Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Israeli Air Space
Thursday, November 12
4:30 p.m., Local Time

Moshe glanced out his canopy toward his partner, tucked smartly off his right wing. Rueben had spoken hardly a word since Moshe broached the subject of Biblical prophecy, and that was a bothersome dilemma for the new believer. He’d never had to deal with the realities of being rejected for his faith. This was a first, if rejection it was. Whichever the case, Moshe was aware of his need to concentrate on the mission. Turkey seemed to be overstepping its bounds, and Dagger Flight was tasked with correcting that misstep.
For the last two decades, Turkey had been a friend, one of the few allies of Israel. Deemed a moderate Islamic democracy, the Turks had relished the idea of being included in all things western. From being included in the NATO alliance, to being a shirt-tail cousin to the European Union, they were in. Western affluence, especially the corresponding ties to America, was craved by a people long considered a step-child of Europe.
But Turkey was just modern enough to be included—just backwards enough to be kept at arms length. Because the West had been partial to Israel, Turkey followed suit and bit its tongue, even when the rest of the Muslim world harassed or chastised the Jewish State. But now, that state of semi-cooperation exited no more. The Palestinian issue, and Israel’s treatment of radical Muslims in Gaza, had finally taken a toll on the Turks. When the West failed to halt an Israeli incursion into the Gaza Strip in early 2009, Turkey had reached the end of its ability to walk a fence. It was time to begin exploring other options, namely the growing Russian coalition.
There were many advantages to enjoy with the Russians, advantages that outweighed western affluence. One of these consisted of energy. Russia now controlled all natural gas and crude-oil pipelines from the Caspian Sea to the Mediterranean. As most of those lines passed through Turkey, a natural inclination to work with Russia brought about a genuine partnership. An added benefit was a generous provision of armaments and spare parts. A win-win alliance had been created. Further, a pull toward Iranian-styled Islam added an element of dogmatism that only compounded the cultural differences, and as a result, Israel and the West were left hanging in the breeze.
Now, a Turkish spy ship was doing the bidding of its new coalition masters by playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse off the Israeli coast. The ship was laden with an electronic capability that gave it several options. A powerful radar array allowed observes to keep track of all Israeli Air Force operations with pinpoint accuracy. Eavesdropping technology provided the ability to intercept cellular phone traffic, as well as military communications. It all spelled trouble, and Israeli intelligence believed the ship’s presence went far beyond the scope of peace-keeping. Moshe and Rueben had been tasked with removing the ship from the surface of the Mediterranean.
Only moments before, a touch-and-go procedure had taken place on the Ramat David runway. Another pair of F-16s had rotated into the air just as Moshe and Rueben had touched down. But their touchdown had been short-lived. Almost immediately, Dagger Flights IFF transponders had been disengaged, and a ground hugging altitude had been assumed. The point was to place the Lightning aircraft below the terrain and keep it there until the last possible moment of attack. That meant flying through shallow valleys and behind low hilly ranges all the way to the coast. The spy ship would only notice the take-off of one set of F-16s in the process. That group had gone high altitude and south, leaving Moshe and Rueben free of electronic detection.
Moshe scanned the Horizontal Situational Display above his left knee and pinpointed the ship’s position in reference to their current heading. They were skirting the southern base of Mount Carmel and would soon be exposing themselves over open water.
“Frisbee—Dagger—eyeballs are on target. I see no air activity. We should be clear to begin the attack in about thirty seconds,” Moshe transmitted.
“Roger—Dagger, I’m ready to get in the game.”
“On my mark, climb to angels twenty and take a heading of two-seven-zero degrees west. I will stay low and drive straight in. Once I loose my Mavericks, keep an eye out for ship-launched SAMS. Then swing around to the north and watch for any bogeys from the north, copy?”
“Copy—Dagger. I do angels twenty on your call. Flush those guys into the sea,” Rueben responded.
Moshe turned slightly left to avoid a tall communications tower. He then swung north toward coastline. The resort section of Haifa was just ahead, but no tourist activity existed due to the nuclear detonation over Haifa’s seaport on the other side of the mountain.
“Okay Frisbee—break in three, two, one—now,” Moshe ordered.
“Frisbee is heading west.”
Moshe disengaged his TFR, Terrain Following Radar, and pushed his throttle to full military power. His air speed climbed to nearly five hundred knots. With a twitch of his thumb he called up an arms menu on the Heads-Up-Display and selected two AGM-Maverick missiles. The Turkish ship was beyond Israeli territorial waters at just under twenty miles distant, but he could hear the growl of the missile’s radar as he electronically locked onto the target. Ten seconds later, Moshe loosed the twin killers and watched them sink the target.
Just then, Rueben’s voice broke into Moshe’s headset. “Dagger—we’ve got company, and they’re lighting me up.”

Plattsville, Missouri
Thursday, 6:45 a.m., Local Time

The twiddling ringtone of Ty’s phone sounded three times before he finally broke out of his sleepy fog and answered. “Hello,” he growled, trying to decide why someone would be calling at this hour?
“Tyler James Dempsey?” The voice was gruff.
“Yes. With whom am I speaking?” Ty sat up quickly.
“Matthew Simmons, US State Department, Office of Diplomatic Relations. Pardon me sir, but I need to confirm that you are actually Tyler James Dempsey. You will be asked a series of questions. I need precise answers, understood?”
“Yes, but before I answer you questions, how do I know you are who you say you are? Things are bad enough in the world. I really don’t need my identity stolen.” Ty had no interest in playing games if the call wasn’t legit.
“Fair enough. Ask away.”
“Okay. Why are you calling,” Ty asked.
“That’s simple enough. I will not say where it has come from, but the Secretary of State has been queried with an odd request. The foreign ministry of a nation, which shall remain nameless until I can confirm your identity, is seeking diplomatic status for you and one Blake Sieler.”
“Diplomatic status?”
“Yes sir. As neither you, nor Ms. Sieler, currently hold US passports, the mechanism to be used is a type of temporary dual citizenship. The grounds for the issuance will be that of diplomatic service to a foreign power,” the Simmons explained. “It is similar to being a lobbyist in the halls of our Congress. However, in this case, you will become a quasi mediator between governments, at least in theory.”
“We’re talking Israel here, aren’t we?”
“I presume you are satisfied with who I say I am?”
“Yes Mr. Simmons. Ask away.”
“Very well. Your father, James served in the United States Army. What were his years of service in southeast Asia?”
“He was in Vietnam from 1970 to 1971,” Ty answered.
“Your mother’s first name is what?”
Ty caught his breath. The emotional pain of his mother’s death still hovered beneath the surface. Trying to control himself, he hesitated in providing the simple information.
“Sir?” Simmons interjected.
“Sorry. My mother’s name was Martha. She passed away last Friday,” Ty whispered.
“My condolences, Mr. Dempsey. The information that I have confirms that fact, but I needed to hear it from you directly. I apologize,” Simmons stated, sounding genuinely contrite. “I believe I have established that you are Tyler James Dempsey. Please jot down the following details.”
Ty reached for the pen and pad he always kept on the night stand next to his bed. “Ready.”
“This Saturday, two days from now, at six o’clock p.m. Central Standard Time, an Israeli Avocet Projet will arrive at the abandoned American Airlines rework facility at Kansas City International Airport. You and Ms. Sieler will be admitted into the facility through the 112th Street entrance. You will be directed as to where you are to park your vehicle. You will then board the Israeli jet at precisely six thirty. At that time you will sign a State Department waiver and complete the necessary paperwork authorizing you to assume diplomatic status. You will then receive a Diplomatic Passport from the US Government containing all required documentation for entrance into Israel. You will then proceed to an undeclared location in Israel. Do you have any questions, Mr. Dempsey?” The information was given matter-of-factly, no fanfare, no frills.
“No sir,” Ty responded. A lot of “you will thens” had just been recited. It was starting to sound like a James Bond script.
“Very well. For security purposes, there will be no further communication from this or any other governmental department. Do not share this information with anyone other than your closest confidants. Farewell Mr. Dempsey.” The line went dead.
Ty ran his hands through his hair and immediately felt a shiver run down his spine. What had been impossible had just become reality. He had no idea what high-powered contacts Ben Sherett had in Israel, but they were obviously important enough to move mountains. In a time of national tragedy for both countries this should not be happening. Yet there he sat, faced with the fulfillment of two dreams, a marriage to the most wonderful woman on the planet, and a ministry trip to Israel. It was enough to move the shiver from his spine to his feet. Things had to be done, and done right away. At the top of the new list was a call to Blake.

The Mediterranean Sea
Same Time Local

Four MiG 29 Fulcrum fighter jets were blazing outward from the Syrian coastal base of Afis. Their dual afterburners were fully engaged, and their attack radars had locked onto Moshe and Rueben. The question was whether the pilots were Syrian or Russian. Whichever, the MiGs were now seventy miles out and closing quickly.
“I’m being interrogated for missile lock, Dagger. They look mad,” radioed Rueben. “The statement was actually a request for permission to engage. Rueben’s position was more advantageous than Moshe’s, and his taking the lead was the right call. He’d proven himself ready.
“I’m coming up behind you at about five mile Frisbee. You are free to engage—repeat—you are free to engage,” Moshe gave the order.
“Roger—Frisbee going hot.”
Moshe thumbed his throttle and injected fuel into the exhaust of his engine, thereby igniting his afterburner. The Lightning’s velocity climbed beyond mach one and continued to gain speed. Though his wingman would be the first to fire on the oncoming MiGs, he wanted to be in the mix as quickly as possible, if nothing more than to cover his partner. As the g-forces on his body began to lessen, he selected two AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles.
“I’m locked onto bogeys one and two with AMRAAMs. The other two MiGs are at their leader’s six and going low,” Rueben transmitted.
“Roger—Frisbee—I’ll take bogey three and four. Fire whenever you get the itch.”
A steady growl sounded in Moshe’s headset as both missiles’ fire-and-forget radars acquired their designated targets. The closure difference between the attack range of the AMRAAMS and that of the enemy missiles would be about ten miles. At the current rate, that would be about five seconds.
“Frisbee—Fox Three, Fox Three—missiles away. I’m breaking right in three…two…one…mark.” Rueben turned sharply to his right and dove for the deck.
“Dagger One—Fox Three. I’m right behind you Frisbee. I read no incoming missiles.”
“Roger, boss. How do you want to play it?”
Moshe looked at his HSD screen and saw the two sets of MiGs breaking in multiple directions. Even if they all survived the AMRAAMs, the Lightnings would most likely have to deal with just the two breaking toward them in their attempt to escape.
“Let’s stay low to the coastline and back off the throttle,” Moshe responded.
“You mean check for swimmers?”
“I mean watch for a counter attack. Those guys may be Russians. They’re trickier than the Syrians.”
Moshe nudged his fighter ahead of Rueben’s left wing and assumed the lead position. Once in place he turned his attention to the drama unfolding about twenty miles north. One by one, the flashing blips of the AMRAAM missiles converged with the dots on the screen. They all died.
“That’s it, Frisbee, let’s head for home,” Moshe ordered.

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