-ups, but it hasn’t worked. Yesterday, the Syrians started moving heavy stuff into Mansura, Khushniayn and Al.

"This morning we got a real shock. Our long range stuff picked up a column coming out of Iraq, towards Az-Zaw. We estimate it at divisional strength.

"This afternoon the Syrians pushed heavy tank columns into Ceasuria, Kunabah, and Naffak. We estimate they have at least two divisions north of Galilee. They moved right into the demilitarized zone, and the UN hasn’t even informed us that anything is amiss. We’re in for it, Davey!

"So, here’s our part. We’re heading right up here." He pointed to a small village just north of the Sea of Galilee called Almagor. "You’ll probably be the first one there. Your job is to secure the area around Almagor. You’ll be on the right flank with Second Battalion next to you and Third in reserve.

"I want you on the road by 20:00 hours. I know, that’s only two hours, but of all our battalions, yours is the one that we’ve been preparing as our quick reaction spearhead. I know that you and your boys can do it. Don’t worry about the traffic. The government is about to announce a curfew and state of emergency. Just get your vehicles onto those tank carriers and get to Almagor as fast as you can. Dig in. Wait for further orders. Got it? Good. I’m off to Second Battalion, and I’ll join you tomorrow."

Jake was gone before Dave could begin to comprehend what was going on. His staff was already working on the routing of his columns, and the tanks were being loaded onto their carriers. The tracked vehicles were always the troublesome ones. Their treads would wreck the highways and they would destroy themselves with a lot of high speed road travel. Therefore, they had to be loaded on big haulers that could transport them at high speeds. The wheeled vehicles were much easier. They could roll along like the big, overgrown trucks they actually were.

His battalion would have to travel 140 kilometers, off-load, get into position and dig in within eight to ten hours. It would be close, but he should make it.

1.3.3 Almagor

The trip to Almagor was long and exhausting. The traffic was heavy all the way up Route 2. By the time the column turned off on Route 65, the curfew had been in effect for a couple of hours and the civilians were off the roads. The battalion made good time all the way to Parod where it turned east on Route 85, heading for Route 90. Just a kilometer north of that intersection, the lead vehicles turned east again on a small country road that wound its way to the border town of Almagor. The only good part about the long trip was that the troops had a chance to get some sleep on the way.

Dave’s column rolled into Almagor at 04:00 hours. The Mayor, Yusuf Zhiphora, greeted him. "Major, you will follow this guide to your positions. We have been working on them all night, and I think you’ll find everything is ready for you." As suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving a young militiaman behind him. "This way, Sir."

The tanks and armored fighting vehicles were off-loaded. The air was rent with the wracking cough of starters and was quickly filled with the noxious fumes of diesel engines firing up. The young private guided the battalion to the forward fortifications abutting the foot of the infamous Golan Heights. Local militia men armed with their own weapons guided each of David’s tanks into defiladed positions. Then, they filtered between the battalion’s mobile pillboxes and took up their long prepared battle stations.

Suddenly, large numbers of vehicles appeared, moving back and forth across his battalion’s front. For a moment, David’s heart pounded wildly, as thoughts of Syrian tanks crossed his mind. Then, he saw that they were farm vehicles and realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised.

The people of the northeast had lived under Syrian guns for decades. Their militia units and regular IDF units were on call 24-hours a day. At the first hint of trouble, the kibbutzim and towns turned themselves into armed camps. After nearly a century of practice, these people knew what they were doing. The civilians were using their farm equipment to rebuild berms and flatten kill zones. They were preparing to defend their lands, and his battalion was just the first of many waves of reinforcements coming to their rescue.

Just hours later, as the Sun was lightening the skies and the black outline of the gloomy heights looming above them was clear against the deep blue skies, the roar and squeak of tanks awoke them all. Suddenly, every man was alert and looking towards the Heights. The same questions tormented each of them. Would the Syrians attack before the dawn outlined them against the lightening sky? Or, were they just getting into position, waiting for the Sun to shine directly in the defender’s eyes before they raced down the slopes? Their terrors dissolved as they listened more intently. Instead of coming from their front, the sounds were coming from their rear!

Colonel Hiram magically appeared at Dave’s elbow. "Private party or can anyone join in the fun?" the colonel joked. "You’ve done a fine job. The CO’s with the mayor establishing our defensive dispositions and communications. We’ll have a lot of help. The civvy militia up here is damned good. They’ll be your grenadiers. You’ll be meeting your opposite number later on this morning. We’ll be in position within about two hours. The rest of the brigade will be arriving today. And, if they don’t attack us today, we’ll have some very unpleasant surprises for them tomorrow!" With a quick salute, he was gone.

Time for morning prayer, a little food, and a big cup of coffee. Today would be a busy one, and tonight would be a long one.