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?

9 Turning Points

9.6 Israel

9.6.1 Ha-Il

The American C-17 was a colossus! David had watched them arriving at Dayr az-Zwar's tiny airport, and, from a distance, he almost couldn't believe that something that big could stay in the air. Up close they were even bigger, if that was possible. Then, the aircraft's maw opened, and the American ground crews began loading his tanks, fighting vehicles, jeeps and trucks. Only then, as he watched his units disappearing into the leviathan's guts, did he fully appreciate their incredible size.

As he lay on the bonnet of his Impala, awaiting his turn to load, he had the opportunity to study the American operation. He counted fifteen C-17s scattered around the field in different stages of loading. As one the monsters took off almost directly over his head, he glanced at his watch. He glanced again when another landed and when one took off. The pace of the operation was incredible. Every other minute an American plane landed. Less than a minute later, one was rolling to take off. At that rate, his entire brigade would be out of there in four or five hours.

'No wonder the Americans win wars,' he thought in amazement. 'They simply out-supplied their enemies.'

"Hey, Fella, you comin' or goin'?"

David rolled over to see an overweight sergeant leaning on his vehicle. He didn't know how to respond to the American's arcane comment.

"Look, Fella, this is it." The American stood angrily with his fists on his hips. "You get this bus on that plane, or we leave without ya."

David jumped down quickly and woke his driver. The American sergeant hopped onto the Impala that raced to the nearest plane. Slowly and carefully, the American backed David's Impala into the cargo bay and the rear gate lifted into place. David stared in awe at the huge internal bay, seeing two Impalas, two Badgers and three jeeps along with about thirty men from his battalion.

The plane began to roll, and, moments later, it lurched into air. Three quarters of an hour later, it landed at Damascus International Airport. Once again, David was called to a briefing, and this time it actually was brief. Each of the battalion commanders was handed a map. Each map had a line drawn on it showing their route and a circle showing their final destination. That was it!

He returned to Damascus Airport, only to enter into a scene of organized chaos. His vehicles had been driven out of the planes, and the battalion had been assembled near the southern edge of the airport. Americans, racing around with computer printouts, had reorganized the battalion into aircraft loads for their trip to Ha-Il. Tanks, fighting vehicles and trucks raced from one section of the airport to another. Long lines of men were assembling awaiting their turns to climb aboard.

Damaged vehicles had simply been rolled off to the side and replaced. Where the replacement vehicles had come from was a mystery to David. He, like most other Israelis, had always believed the stories of huge treasure troves of vehicles that were hidden throughout the country. Then, he saw that many of the new machines had been recently repainted. One Badger in particular still had British markings. He decided not to ask any silly questions.

An American directed David to a group of four planes within a larger mass of twenty. David inspected the interior of the one of the four planes and found that it was made up of his own Command Impala and crew, plus all the other headquarters units, such as medical, motor pool and signals.

He jumped down and went to inspect the other planes. The Americans had done an efficient job of packing his men and equipment into the C-17s, almost like sardines in a can. Typically, there were four planes per company, and his battalion was accommodated within twenty of them. He quickly calculated that moving his brigade would mean almost two hundred such aircraft. What a colossal logistical undertaking!

"Hey, Fella! Oh, it's you again. Get in the dammed plane and stay there!"

"Sergeant, you are speaking to a Major."

The sergeant stood to attention, and saluted. "Hey, Major, get in the damned plane and stay there, Sir!"

Major Weissman recognizing that this sergeant, like sergeants in every army, was just doing his job. Besides, he was probably right. David meekly returned his assigned aircraft, found a comfortable position between an ammo can and his pack, and fell asleep.

He awoke to the whine of the rear cargo door screwing shut. The big jet engines spooled up. Slowly, the plane trundled and bounced along the tarmac for a great distance, making him wonder if they were taxiing to Saudi Arabia or if they were going to actually attempt to fly.

After a while, the plane slowed and then stopped. Occasionally it went forward a few meters and stopped again. Suddenly, it made a right-hand turn, and its engines roared at full power. They rolled faster and faster until David was sure that they'd run out of runway. Then, the C-17 vaulted into the air, and he felt that sickening lurch as though his stomach had just been left behind.

He glanced around in the semi-dark interior to see who was with him. They were the same guys he'd been with for weeks. Obviously, they were all smarter than their CO, because they were all sound asleep. All, that is, except for one eager mechanic, who was immersed in the engine compartment of Dave's Impala. Only the feet were hanging out, and Dave recognized them.

He got up and peered into the engine compartment. "Hello, Nablus. What are you doing?"

"Hi, Dave, I noticed your engine was running a little rough, so I'm cleaning your plugs and rinsing out the injectors. You know, all those little things that keep an engine running?"

David grinned and watched his neighbor and master mechanic of his battalion doing his job. After watching for a little while, Dave was bored, so he wandered back to his spot and tried to get some sleep.

"Soldiers of the IDF, welcome to Ha-Il." David's heart almost leapt out of his chest. He had been dreaming of Samantha. "Five minutes to touchdown. Follow the directions of your loadmaster, and you'll be out of here in no time. Crunch my plane, and you'll pay for it! This message comes from your pilot, who hopes that you had a lovely flight, and will use standard commercial airlines next time you want to go to Saudi Arabia, because I sure as hell will! Have a nice day!"

As the pilot finished speaking, the plane nosed down, alarmingly. Loud whining noises filled the spaces, and the plane seemed almost to stop in mid-air. The nose rose, the wheels thunked down, and the aircraft hit the tarmac in what felt more like a crash than a landing.

As the plane braked, everyone inside was thrown forward. They grabbed anything they could to keep from being hurtled into the cockpit. David looked up apprehensively at the big Impala straining at the cables holding it in place, and wondered just how strong they really were?

The plane was still hurtling along at a great speed when it suddenly made a sharp left turn. They had all braced themselves against the deceleration and were unprepared for the aircraft's turn. Everyone was thrown around, only to land against something hard or with sharp corners.

The plane stopped with a squeal of tires, and the cargo door began to whine open. David decided that he would accept the pilot's advice and fly El-Al next time.

Within five minutes, David and all his people were on the tarmac. As soon as they were out, the C-17 revved its engines and sped away to points unknown. A HumVee rolled up to David, and a positively enormous black man unfolded himself from it. David almost laughed, because it appeared as though the American was peeling the car from himself as though it were a large overcoat.

The American MP ambled up to Weissman, consulted a sheet of paper, and asked, "You First of Third?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't understand a word you said."

"Hey, Fella, we ain't got all day. If you're the First Battalion of the Third Regiment, get your stuff in your vehicles and follow me!" He spun on his heel and sauntered back to his vehicle.

David shouted frantically, "First Battalion, mount up!" Feet pounded the pavement. He raced back to his Impala, and began calling his company commanders. They were in various stages of readiness.

Someone pounded on his hatch. One of his men opened it, and it was the big American. "Hey, Fella, we got a war on. Let's move it out!"

"My company commanders have not reported in yet. We will proceed when I give the order, do you understand?"

"Sure, you just give me a call whenever you're ready. I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. In the meantime, if you don't get the hell off my airbase, I'll make sure the next C-17 runs your ass over!" The American slammed the Impala's hatch.

"Americans!" David fumed, "Can't live with them; can't live without them!" The company commanders reported in. It had taken three minutes to assemble the company, but with the rude American standing there, tapping his foot and glancing at his watch, it seemed more like three hours.

"First Battalion, follow me," David radioed. He leaned over to his driver. "Put this thing as close to his bumper as you can. He wants us to follow, let's follow!"

David's driver grinned. The Impala lurched forward, and the American raced to his HumVee. By the time the HumVee was moving, the Impala was less than a meter from its bumper. David looked back through his command cupola. His companies were falling in behind with almost parade-ground precision. Excellent!

The HumVee continued on at a steady speed of about thirty kilometers per hour. It led them around two turns before a gate appeared in the distance. Without warning, the HumVee accelerated sharply, zoomed through the gate, and turned quickly behind a guard house. The big, black American jumped out and stood beside the gate. As the Command Impala approached, the American stood rigidly and saluted in a professional manner. As David passed, the American yelled out, "Kill a couple of rag-heads for me!"

Weissman smiled ruefully. Brash American!

The road wound through and around the small city. There were regular check points manned by Americans. They'd look at their sheets and say, "You First of Third?" David had finally figured out their short-hand method of speaking. He'd reply, "Yes," and they'd waved him on.

It was at the third or fourth of these checkpoints that, instead of waving him on, the guard yelled, "Take a right at the top of the hill. Go one mile. That's your new home." The right hand turn was the easy part, but neither David nor anybody else knew what a mile was. So, he drove for a kilometer and then drove a little more.

Suddenly, out of the darkness a friendly face appeared. David ordered his company to a halt, leaned out the hatch, and yelled, "Honey, I'm home!"

Lt. Colonel Jake Hiram turned around and waved. "It's about time. I've been worried sick and supper is burned!" He ran to David's Command Impala, and pointed to a small hillock. "You're over there, between this little rise here and that ditch over there. The rest of the Regiment will be right along, so keep your eyes open for them and help me get everybody in position. Once we're ready, we'll have a little meeting. It looks like we've surprised them completely. The Americans mopped up all the opposition before we arrived. We're behind the Iranaqis, as they call them, right on their supply lines."

David smiled and headed to his assigned positions. Yes, we've surprised them. We also surprised them when we climbed the Golan Heights, for all the good that did us!