Black Mossad

By Alan Lerman, MD

President of the United States Nicholas Simmons viewed the adoring crowd from the televised monitor overlooking the standing room only crowd at the New York Armory, sitting in the midst of the Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a ten-minute walk from the George Washington Bridge.

It was a payback campaign stop for local congresswoman Juanita Sanchez, who helped pass the President's tax-cut legislation amidst vociferous and politically damaging opposition.

Secret Service Agent Zachary Thompson was supervising the Presidential protective division and, with an earpiece in place, sporting a black suit that did not hide the linebacker physique, again surveilled the surrounding crowd. His six-foot-four, 230-pound frame stood five feet to the right of the President and behind the bulletproof glass that encompassed the stage.

Suddenly, Special Agent Thompson fell to one knee with his SIG Sauer P229 in hand, pointed directly at the President, and squeezed off one shot. The impact was immediate and with a spurt of blood, President Nicholas Simmons fell to the ground...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781638810339

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Pre-epilogue

Pre-epilogue 2

Epilogue

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Black Mossad

Alan Lerman, MD

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lerman, MD

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-63881-032-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63881-033-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To my parents, Abe and Clara Lerman, who taught us unconditional love, self-sacrifice, and dedication to our family and friends through a lifetime of example

To my beloved son, Jonathan, who inspires me every day with his courage, strength, and determination

To my brothers and sisters in law, Barry and Jan, Stephan and Myra, who have always been unshakeable pillars of love and support for Jonathan and me

To my nephews and nieces—Daniel, Kim, Hazel Solow, Ashley, Steve, Eli Marshall, Andy, Brittany, Samantha, Lawrence Double L Lerman—Jonathan's best friends and the best family an uncle can ever hope for

To Ian and Rosie, friends of over 50 years; and the friendship only strengthens with each passing day

To Tom and Mary Murphy, great friends, now far in distance but still close to our hearts

To David and Marilyn, Debbie and Ray, and our extended Lerman Kotkin, Karam, Rutman, Solow, Glickman, and Shapiro family. May we continue to share many joyous occasions together.

In loving memory

Adam Shapiro

Dr. Irvin Kotkin

Dr. Martin Lerman

Will Rutman

And the family of my parents' generation who have passed on.

Chapter 1

President of the United States Nicholas Simmons viewed the adoring crowd from the televised monitor overlooking the standing room only crowd at the New York Armory, sitting in the midst of the Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a ten-minute walk from the George Washington Bridge. It was a payback campaign stop for local congresswoman Juanita Sanchez, who helped pass the President's tax-cut legislation amidst vociferous and politically damaging opposition. It was well-known that the President cherished loyalty and returned it manyfold to his colleagues.

The President, well-known for his prodigious memory and instant recall, recognized the names and faces of each of the 435 members of Congress and one hundred United States Senators. He additionally was acquainted with their spouses, significant others, and children's names.

When necessary, the President could recite their recently authored or coauthored legislation. Nicholas Simmons would buttonhole the legislators, and they could not help but be charmed by his seeming omniscience of so many aspects of their personal lives. They all silently acknowledged that it was politics, but his own party as well as opposition members could rarely hide their admiration when meeting POTUS one-on-one or in a small group.

Secret Service Agent Zachary Thompson was supervising the Presidential protective division and, with an earpiece in place, sporting a black suit that did not hide the linebacker physique, again surveilled the surrounding crowd. His six-foot-four, 230-pound frame stood five feet to the right of the President and behind the bulletproof glass that encompassed the stage. The black crewcut and sunglasses hardly reflected the experience, accomplishment, and command that he had achieved at such a young age. The audience of about four thousand rose to the feet, giving the President a standing ovation, to the background music of Hail to the Chief. While the President's approval rating rarely rose above the high thirty range, this was a handpicked friendly crowd as a counterweight to the daily Presidential battering by the major media.

Suddenly, Special Agent Thompson fell to one knee with his SIG Sauer P229 in hand, pointed directly at the President, and squeezed off one shot. The impact was immediate and with a spurt of blood, President Nicholas Simmons fell to the ground. Three more shots dropped surrounding Secret Service agents. First horrific silence followed by pandemonium, the remainder of the Secret Service team ran to drape the President with their bodies. Shots fired by the Secret Service in the audience were reflected harmlessly off the bulletproof glass which now protected Zachary Thompson. He walked purposely toward the First Lady of the United States, Diane Simmons, who was shrieking and reflexively covering the body of her fallen husband.

The First Lady grabbed the Glock 9mm from the lifeless body of the agent who had fallen beside her. Spinning, she fired two rounds, the first which hit Zachary Thompson's trachea exploding it into innumerable fragments and exiting through his sixth cervical vertebra, immediately severing the spinal cord. The second bullet which entered the forehead and shattered through the occipital skull was already a moot point, as the first bullet caused the immediate and mortal wound.

Thompson fell forward, his full weight crashing onto and covering the First Lady as five additional agents rushed the stage, pulling his lifeless body off Diane Simmons, providing a protective human cocoon, while three others surrounded the President.

"POTUS down! POTUS down!" Head Agent Jim Trident could barely believe his own voice, which pierced the cacophony and chaos. Not since Ronald Reagan was shot on March 30, 1981, did the Secret Service have to put The Plan into action that had been endlessly rehearsed, for this eventuality. The President was shot but alive and conscious. The stretcher appeared at POTUS's side, while four agents lifted him, a protective neck brace in place, securing his head and spine. The oxygen mask was draped about his nose and mouth, as the crowd parted biblically, allowing the rolling stretcher to reach the ambulance, which had already arrived at the curbside.

Seven fully armored sharpshooters peered into the early evening sky, rifles cocked and aimed for any hint of danger, moving in concert as POTUS's stretcher entered the back door of the ambulance. The four units of packed red blood cells, always on the ready from the Presidential limousine, the Beast, were transferred to the ambulance as it sped south for two blocks, Secret Service agents jogging alongside. Additional armored limousines surrounded the Presidential ambulance to the right and left, in front and to the rear as the caravan entered the driveway of the Columbia Presbyterian Emergency Room. The emergency room corridors had already been secured, with Secret Service and SWAT team agents providing an impenetrable wall of warriors, watching the President's stretcher exit the ambulance to the waiting elevator. Four agents appeared in the elevator—grim, black suited, expressionless, sunglassed faces, trained to take POTUS up two levels up to the operating room. As with all Presidential visits, the closest trauma hospital had the Chiefs of trauma surgery, general surgery, anesthesiology, cardiology, pulmonary, and critical care on call and on the premises for such an emergency.

The President's personal physician and Harvard roommate, Tyler Morrison, stood alongside the stretcher, sweating profusely, eyes twitching, grasping the President's personal medical folder against his chest. As the elevator door opened to the awaiting green-scrubbed trauma team, the self-proclaimed country doc, Morrison, thought, Ego be damned, I am letting these guys take over…as if I had a choice.

The masked trauma nurse expertly and quickly cut away the President's suit jacket exposing the blood-soaked white shirt. A tall lean man in green scrubs with a surgical mask hanging lazily below his chin approached the President.

President Simmons, I'm Henry Bloch, Chief of Trauma Surgery. Looks like you have a nasty wound here, and we'll be operating shortly. He glanced at Helen Vitale, head operating room nurse.

She replied before the question, Blood pressure, 106 over 66. Pulse, 120. Respirations, 24.

President Nicholas Simmons opened his eyes, light blue and vital, and spoke to the surrounding staff.

There's something you ladies and gentlemen should know before you put me under.

What's that? asked Dr. Bloch.

With a half smile, the President replied, I haven't met my deductible.

Chapter 2

The four hooded men walked purposefully toward the two black Suburbans parked along Riverside Drive in the shadow of the George Washington Bridge. Muscular, focused, they entered both vehicles, two on each side of the front seat. Each carried an earpiece, and the order cackled through.

Adhhab.

The chaotic sirens from the President's motorcade and the Presbyterian hospital could still be heard, and the leader in the driver's seat of the front vehicle asked for clarification.

Had the American President been shot?

Was he alive, and if not, do they abort?

"Adhhab, go! came the retort, angry and firm, with the implicit do not ask again." Both Suburbans motored up simultaneously, and the powerful engines nearly drowned out the noise from the sirens of the Presidential caravan. As the back car began to pull out, the disheveled, stumbling figure fell across the hood.

Hey, man, you got some spare change? He made his way to the windshield and rubbed it with a soiled rag.

"Chelb, dog, spat out the driver. I'll kill him."

Just pull out. The accomplice tried to be calming.

By now, the tramp had the door handle of the driver's side in his grasp.

C'mon, man. I'm hungry and cold. Can't you spare enough for a cup of coffee?

The driver growled, Ayreh Feek, as he pushed his driver's side door open, causing the vagrant to stumble back two steps but then lurch uncontrollably forward, falling against the driver's chest, who was now standing fully outside the car. The pungent body odor caused the driver's neck to recoil.

Ya Ibn el Sharmouta.

The driver swiftly followed the epithet with a knee to the groin, which seemed to catch only the inner thigh and a crashing heavy right fist that was partially blocked by the drifter's defensive forearm as he fell backward onto the gravel.

The driver pulled the 9mm Smith & Wesson handgun from his inner pocket. Before he could aim, the beggar had catapulted back to his feet, taking the gun into his right hand while his left arm ensnared the driver's neck; and with a quick upward jerk and twist, the driver's first cervical vertebrae was shattered, and death was immediate. Supporting the dead driver with his left arm, the vagrant now placed two bullets from the captured Smith & Wesson into the passenger's head and pivoted to the left as the gunmen from the front car jumped to the pavement. Their bullets imploded into the dead driver's limp body, which was now being used as a shield. He returned fire, missing as the two assailants jumped back into the car, screaming, "Mossad! Mossad!"

The front car raced into the darkness, entering the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, as the drifter rifled through the pockets of the limp driver and then the dead passenger. No detonator or transmitter. He let the driver drop to the ground and swiftly fell in behind the steering wheel, kicking the prone passenger onto Riverside Drive. Shirking his homeless garb, Mossad Agent Daniel Black gunned the second Suburban into pursuit, keeping the lead car within visual sight as they weaved in and out of lanes and entered the extreme right lane of the George Washington Bridge.

In pursuit, in pursuit, Black yelled into his collar microphone. Transmitter not secured. Repeat, transmitter not secured. As he uttered the last syllable, he pulled alongside the lead Suburban. Before the driver could aim his now-exposed handgun, Black jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, exploding into the driver's side of the lead car, causing both to revolve in a dizzying circle, smashing adjoining cars in all four lanes as the two Suburbans came to a steaming, hissing halt.

Black exited his car, left arm and neck aching; and as he willed the pain away, he squinted in the darkness and could see the driver climbing over the scaffold and falling onto the walkway of the bridge. He immediately started to ascend the suspension. As Black jumped over the wreckage to chase him, the passenger emerged from the stricken car standing between Black and his fleeing comrade. Holding a dagger in his right hand, he no longer felt compelled to hide his face. Black immediately recognized him. Abbas al Hussein—Hezbollah assassin, Iranian trained, hardened by years of conflict in Syria and Lebanon—snarled at the Mossad agent, motioning him to come forward.

Black pivoted into a defensive posture, eyes never leaving the dagger.

Abbas thrust forward with the dagger, trying to gauge Black's response, but the Mossad agent did not flinch. Abbas forged closer, slashing toward Black's face. But the Israeli captured the wrist and dagger between his two wrists, jerked down sharply, breaking Abbas's forearm, and pushed the dagger into the assassin's abdomen; but his grip on Black did not weaken. Sensing he did not transect the aorta, Black pulled the knife down to the umbilicus and across to the left kidney. Still, Abbas held on. Black released his left hand; chopped into the neck, crushing the trachea; and slashed across Abbas's left carotid with the dagger. The spurting arterial blood told the Israeli that the fight was over, as Abbas slumped to the ground, facefirst into the widening pool of crimson.

Daniel Black peered over the chaos and could see the army of Port Authority and Homeland Security forces rushing toward him. He had to work quickly. Groping through Abbas's pockets, he found nothing. He jumped into the nearly crushed Suburban, expertly combed through the seats and floor, and then found what he needed in the glove compartment. He held the transmitter in his hand as it emitted a faint green glow. Opening it with the dagger, he held his watch against the transmitter and matched its frequency. Turning the face of his watch ninety degrees clockwise, the transmitter's green light turned red. Black stared at the face of his watch as the number 14 flashed.

The Mossad agent whispered into his collar microphone, All fourteen transmitters disabled. But then his watch emitted a green flashing light.

Benzona! There's one left! He could see the last terrorist trying to scale the cables, high above the upper level of the George Washington Bridge. Black jumped the pedestrian railing and began climbing, gaining ground on the man above, his sneakers sliding over the moist steel suspension. But his adversary struggled even more. Black could see the silhouette and then glimpses of his face as the upraised right arm aimed the last detonator in all directions, pushing furiously for a response. And with each failed attempt, the terrorist climbed higher.

The sudden screeching and crashes reverberated under Black's feet. He peered down quickly and was high enough to see the entire length of the three-thousand-foot expanse of the upper level. The plan was unfolding. Black saw the four upper lanes in each direction had come to a standstill as the four vehicles driving abreast of each other came to a sudden halt and went in reverse, crashing into the cars directly behind, causing immediate gridlock on each of the eight lanes of the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge. He assumed correctly, that the identical scene had taken place on the six lower-level lanes of the bridge. In total, all fourteen lanes were in a preplanned paralysis. Black then watched security flooding the bridge by foot, gunfire erupting into the windshields of the eight lead cars, some of the men exiting with arms up in surrender mode, others slumping to the ground in blood-strewn clothes, neutralized and no longer a threat.

Black had gathered and stored that information in seconds and then continued his pursuit. In the darkness, he and his adversary had escaped detection of the security swarm beneath them. Black continued to close the gap and now was less than ten meters behind him. As the man slipped, falling closer to Black's grasp, he turned momentarily staring at Black before returning to his ascent. In that moment, Black recognized him. Abdul al Kassein, Chief of intelligence, for Hezbollah forces in Southern Syria and the Israeli-Lebanese border.

Black grimaced; this was important enough that al Kassein came back into the field, and did not delegate to his subordinates. With a final thrust, Black lunged forward, grasping al Kassein's ankle, dragging him closer; but the Syrian kicked back with his free leg pushing the Israeli further down the embankment. Black scrambled again, leaping forward and placing his arms in a bear hug around al Kassein's knees, causing him to spit an epithet. But his grip on the detonator did not weaken. Black released his grip, and both men sprang to their feet, now with Kassein standing a meter higher on the suspension, glaring down at Black. Both steadied themselves with one hand grasping a cable, and Kassein had to retire the detonator to his pocket, allowing one free hand and two legs to fight. He lashed out first with a sidekick that Black blocked with a forearm. Kassein tried an overhand clubbing motion with his fist, using the momentum of his higher position. Black pivoted, his back to Kassein's chest, allowing the arm to flail harmlessly over his left shoulder, while the force carried Kassein's body crashing back onto the embankment while Black crossed his legs over the exposed arm, trying to dislocate the shoulder or break the arm at the elbow. But both slid down the suspension cable as one, and Black was forced to release his hold and grasp a vertical cable to stop his descent. Kassein did the same twenty meters lower on the suspension cable, using it to brake his fall and pull himself upright. He again aimed the detonator in all directions, still without a response and Black fell upon him, smashing Kassein's arm and causing the detonator to fall thirty feet to the pedestrian walkway where it clattered and came to a rest.

Black jumped onto the cable and used it to slow his free fall to the walkway, with Kassein following. Black fell to the pavement and somersaulted to stop his momentum. The detonator sat before him, and he reached for it. He felt the crashing blow against his back. Black lurched forward but could not regain his balance. Falling forward on his arms and knees, and before he could right himself and turn, Black watched Kassein, now holding the detonator in his hand, smiling victoriously. He had found the spot. He pressed the detonator again, and the explosion erupted along the fifty-foot length of the suspension. Black pressed forward, but it was too late. The chain reaction had started. The Israeli looked below and could see the security forces had nearly emptied the bridge of all civilians. The fit ones ran to either the New Jersey or Manhattan side of the George Washington Bridge, while the children and elderly were carried or wheeled to safety. They needed at least five more minutes before they reached the point of no return.

Al-Kassein emptied a coiled rope from his jacket and knotted it securely against the outer rail of the walkway and let the rope fall its entire length. Black was on him, with a left fist that cracked across Kassein's right eye and a right roundhouse kick that smashed against the Syrian's ribs, causing him to double over with a groan. Kassein stood upright, still smiling and holding the detonator in his hand.

Make a choice, he said, looking at the detonator and then the rope. Kassein flung the detonator over Black's head, and the Israeli dove to the pavement, catching it while Kassein swiveled away.

Black realized it was too late. The detonator was useless, and the cascade of explosions continued. Black rushed to Kassein, whose climb over the railing and onto the rope was slowed by his fractured ribs. Black grasped, but Kassein was barely out of his reach and continued his descent. Swinging wildly, Black could only brush against the Syrian but close enough to deposit a transmitter into Kassein's pocket.

The Syrian shimmied down to the lower level of the George Washington Bridge, watching closely to avoid any visual contact with the security forces. Looking to both sides, he leaned over the railing, allowing his body weight to propel him onto the outer lane of the lower level. He tried to cushion his fractured ribs with his left arm, but the pain pierced through, nearly causing him to pass out. Regaining his composure, Kassein looked up, staring into the helmet of a burly Homeland Security officer.

Eyes down, in a submissive pose, Kassein felt the assessment by the officer. Kassein forced his body language to show confusion, helplessness, bewilderment, and most importantly, submission. The officer stepped back, sensing no threat, no danger.

Sir, you are to evacuate the bridge immediately. If you need assistance, I will help you. Didn't you hear our loudspeakers?

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Kassein held his head up, tears streaming, voice choking. I can't find my wife. My daughter…

The officer placed his arm around the Syrian. Almost everyone has been evacuated from the bridge. We will find your family, but you have to come with me.

Cowering before the officer, Kassein eyed his holstered gun. Grabbing it would be futile. The bridge was still swarming with security, and any gunfight would be suicidal. Kassein followed the steps of the security officer listlessly, his shoulders bearing the weight of the heavy arm. As they approached the ramp leading off the bridge, Kassein suddenly shouted into the crowd.

Barbara, Rebecca, thank God you're safe. Several people looked up quizzically, and Kassein turned to his savior.

God bless you, my family is safe. Tears streaming, with an eruption of gratitude, Kassein cried out, My family is safe!

The officer released Kassein's shoulder, and the Syrian walked into the thickest part of the crowd until he felt invisible in the mass. He winced with every step, grasping the fractured ribs, and turned to the inferno, swallowing the bridge as the panicked crowd ran by him. Kassein could barely contain a smile, watching the ongoing explosions.

Black remained on the upper level of the bridge. Seeing that the cause was lost, he looked for an escape route. He was quickly being surrounded by fire and smoke. Going further up the suspension would be suicidal. His downward path slowly disappeared into the engulfing flames. Black saw a momentary escape route. Racing across the four lanes, he jumped the divider and entered the southern lanes that took traffic from New Jersey to Manhattan. Running to the edge of the far lane overlooking the Hudson River, Black saw his options disappearing.

With more flames leaping toward him, Black realized he would have to jump. If he could descend from the upper lanes to the lower lane, the jump would be 115 feet instead of 212, increasing his chance for survival. He grabbed the closest vertical cable, but it was already scalding hot.

Black prepared for the jump. It would have to be from the upper level. The calculations raced through his mind. He would fall at a speed of 32.2 feet per second squared for the 212-foot drop. He could soften the fall, by opening his windbreaker, acquiring nearly six square feet of wind resistance. The Hudson River was about 200 feet deep, and he smiled silently knowing that at least two suicide jumpers had survived. He had the distinct advantage of trying to live. As the fire and smoke advanced, ready to consume him, Black leapt into the darkness.

He calculated three seconds to impact, assumed the spread-eagled position with arms extended to maximize wind resistance, and changed to feet first, arms forced tightly to his sides. The entrance into the cold water shocked him, but Black had concentrated on maintaining full lung capacity, knowing that surrendering to panic would be fatal.

Black anticipated his maximum depth into the Hudson River would be about sixteen feet, and as his body decelerated, he waited for his descent to stop completely. At that point, he extended his arms and kicked furiously until he broke onto the surface, gasping for air.

He began an internal inventory. Conscious, alert, arms and legs functioning. No numbness or paralysis, no obvious spinal cord injury. He concentrated for areas of pain but could sense none. He knew the overwhelming adrenaline surge could be hiding a serious injury and waited several more seconds. No pain. He was treading water and satisfied that he had somehow survived the fall intact, he began swimming to the shoreline.

Each pain-free stroke gave