The Marsh Angel by Hagai Dagan (best thriller books to read .TXT) 📕

kept on turning. B2, B3, can you hear me? a voice suddenly sounded in Arabic.

Stop! Stop here! Tamir exclaimed.

B2, B3, hal tasma‘uni?

No one replied.

Stay on this frequency, Tamir said. He called Moti on the S.B. I’ve got something here, he said, 153.2 MHz. Just radio checks, for now. Try to pinpoint it.

Moti confirmed.

B2, B3, can you hear me?

The sound quality was poor. Tamir opened the window to the driver’s cabin and instructed him to drive as slowly as he possibly could. Look through the mirror at station three, he’ll signal you to continue driving or back up, he instructed. He told the rest of the producers to keep scanning.

B2, B3, can you hear me, over?

Tamir couldn’t ascertain whether the dialect was Palestinian. He consulted the producer.

Hard to tell. He needs to speak a bit more.

B1, this is B2, I hear you, over.

What’s going on?

The shark is sailing south. Staying in motion.

Tamir grabbed the S.B.— Moti, they’re moving, probably towards the shore. There must be a navy ship sailing away from them to the south! It has to go back. Use the ship’s location to find them.

Okay.

What’s happening on your end?

The navy just sent out two helicopters and there are forces moving along the coast, but we still can’t pinpoint them. The communications are too sparse, and the frequency is weak. The best we have so far is a very general location— anywhere between Ashdod and Herzliya.

If the frequency is weak on your end, that means they can’t be far from where I am. They have to be around Tel-Aviv.

Yeah, okay. Keep your ears on that frequency.

Great, thanks, I wouldn’t have thought of that myself, Tamir sarcastically thought to himself.

B1, this is B2, we can see the shore.

Yup, Palestinians, the producer said.

B1, this is B3, affirmative, we see shore.

A searchlight lit up the dark sea sprawling outward from the Metzitzim Beach promenade. It seemed to Tamir that the dense, black expanse of water was rejecting the invasive foreign light. Beyond the slowly undulating dark mass, there was nothing to be seen. Behind the searchlight, the vague silhouette of a Dabur patrol boat could be seen; a helicopter appeared overhead, casting its own searchlight down at the water. There was nothing there.

Where the hell are they, goddamnit? Tamir thought to himself angrily. He felt his heart pounding against the combat-vest strapped tight over the civilian clothes he had worn to the drive-in with Neta. The moisture in his loins had dried up, but a cold sweat dripped from his forehead underneath the thick plastic helmet. I can’t think like this, he thought as he irately undid his helmet, allowing to it drop from his head and hit the floor of the van with an emphatic thud. The producer to his left glanced at him in alert silence.

B2, this is B1. Pull…

The speaker was cut off. Fuck, stop! Stop! Back up a bit, Tamir yelled to the driver.

B1, this is B2, repeat that.

Pull them in.

Who’s he pulling in? Tamir’s thoughts raced. He picked up the S.B. receiver. Stay with me on the line from now on, he told Moti. I think B stands for bahriya— seaborne unit. B1 is probably on the boat or far out at sea, and B2 and B3 are intended to land on the shore. They’re the operational force. It appears there are two boats in the water. B1 just told B2 to pull them in. I don’t know about B3.

Pull who?

I don’t know, our forces?

Why would he say that?

I have no idea. How come they can’t find them?

B1, this B2, on the shore. They’re above us.

Where are you?

There’s a mosque here.

Moti! Tamir yelled into the S.B., they’re at Hassan Bek! Go, go south! he yelled to his driver. The van sped down the promenade. Tamir looked out of the narrow, barred window and saw the helicopters and the patrol boat turning south as well. Three army jeeps raced past them.

Allah ma‘ak! God is with you! B1 called over the radio. Another military vehicle passed the Mole with tires screeching; two Border Police cruisers followed, as well as a police patrol car with its sirens wailing. As they got closer to Hassan Bek, they heard gunfire— a single round, some precision fire, and a few more rounds. A group of bystanders emerged from a nearby pub at the edge of Yarkon Street and looked for the source of the commotion. Other people scattered frightenedly in every direction. A military policeman stepped out of a car that arrived on the scene and blocked the Mole’s path. Who are you? he asked in confusion.

Tamir jumped out of the van. Move, let us through! We’re part of the operation! he yelled at the MP.

The bemused policeman stared at Tamir’s civilian clothes and combat-vest.

Can’t you see this is an operational vehicle? Tamir pointed angrily at the heap of antennas fixed atop the Mole.

Okay, fine, mumbled the MP.

They kept driving. The shootout by Hassan Bek Mosque continued as additional forces flocked to the scene, but the radio fell silent. Tamir peered outside. A pale, hesitant, granular light fluttered over the slowly graying waters.

The navy spotted a tanker, quite a way out from our territorial waters, Moti said. They’re approaching it now.

The Zavod engines, Tamir thought, that’s how they covered the distance from the tanker to the beach so quickly without being discovered. But why attack an empty beach at an hour when there are no bathers around? What kind of terrorist attack is this? And why draw out the forces? Why not try and evade them?

Suddenly, gunfire rattled the air again. Tamir heard the sound of glass shattering, followed by a scream coming from the driver’s cabin. He grabbed his helmet, hastily balanced it on his head, and hunched towards the cabin. The driver stared at him with glazed eyes.

What happened? Tamir asked.

The driver just shook his head.

Are you hurt?!

No, I don’t think so, his hand shook as he pointed to the shattered windshield. It appeared like the bullet flew just over his head.