Upfall

"Okay, I think we've heard enough for now" said the Prime Minister cutting Mina off with gusto. "The security cabinet will consider Operation Slingshot and inform the Chief of Staff of any decisions. In the meantime, we will work to put off the Americans for as long practicable. Minister Arbel will lead that effort."

"Are we authorized to prepare for Slingshot?" asked Brom.

"Yes" answered Arbel. "but don't push any buttons! Understood?"

The military men nodded. Feldhandler sat silently, still seething, but happy that the conference was finally at an end.

On the way out Feldhandler pushed his way over to Yatom. They moved into a small anteroom outside the main conference area. "You are on your way back to Dimona?" he asked the commando.

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Not yet. Arbel wants me around for the Americans" Feldhandler answered.

Feldhandler handed Yatom a scrap of paper upon which he'd written the newest loading guidelines for the capsule. The new parameters, as listed by Feldhandler, would allow Yatom two extra men, and more equipment. Yatom examined the paper briefly.

"This will help" Yatom said.

"What's your organization for Slingshot?" asked Feldhandler.

Yatom looked at the scientist doubtfully. Feldhandler always insisted on knowing every detail of preparation on technical grounds. Yatom usually was uncomfortable discussing operational matters outside his chain of command, but couldn't deny that Feldhandler needed to know, that he needed the scientist's technical guidance, and in the end, that the guy was scary smart.

"We'll incorporate a replacement for our casualty. Mofaz has a qualified and cleared man that served with him in Shaldag— Itzak Belete, an Ethiopian as a matter of fact, recently out of Balad 1. He will be ready to go once oriented—that should only take a day or two."

"Another officer?" asked Feldhandler. Balad 1 was the IDF officer qualification course — both he and Yatom attended it.

"He applied to the sayeret as an enlisted man, got the run-around from Brom, so attended the officer's course."

"Brom won't like another immigrant" said Feldhandler, surprising Yatom with his knowledge of the inner-workings of the sayeret.

"He's not—his parents came over in 1979. He was born in Beersheba."

"Even so."

"Brom will live with it. He's the best qualified man available. Mofaz has already made him his second—replacing Yoram."

"Good. And your equipment?" asked Feldhandler. "Well, according to the guidelines you just handed me" said Yatom "we should be able to take our basic load of personal weapons and ammo, plus load the capsule with at least a machine gun or two, sniper equipment, demolitions, and an anti-tank weapon—am I correct?"

"Yes" said Feldhandler. "Don't skimp. Take plenty of ammo—I know you can't take too much. I'll check you out when I get back, but prepare to take what you need, and consider contingencies. We'll review matters if there is a problem."

Yatom wondered at Feldhandler's sudden generosity. Yatom had fought hard to get stowage on the Iranian mission that would have allowed for extra operational flexibility. But Feldhandler nixed it, fearing it would overload the capsule. Now he was pushing weapons and ammo on the assault team like a Jewish nana forces extra matzo balls her grandkids. Well, thought Yatom, a few extra matzo balls, or grenades, never hurt.

Chapter 4

Yatom left the Kirya with thought of children, not war, in his head. His own child to be precise, a six year old princess named Ronit. She lived with her mother in Holon, a working class suburb of Tel Aviv, and easy drive from the Kirya. Yatom, as a sayeret commander rated his own car, though not his own driver, and he checked one out of the motor pool, advising the nineteen-year-old conscript clerk, that he would be driving on to Dimona. The skinny young soldier, was one of a huge flock of conscripts avoiding combat service by doing petty administrative service at the kira, usually by way of parental influence, gave him the paperwork and the keys as if he couldn't care less if Yatom were driving to the moon. Such soldiers irked Yatom. It wasn't like in the old days, when service in combat units, and especially elite commando formations was fought over by young Israelis, and a successful stint in the IDF was the was a necessary qualification for any male to advance in society. Now, these rear area mother fuckers—as Yatom knew the Americans called them—seemed to constitute the vast majority of troops. Well, at least they were doing some service thought Yatom. About twenty percent of young Israeli men now managed to avoid military service completely, through exemptions for religious study, mental or physical disabilities or criminal records. Jews should be grateful that they can fight in a real army Yatom thought ruefully—for two millennia of suffering and humiliation it was a right denied to them. But less than a century of Jewish independence was already sapping the will.