The commander stops before a brown steel case about the size of a steamer trunk. He opens it with an electronic code. The Hebrew name for the IDF is Zahal. It’s an acronym, the commander says, that simply means “Israel Defense Forces.” The case is stencil-marked in Hebrew and English.

ZAHAL

XT1—SF/AV–AP

The final letters, the commander says, mean “Shoulder-Fired/Anti-Vehicle–Anti-Personnel.”

Three weapons nest in the case. The commander removes one. It looks like a stubby, fat RPG.

ARMORY COMMANDER

Follow me, please.

The commander leads us down another flight of stairs to an underground firing range. The weapon, he tells Manning, is called in Hebrew machabi, “Maccabee,” but is referred to more commonly as a “tunnel-buster.” Fans blow air. Temperature becomes cool.

ARMORY COMMANDER

These weapons were developed during the fifth and sixth Hamas Wars. The warhead is concussive only. It explodes in a manner similar to a shaped charge, that is, in one direction only, but the blast is concentrated not into a tiny area but dispersed across a wide and high front.

The commander holds the weapon out before Manning.

ARMORY COMMANDER

Would you like to try it?

A range attendant outfits Manning with a helmet, protective glasses, and noise-canceling earmuffs. All of us are issued the same. We are escorted into a sound-insulated, fireproof bunker. The range is visible through a slit of six-inch protective glass.

The range simulates an infiltration tunnel. Pop-up silhouettes of enemy fighters rise at various distances. In the center of the tunnel at about seventy-five feet squats a Studebaker Lark, the real thing, an old clunker sedan from the sixties.

The range security officer demonstrates how to seat the weapon properly atop the right shoulder. He guides Manning into the proper firing stance. The armory commander indicates two safeties, which Manning unlocks with care, and the trigger, enclosed within a pistol-type grip.

RANGE SECURITY OFFICER

There’s no sight. You don’t need one. A blind man could fire this thing.

He tells Manning not to be concerned about recoil. The rocket-propelled projectile whooshes from the tube under its own power. The weapon’s kick is less than that of a twelve-gauge shotgun.

I’m in the bunker, watching through the armorglass. The commander and range officer step inside this shelter as well. I glance to Dana. She’s grinning, securing her ear protection tight to her head.

The range officer signs, Ready.

Security lights on the firing line turn from red to green.

Manning fires.

The projectile leaps from the tube like a round from a bazooka, spewing a fiery plume rearward. The warhead detonates like a sonic boom. The whole underground structure shudders. I feel the air sucked from my lungs. I nearly keel over.