Silent Strike

Finishing her self-defense classes, Yael Cohen received an urgent call from her boss: “Report in 30!” With black belts in both Krav Maga and Judo, in Judo fourth Dan, she enjoyed training IDF and Mossad recruits, but her major tasks as Mossad operative were outside Israel.

A day later, she was on board of the *Lena*, a sleek, 65-meter yacht, as it sliced through the dark waters of the Mediterranean, its engines humming with quiet menace. Avi Barzel, Captain in the Israeli Navy, was at the controls. The yacht had belonged to a Russian oligarch. It was confiscated by the Italian authorities, and ‘on loan’ from Giorgia Meloni to Israel. On the deck, Yael adjusted the straps of her tactical vest, her sharp green eyes scanning the horizon past the island of Rhodes. Beside her, Yuval Levy cleaned the barrel of his Tavor X95 rifle, his jaw tight with focus.

Israel had been tracking the *Meerkat* for days, a Liberian-registered freighter supposedly hauling grain from Novorossiysk to Egypt. But intercepted chatter on Signal told a different story. Hidden beneath the grain were enough weapons to arm a small army: Makarov and Udav pistols, AK-74s, AK-203s, RPGs, RGD-5s, C4, ammunitions, satellite phones, and more. The question was: for whom is this all intended?

In Syria, 54 years of brutal rule by the al-Assad family has cost millions of lives and resulted in over 10 million displaced persons since the 2011 civil revolution. Assisted by Turkey, HTS has taken over Syria, creating a new menace on Israel’s northeastern border. Its self-appointed leader, Ahmed al-Sharaa, who went from ISIS to al-Qaeda, to al-Nusra, and now HTS, became known as the terrorist in the Armani suit. The presence of IRGC and Hezbollah is gone from Syria, and so are the Syrian and Russian air raids on Syria’s population, especially the Kurds. Now are HTS and Turkey hammering the Syrian Alawites, Maronites, Kurds, Druze and Yezidi, trying to eliminate all minorities. Sharia Law became applicable. An additional threat to Israel’s security.

The Mossad was tasked to make sure that new supplies of weaponry aren’t reaching Syria, but also not Iran’s proxies, Hezbollah and Hamas, whose forces have been decimated by Israel since October 2023.

In the specially erected command room, IDF Unit 8200’s SIGINT specialists under Lieutenant David Tal, hunched over glowing screens, their fingers flying across keyboards. “The AIS of the *Meerkat* went dark for five minutes east of Rhodes,” said David, his voice clipped. “Satellite imagery caught it passing another freighter, identical build, same name *Meerkat* painted on the hull. They swapped signals. The real *Meerkat* is heading west now, not Egypt.”

Yael leaned over his shoulder, studying the grainy footage. “Clever bastards,” she muttered. “Who’s the buyer?”

“Could be any terrorist gang. Take your pick of the 50 roaming the MENA countries, and beyond,” Yuval said, sliding a magazine into his Tavor with a sharp click. “Or maybe Wagner’s playing both sides. Russia’s desperate to move product since their arms exports tanked after its invasion of Ukraine resulting in a blanket embargo by Western nations.”

“Chatter from ISGS suggests they’re involved,” David added. “We picked up a call in Arabic with an Algerian accent. They’re expecting delivery in Oran. But something’s off.”

The shipment must be intercepted or ultimately destroyed. This could be easily done with one or two F-15i fighter jets of the IAF, but that could create huge political repercussions. Hence, it had to be done secretly and silently. The *Lena* was following from a safe distance, onboard drones at the ready, satellites tracking the *Meerkat*.

When the *Meerkat* neared Oran four days later, out of nowhere three motorized skiffs raced towards the ship, firing and launching RPGs. There must have been armed guards on the ship, because the three skiffs were blown out of the water and the *Meerkat* continued sailing, but not to Oran. Yael frowned. “So, the ship’s armed. And it’s not docking in Oran. Where’s it going?”

“Our undercover in the Algerian DRS passed on that an ISGS cell and several Russians were caught in a warehouse of Oran Port,” David said, “they were all eliminated, and a large stash of American Dollars was found on them. Someone’s cleaning house. But who had been trying to hijack the ship?”

“Wagner?” Yuval asked.

A day later, the *Meerkat* slipped through the Strait of Gibraltar, continuing southwards, hugging the African coast ten nautical miles out. The *Lena* followed at a discreet distance, its luxurious exterior belying the arsenal within.

“They won’t dare dropping anchor in Marocco, even not West Sahara,” Avi said, pulling up a map, “We’re in touch with the Moroccans. They won’t have it and monitor what’s going on. Maybe Mauritania? Nouakchott?”

Mauritania opened diplomatic relations with Israel in 1999 but severed them in 2009 after pressure from the Arab Leage, Iran and Russia. Covertly, relations continued, specifically in water management, agriculture and security. The country’s security forces are not strong enough to oppose AQIM, present in Mauritania. To make matters worse, Mossad intelligence identified a move of JNIM from north Mali into Mauritania. The mystery concerning the load of the *Meerkat* became bigger and bigger.

Yael said, “Africa’s a goddamn snake pit. We need to move.”

Mossad HQ had greenlit a covert op: intercept the shipment in Mauritania, where the government, despite public hostility, had quietly agreed to let Israeli forces land in Jreida. The cargo of the *Meerkat* must not reach HTS, Hezbollah, Hamas, or any of the jihadi factions tearing the Sahel region apart. And it sure as hell couldn’t fall into the hands of the Wagner group.

On the *Lena*, Ezra briefed his Duvdevan team, twelve elite fighters, all fluent in Arabic, dressed in traditional blue Tuareg bubus (robes), and black cheches (turbans). “We hit the port at Nouakchott,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Two drones from the *Lena* provide overwatch. If the ship bolts, we sink it. No traces, no survivors.”

Yael checked her suppressed Jericho 941 pistol and the Foreign Legion knife she got from her dad. “Rules of engagement?”

“Kill anything that moves,” Ezra replied. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

Yuval grinned, slinging his Tavor over his shoulder. “My kind of party.”

The sun dipped below the horizon as the *Lena* anchored off Jreida. The team piled into inflatable Zodiacs, their engines whispering as they skimmed toward shore. Sand dunes loomed ahead, the air thick with salt and heat. Yael’s earpiece crackled with Avi’s voice: “Drones are up. The *Meerkat* is two miles from Nouakchott port.” After beaching the team, the other Duvdevan fighters took the Zodiacs south towards Nouakchott port.

Minutes later Avi bellowed: “You’ve got company. Six quads, armed, two clicks east, heading your way.” “Copy that,” Yael whispered, signaling the team to dismount. They fanned out among the dunes, weapons ready.

The roar of engines broke the silence. Six quads burst over a ridge, their riders in mismatched military gear. Wagner mercs or local jihadis? Impossible to tell. Muzzle flashes erupted, stitching the sand with bullets. Yael dropped to one knee, her Jericho barking twice. A rider’s head snapped back, blood spraying across the dune as his quad veered and flipped. Yuval unleashed a burst from his Tavor, shredding another’s chest; the man tumbled into the sand, his AK clattering away. The Duvdevan team joined in with their M4 carbines and Para Micro-Uzis.

“Drones, take the rest!” Ezra barked into his comms.

A high-pitched whine filled the air as two armed drones swooped in. Hellfire missiles streaked down, detonating in twin fireballs. Quads exploded, metal and flesh raining over the desert. A severed arm landed near Yael, still clutching a pistol. She kicked it aside and stood. “Move!”

The port of Nouakchott buzzed with chaos. Dockworkers scattered as the *Meerkat* loomed into view, its rust-streaked hull dwarfing the fishing boats. Yael’s team slipped through the shadows, their blue robes blending with the Tuareg traders haggling over fish and salt. The drones hovered high above, feeding live intel to Avi.

“Ship’s crew is unloading crates,” he reported. “Armed guards, ten, maybe twelve. More on deck.”

“ISGS?” Yuval asked, peering through binoculars.

“Or Wagner. Doesn’t matter,” Yael said. “We take the dock, then the ship.”

Ezra split the team: half to secure the perimeter, half to assault the dock. Yael and Yuval led the charge, sprinting low past stacks of cargo. A guard in a black balaclava turned, raising an AK-74, too late. Yael’s knife flashed, burying itself in his throat. He gurgled, blood bubbling over his chest as she yanked the blade free. Yuval fired a suppressed burst, dropping two more guards in a spray of crimson.

The dock erupted. Shouts in Russian and Arabic echoed as guards returned fire. A Duvdevan fighter took a round to the shoulder, grunting as he fell behind a crate. Yael lobbed an RGN grenade. It arced through the air and landed among three guards unloading a crate. The explosion ripped them apart. Limbs flew, one man’s torso slamming into a piling with a wet crunch.

“Push forward!” Ezra roared, his gun blazing. A guard’s head exploded in a pink mist, brain matter splattering the dock. Another swung an RPG, but Yuval tackled him, driving a combat knife up through his jaw. The man twitched, blood pooling beneath him as Yuval ripped the weapon free.

On the *Meerkat*, the crew panicked. “They’re Israelis!” a Russian shouted, hefting an AGS grenade launcher. He fired wildly, the blast tearing apart a stack of crates on the dock. Bullets and shrapnel hit a Duvdevan soldier, but his ceramic body armor protected him from blunt trauma.

Yael raced towards the ship’s gangway, her Jericho spitting rounds. A sailor’s chest caved in, his body tumbling into the oily water below. Yuval followed behind her, spraying the deck with his Tavor. A guard swung an AK, but a drone swooped low, its machine gun chattering. Bullets punched through his torso, nearly cutting him in half. Guts spilled across the deck in a steaming pile.

“Ship’s turning!” Ezra yelled through the comms. “They’re running!”

The engines of the *Meerkat* roared, the freighter lurching away from the dock. Yael grabbed a satchel of C4 from a dead guard’s crate. “Cover me!” she shouted, sprinting up the gangway of the departing ship, barely making it, dragging herself onto the deck. Yuval and Ezra laid down fire, bullets ricocheting off the wheelhouse as the crew fought back. Meanwhile, Yael found her way into the engine room.

Inside, the air stank of diesel and sweat. Two engineers fumbled with controls, shouting in Russian. Yael shot one through the eye, his skull bursting like a watermelon. The other lunged with a wrench. She sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and snapped it at the elbow. He howled, dropping to his knees, until her knife slashed his throat, blood fountaining over the machinery.

She planted the C4, set the timer for two minutes, and ran. “Out! Now!” she yelled into her comms.

In the meantime, the Zodiacs had sped down from Jreida. Ezra jumped in one of them and steered it alongside the *Meerkat*, in time to catch Yael jumping from the ship. Under fire, they raced the Zodiac back to the port.

The team piled back into the Zodiacs as the *Meerkat* gained speed, steaming into open water. Yael counted down silently. At zero, the ship erupted. A massive fireball engulfed the stern, tearing through steel like paper. Shrapnel rained down, a jagged chunk impaling a fleeing sailor through the chest mid-deck. Flames roared skyward, licking at crates of ammo that detonated in secondary blasts, popping like fireworks, hurling bodies and debris into the sea.

The drones circled back, locking onto the bridge. “Finish it,” Ezra ordered. Missiles streaked from their bays, slamming into the ship’s command center. Glass and metal vaporized in a blinding explosion, the shockwave rocking the Zodiacs. The ship listed hard, its bow rising as water flooded the gutted hull. Screams faded into the night as it sank, a burning wreck swallowed by the Atlantic Ocean.

Back on the *Lena*, Yael leaned against the railing, blood streaking her robe. Yuval handed her a canteen, his hands still trembling from adrenaline. “Think that was HTS or Wagner?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, taking a swig. “They’re all pushing up the daisies now.” Yuval always liked her quotes from Monty Python.

Ezra joined them, wiping gore from his face. “HQ’s happy. No political fallout, no evidence. Just a ghost ship that never existed.”

Besides a few cuts, abrasions and bruises where bullets hit their body armor, nobody of the team was seriously hurt.

In the distance, the last flames flickered out, leaving only smoke and silence. The *Meerkat* was gone, and with it, a war’s worth of weapons that would never reach the hands of Israel’s enemies.