32

YIGAL SEES THE CLOUD of dust from half a mile away. The brigade is heading north at speed, probably hitting sixty-five miles per hour and tearing the roadway into a mulch of pulverized asphalt. In moments he catches up to the rearmost tank, whose commander spots him on his 360-degree video screen. Almost immediately, the entire column slows to a halt, moving off the roadway to give the red BMW a chance to reach the column leader, which is just behind the brigade’s reconnaissance jeeps. When he gets there, Yigal dumps the car by the side of the road. The tank’s hatch opens and Ephraim, his driver, pulls himself out.

Ephraim is one of six Ethiopians in the brigade: three drivers, one loader, one gunner, and one commander. For unknown reasons Ethiopians are drawn to the armored corps. These are the sons of immigrants whose lives in Africa centered on subsidence agriculture, whose most advanced technology is the ox-drawn wood plow—the low-tech model is pulled by a man. These are people who in one generation have leaped from pre-history to computer-guided fire control. As a driver, Ephraim is responsible not only for maneuvering sixty-five tons of war machine but for keeping it operational. He is twenty-eight years old, and like most Israelis has mastered the art of aggressive understatement.

“Yigal,” he says as the man from the red BMW clambers onto the tank, “you almost missed the party. We were going to start without you.”

As is common in the IDF, officers are called by their first names or their nicknames. There is not a private in the IDF who would hesitate to call the chief of staff Pinky.

“Traffic,” Yigal shouts as he settles in to the right of the driver. “Every time there’s a war, it gets awful.” He pulls on his helmet, adjusting the mic over his lips. “To all units, this is Roller One. I need status. Noam, come in. Over.”

Through his earphones, he hears the voice of his operations officer four tanks to the rear, his voice tinny but clear, special filters canceling out the deep roar of the engines just in front of him. To protect the crew, which IDF doctrine holds as being more important than the tank itself, Chariots are the only main battle tank produced whose engine is forward of the crew compartment. This adds tons of steel between the crew and any missile coming head on. The Chariot is less well protected in the rear, but as General Israel Tal, its designer, is said to have explained, “The armored corps is not expected to retreat.”

“Noam to Yigal, we’re in shit. HQ reports two to three hundred cans now crossing Lebanon border at Adamit, invaders splitting, half to coast, the rest southeast to Safed. Ours to interdict coastal force. They’re heading to Haifa. Over.”

“Roger, Noam. Rendezvous Position 253. Repeat: Rendezvous 253. Proceeding to objective in three columns. Noam, stay with me on 79. Itzik, your guys break off on 541. Amir, your cans via 545. Resume forward movement at maximum speed. Confirm, over.”

The battalion commanders report as the tanks start forward, each unit led by two recon jeeps, essentially the eyes and ears of any armored force. Even with 360-degree video, a main battle tank is an ungainly beast that must be led to battle and provided with real-time intelligence. This is especially true at night, when jeep reconnaissance is essential in revealing the enemy’s order of battle. In Yigal’s brigade, as opposed to the more centralized structure of the armored corps as a whole, each recon platoon, either two or three jeeps, reports directly to the commander of his battalion, not to the brigade commander, thus encouraging independent action on the battlefield.

“Amir here. Roger, Yigal. In twenty. Over.”

“Noam confirms. Moving out. Over.”

“Yigal, it’s Misha. Arik probably still on his way. Can’t get him on cell. I’ve taken command. Over.”

“Roger that, Misha. Get yourself a gunner. You can’t do both. Let’s go kick Syrian ass. Over and out.”

“Noam here. Yigal, kicking Persian ass. Over.”

“Say again? Over.”

“Element splitting to coastal road is Iranian Revolutionary Guard. Repeat: Iranian. Over.”

“Impossible, Noam. HQ is paranoid. Over.”

“I wish. ID positive. Updated T-72S. Revolutionary Guard. Over.”

Yigal does not miss a beat. His men expect nothing less. To pause even for a moment would be to telegraph doubt. “Okay, we’ve seen the same tin cans before. Same Russian hardware we know and love. Aim forward and low. That’s the sweet spot. Iranian. Amazing. Over.”

“Bad news, Yigal. Per HQ, these are likely fitted with Russian Svirs. Laser guided, not heat. Over.”

“Roger that, Noam. Revised instruction to all commanders. Stay within three hundred meters. Fire from cover. Lasers inoperable where obstructed. Repeat, obstacle defense. Party time. Over and out.”

In two miles, at the appropriate intersection, Armored Brigade 512 splits off onto three separate roads to regroup at the rendezvous point above Highway 4, which hugs the Mediterranean from the Lebanese border to Haifa.