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Authors: Rick Campbell
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from his eyes as quickly as it ignited. “Anything else?”
Kogen hesitated. He had no doubt Israel would track down and eliminate Nidal and his leaders, perhaps not by the end of the week, but eventually. But attacking Hamas was like scraping away the pus from a gangrenous limb. Iran was the sickness, and Hamas and its attacks on Israel only the putrid symptoms. Kogen knew, just as Rosenfeld did, that Hamas’s campaign of terror was financed by Iran, and the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades received their training and weapons directly from Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Iran was intent on destroying Israel, and there was no doubt their nuclear weapon, if assembled, would somehow be used against Israel. The Iranian weapon assembly complex must be destroyed—that much was clear—and the Mossad had carefully crafted an opportunity.
However, the operation they had nurtured for years was on the verge of discovery. Kogen’s contacts in the United States had determined a White House intern had sent a cryptic e-mail to the president’s national security adviser. If she were to obtain and decrypt the information the intern had collected, the operation would be exposed and their opportunity lost. The plan could still succeed, but only if they acted quickly. And now, with the blood of his children staining the prime minister’s clothes, there would be no better opportunity to obtain his permission.
With only a twinge of guilt, Kogen pressed forward. “We must discuss what I proposed last night. There’s a possibility the operation has been compromised.”
“It’s no longer an option?”
“It is still viable, but we must initiate the plan now, before it is exposed. There’s increased risk with executing early, but we’ve incorporated safeguards that will counter that risk. The operation will succeed. But you must decide.”
“How long do I have?”
“You must decide today, Prime Minister. You must decide now.”
“What are the details of this operation?”
“With all due respect, I think it’s best you not know the specifics. But I can assure you it will be impossible to trace the genesis of America’s attack back to Israel.” Kogen approached Rosenfeld, stopping at the edge of his desk. “But I must make one thing clear, Levi. Once we execute, there is nothing we, or the Americans, can do to stop it.”
After a moment, Rosenfeld leaned forward, hatred smoldering in his eyes again. “They have taken everything from me, Barak. I will not let another suffer as I do at the hands of this evil. I will no longer do nothing as our people bury their husbands, wives, and children.” Rosenfeld continued, his voice flat, surprising Kogen with its sudden lack of emotion. “I will approve the operation.”
Kogen pulled the authorization letter from the inside breast pocket of his suit, unfolded the sheet of paper, and slid it toward Rosenfeld. Reaching across the prime minister’s desk, Kogen retrieved a pen from its engraved stand. Fittingly, it was a goodwill gift from the American ambassador to Israel. He laid it on the paper, next to the signature block, and watched as Rosenfeld quickly signed the memorandum.
8
USS KENTUCKY
As the Kentucky cruised westward five hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface, Lieutenant Tom Wilson sat in one of the two chairs on the ship’s Conn in Control, one chair designated for the Officer of the Deck, the other reserved for the Captain. Sitting on the port side of the Conn, Tom supervised his watch section, eventually turning his attention to the Helm, stationed in front of the Diving Officer of the Watch. The Helm—usually one of the most junior enlisted men aboard—was responsible for maintaining the ship’s course and relaying propulsion orders to the Throttleman in the Engine Room, who would open the main engine throttles accordingly.
Tom had to admit the ship’s propulsion orders had been confusing at first, with the intuitive interpretation usually
Kogen hesitated. He had no doubt Israel would track down and eliminate Nidal and his leaders, perhaps not by the end of the week, but eventually. But attacking Hamas was like scraping away the pus from a gangrenous limb. Iran was the sickness, and Hamas and its attacks on Israel only the putrid symptoms. Kogen knew, just as Rosenfeld did, that Hamas’s campaign of terror was financed by Iran, and the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades received their training and weapons directly from Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Iran was intent on destroying Israel, and there was no doubt their nuclear weapon, if assembled, would somehow be used against Israel. The Iranian weapon assembly complex must be destroyed—that much was clear—and the Mossad had carefully crafted an opportunity.
However, the operation they had nurtured for years was on the verge of discovery. Kogen’s contacts in the United States had determined a White House intern had sent a cryptic e-mail to the president’s national security adviser. If she were to obtain and decrypt the information the intern had collected, the operation would be exposed and their opportunity lost. The plan could still succeed, but only if they acted quickly. And now, with the blood of his children staining the prime minister’s clothes, there would be no better opportunity to obtain his permission.
With only a twinge of guilt, Kogen pressed forward. “We must discuss what I proposed last night. There’s a possibility the operation has been compromised.”
“It’s no longer an option?”
“It is still viable, but we must initiate the plan now, before it is exposed. There’s increased risk with executing early, but we’ve incorporated safeguards that will counter that risk. The operation will succeed. But you must decide.”
“How long do I have?”
“You must decide today, Prime Minister. You must decide now.”
“What are the details of this operation?”
“With all due respect, I think it’s best you not know the specifics. But I can assure you it will be impossible to trace the genesis of America’s attack back to Israel.” Kogen approached Rosenfeld, stopping at the edge of his desk. “But I must make one thing clear, Levi. Once we execute, there is nothing we, or the Americans, can do to stop it.”
After a moment, Rosenfeld leaned forward, hatred smoldering in his eyes again. “They have taken everything from me, Barak. I will not let another suffer as I do at the hands of this evil. I will no longer do nothing as our people bury their husbands, wives, and children.” Rosenfeld continued, his voice flat, surprising Kogen with its sudden lack of emotion. “I will approve the operation.”
Kogen pulled the authorization letter from the inside breast pocket of his suit, unfolded the sheet of paper, and slid it toward Rosenfeld. Reaching across the prime minister’s desk, Kogen retrieved a pen from its engraved stand. Fittingly, it was a goodwill gift from the American ambassador to Israel. He laid it on the paper, next to the signature block, and watched as Rosenfeld quickly signed the memorandum.
8
USS KENTUCKY
As the Kentucky cruised westward five hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface, Lieutenant Tom Wilson sat in one of the two chairs on the ship’s Conn in Control, one chair designated for the Officer of the Deck, the other reserved for the Captain. Sitting on the port side of the Conn, Tom supervised his watch section, eventually turning his attention to the Helm, stationed in front of the Diving Officer of the Watch. The Helm—usually one of the most junior enlisted men aboard—was responsible for maintaining the ship’s course and relaying propulsion orders to the Throttleman in the Engine Room, who would open the main engine throttles accordingly.
Tom had to admit the ship’s propulsion orders had been confusing at first, with the intuitive interpretation usually
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