Chapter 2079 - 852: Caging Humans, Awaiting Their Master

March 25, 1998, 4 a.m., Southern Lebanon, by the Litani River

Ben Abraham's Merkava Tank was parked at the edge of a charred olive grove, with something still hanging on the tracks from last night's passage—black and indistinguishable, whether soil or something else.

He didn't go down to check.

"Brigade commander, the scouts are back." The voice of the adjutant crackled in the headset, with that distinctive hoarseness from three days of battle, "Two kilometers ahead, Hiam Town. The ZZD people are transporting things into the town, looks like rockets."

Ben Abraham said nothing. He raised his night-vision binoculars, looking north through the gray morning fog.

The silhouette of Hiam Town slowly emerged from the darkness: a few bombed-out buildings, a mosque with its minaret still standing, and the moving black shadows outside the town.

At least two hundred people.

"They intend to set up a launch site there." The artillery staff officer leaned over, pointing at the map, "From Hiam to Haifa, it's a direct forty kilometers. Their rockets can cover the entire northern plain."

Ben Abraham lowered his head and looked at the young face inside the tank's cockpit. The driver's name was Yossi, nineteen years old, had been married for two weeks when he was transferred from the Golan Heights.

"Yossi, are you scared?"

Yossi looked up, his eyes bloodshot but unflinching.

"Yes, brigade commander."

Ben Abraham nodded.

"Good. Those who aren't scared don't live long."

He picked up the radio.

"All units, target Hiam Town. The full assault begins in fifteen minutes. Artillery battalion, plow through that olive grove first."

At 4:17 a.m., the first shell crashed into the outskirts of Hiam Town.

The explosion lit up half the sky. Then the second, the third, the hundredth—howitzers, mortars, tank cannons, all firing in that direction. The ground shook, the air quivered, even the instrument panel in the tank cabin was jumping.

Ben Abraham's Merkava charged at the forefront.

The commander's hatch was open, he was half-exposed, his face blackened by the fumes, eyes squinted into slits staring ahead. Shells exploded around, shrapnel pinged against the armor, and his ears had long gone deaf, leaving only a buzzing hum.

"Brigade commander! On the left!"

The adjutant's voice came through the headset, as if drifting from afar.

He turned his head and saw fire on the hillside to the left—it was an anti-tank missile. It streaked with a tail flame, flying straight at him.

"Evade!"

Driver Yossi yanked the wheel, the tank almost flipped. The missile grazed the turret, exploded fifty meters behind them, and the blast wave made the tank sway.

Ben Abraham's head hit the hatch cover, stars bursting before his eyes. He felt his helmet; the last dent was still there, with a new scratch beside it.

"Keep moving."

Hiam Town was reached.

The streets were in ruins. Bombed-out houses lay across the road, burned-out cars spewed black smoke, corpses—ZZD soldiers, Squid soldiers, and some indistinguishable—lay sprawled amid the debris.

Ben Abraham jumped off the tank, stepping onto something soft. He looked down; it was a severed hand. Wearing a silver ring, on the ring finger.

He didn't stop.

"Company A, sweep the east side. Company B, push north with me. Company C, hold the town entrance, allow no one in or out."

At the street's end, a group of ZZD soldiers was attempting to set up a mortar. Seeing the Squid tank rushing in, they dropped the mortar and fled, cut down by machine-gun fire.

The remaining ones retreated into a mosque.

Ben Abraham stood at the mosque's door, staring at the closed wooden door.

"Brigade commander, there might be civilians inside," the adjutant said.

He said nothing.

Three seconds later, he raised his hand.

"Mortar."

Two shells landed in the courtyard. The wooden door blew open, screams echoed from inside.

Squid soldiers charged in. Gunfire, grenade explosions, shouts, lasted for five minutes.

Upon exiting, the adjutant's face was pale.

"Brigade commander, there were women and children inside."

Ben Abraham looked at him.

"Are you sure they were ZZD people?"

The adjutant hesitated.

"I... I don't know. But they had guns."

Ben Abraham nodded.

"Then it's alright."

He turned and continued north.

Behind him, the minaret of the mosque continued burning.

7 a.m., Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office

Shamir hadn't slept all night.

Three war reports lay spread across his desk. The first: 91st Division has taken Hiam Town and is pushing north. Casualties—forty-seven dead, one hundred and twenty-three wounded. On ZZD's side, at least three hundred dead.

The second: On the Golan Heights, Syrian army mobilization is speeding up. Two divisions already in place, the third advancing to the frontline. Those Chechens—the intelligence department confirmed at least one hundred and fifty—infiltrated the Syrian forces, in Syrian uniforms, speaking Syrian language, but those are the faces.

The third: From Washington. A message from White House envoy Ross, just one line: "The President asks, when will it stop?"

Shamir laid down the war reports.

"Where is Mr. Ross?"

The secretary stood at the door.

"Waiting in the reception room."

Shamir stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the Golden Dome Mosque on Temple Mount gleamed in the morning light. The weather was excellent, the sky blue, the clouds white, giving no hint of the death toll a hundred kilometers north of the mountains.

"Let him in."

Ross pushed the door open, looking worse than yesterday.

"Shamir, how long do you intend to keep fighting?"