By the Rivers of Babylon

by Nelson DeMille

  Kahn heard nothing but felt it in the seat of his pants. He shouted above the noise of an exploding rocket. “We have ignition! I fixed the fucking thing with a wrench and a screw driver! I fixed it! Fuck Hausner!”

  It flashed through Becker’s mind that Kahn didn’t care what happened next. He had fixed it, and that was the end of it. It was Becker’s show now. He let the APU run for a minute, all the while waiting for it to ignite the thick kerosene fumes and blow them all into next week. But the wind was apparently carrying the fumes away. He relaxed a bit. The emergency power had gone off as the generator charged the batteries, and the primary system took over again. The cabin lights became brighter, and gauges and instrument lights came alive in the flight deck.

  Becker wiped his face, then ran his hands over the front of his shirt. He hurried through the starting sequence for the outboard starboard engine. It ignited as easily as if it just come out of the El Al maintenance shop. He glanced over at Kahn, and Kahn gave him a thumbs-up. Becker looked down at the fuel gauges. The indicators weren’t even bouncing. They just lay in the red, hard against the zero mark. The single engine was burning tremendous quantities of the nonexistent fuel. Becker couldn’t understand it. It had to have something to do with a malfunctioning sensor. Somewhere in this craft, he was certain, one of the thirteen fuel tanks was sloshing with kerosene. He hit the switch for the outboard port engine; it began turning over quickly, hesitating to ignite for only a few seconds. Then, after one puff of white smoke from its exhaust, it began spooling up normally. He hit the inboard starboard switch and the engine balked. He played with it and coaxed it.

  Kahn got up and stood in front of the flight engineer’s panels where he could be more help. He scanned the gauges and noted the multiple systems malfunctions. Concorde 02 would never fly again, but with any luck it would make its last taxi. “Come on, you old buzzard!”

  The inboard starboard engine ignited, but sounded bad. Becker hit the inboard port engine switch. Nothing happened. He hit it again. Absolutely nothing. Like turning an ignition key in a car without a battery.

  Kahn called out. “There’s no power going to that engine. The wires must be severed. Forget it.”

  “Right.” Becker locked the brakes and ran up the three functioning engines. The sand that they were ingesting might kill all three of them in a matter of seconds, or they might run out of fuel any moment, but Becker didn’t want to release the brakes prematurely—not until he coaxed every last gram of thrust out of them. He shouted to Kahn, “Get everyone inside the aircraft!”

  Kahn threw open the door of the flight deck. In the cabin, the wounded lay in the places where the seats had been removed, or sat up if they were able and held sections of the nylon armor mesh against the hull. The people who were caring for them crouched as they moved around the cabin. A few men and women with rifles pointed them through shattered portholes and waited for the expected final Ashbal assault.

  Kahn ran out of the emergency door and onto the wing. The huge delta was throbbing with the pulse of the two starboard engines. At least a dozen men and women were kneeling or lying on the huge aluminum surface and firing out into the dust. A few people on the ground were using the desperate infantryman’s trick of dry firing their empty rifles and simulating a recoil in order to keep the approaching Ashbals ducking. A few cassette tape recorders were still turning out the sounds of firing, but that and the dry firing were the only ruses still being used. Kahn saw Burg where he had left him on the wing tip and rushed toward him, shouting as he ran. “We’re going to move it! Get everyone on the aircraft!”

  Burg waved in acknowledgement. He bad been trying to keep a tally of everyone. The Foreign Minister’s group was accounted for, and the survivors of the group that had tried to commit suicide were safely under guard in the baggage compartment. All the wounded were on board, and he was fairly certain that everyone else was either on the wing, under the craft, or firing from the shepherds’ hut. Everyone except Hausner and John McClure, neither of whom had been seen for some time. Burg shouted from the wing but he needn’t have bothered. Everyone, including the Ashbals, knew what was happening by now.

  The last of the armed men and women on the ground came up the earth ramp. Some climbed over the fuselage and took up positions on the port wing. Others lay prone on the edges of the starboard wing, and two men positioned themselves on top of the fuselage. Alpern came running up the earth ramp carrying the lifeless body of Marcus. The five other men and women of the delaying force followed close behind. Burg looked quickly at his list of names again. It seemed correct. The commandos would exhume the buried dead. They would also find Kaplan’s body, he was sure, and perhaps Deborah Gideon and Ben Dobkin as well. Everyone except Hausner and McClure seemed to be accounted for, yet he couldn’t be certain. He made a few quick notes in the small book, removed his shoe, stuffed the book into it, and threw the shoe away from the aircraft. If the Concorde burned, at least the commandos would find his notes when they combed the hill, and they would have an idea of how to begin accounting for the dead.

  Burg ran over to Alpern who was pulling Marcus’s body through the emergency door. “Hausner?”

  Alpern shrugged as he drew Marcus inside the craft. “You know he’s not coming.”

  Burg nodded. He caught Miriam Bernstein’s eye. She had heard Alpern.

  She ran toward the edge of the wing and started to jump. Burg caught her arm and pulled her back. She kicked and flailed her arms out at him, but he held her firm. She shouted at him to let her go, but he dragged her, with the help of another woman, toward the emergency door.

  The Ashbals knew that the Israeli commandos were closing in on their rear. They were at the limits of their bravery, and for many the limits had already been exceeded. They were so fatigued that they were numb and barely aware of their surroundings, and every step forward became torturous. Their mouths, nostrils, and ears were clogged with dust, and their eyes were blinded by the sand. They began to think not of the Israelis in front of them but of the Israelis behind them. Each man and woman began plotting an escape route for himself in the event they could not capture hostages before the commandos overtook them.

  But still they went on, driven not only by the knowledge that they had to lay hands on the Israelis in order to live, but also by the shouts and threats of Ahmed Rish and Salem Hamadi. And the Ashbals were still a dangerous force, even in their present state. They were like tigers and tigresses—for if nothing else, they were no longer cubs—who, though wounded, must still be respected and given a wide berth.

  Rish caught two young girls, sisters, who were moving in the wrong direction. They pleaded that they were confused by the gunfire that was coming from behind them and disoriented by fatigue, dust, and darkness. Rish seized the opportunity to stiffen discipline. He forced the two girls to kneel and shot each in the back of the head with his pistol.

  For a moment, Hamadi wondered if that was to be the proverbial straw that would break the camel’s back. But the executions had the effect that Rish had anticipated. The small group, not more than two dozen now, moved more quickly toward the thundering Concorde. He marveled at how much tyranny men and women would put up with before they would rebel. There was a lesson there for him if ever again he should be in a position to lead men.

  Hausner had been surprised at first to hear the Concorde’s engines exploding into life. Then he remembered Kahn’s untiring determination, and smiled. He doubted if Becker could produce enough thrust to move the injured aircraft with its long pointed nose buried in the dirt and its main tires flattened. Still, it was a splendid attempt. Even if the commandos moved fast, it could not be nearly fast enough. It might make a big difference if the Concorde could meet them on the east slope. That should surprise everyone, including, Hausner suspected, David Becker. Kahn always knew he would fix it, and he always knew he would taxi out of there.

  Hausner knelt, fired, and moved back again and again. Some of the fire from the Concorde had come
close to him, but that could not he helped. Now he noticed that the Israeli fire was very erratic, and as he listened it tapered off to almost nothing. Suddenly, the engines whined and he knew Becker was about to release his brakes. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the red glow of the engines. He turned back, and out of the dust a line of Ashbals came running and stumbling toward him. He could hear Ahmed Rish’s voice above the F-14’s, above the AK-47’s, and above the big engines. “Faster! Faster! This is your last effort! It is now or it is not at all! Come, my tiger cubs, follow me for the kill!”

  Hausner understood why men and women followed Rish. The pitch and tone of the voice was familiar, and if the language had been German instead of Arabic he would have had no trouble placing it. Some men were born with command presence, and when their minds were disturbed, the result was deadly.

  Hausner fell back to where he knew the burial trench was. He found it and lowered himself into it. He felt the bodies under his feet and wondered who had come to an end in this way. He crouched down and waited for Ahmed Rish in the dark.

  Lieutenant Joshua Giddel’s commando squad stayed behind at the small museum as the other two squads, with one jeep, bypassed the guest house and moved up the Processional Way.

  Giddel’s ten men lined up, five on each side of the jeep with the 106mm recoilless rifle mounted on it. They began moving across the flat dust field that separated the museum from the guest house.

  With Lieutenant Giddel in the jeep were a driver, a two-man gun crew, and Dr. Al-Thanni, the museum curator. Lieutenant Giddel had discovered him in his office in the small museum. Dr. Al-Thanni had been checking his spring inventory lists as though nothing were amiss outside his window. It reminded Giddel of the story of Archimedes, who was working on a mathematics problem when the besieging Romans entered his city. The Greek inventor had refused to let external events break his train of thought, and an infuriated Roman soldier had killed him. And so, thought Giddel, Archimedes became an instant hero and martyr to intellectuals, and soldiers got another black mark. Giddel had overcome the urge that he knew the Roman soldier had succumbed to and settled for sweeping the inventory lists onto the floor.

  Now the curator was in Giddel’s jeep, bouncing over the few hundred meters that separated Giddel from his next objective. He spoke to Al-Thanni above the sound of the engine. “How many Ashbals would you estimate are in the guest house?”

  Dr. Al-Thanni had a suite in the house, but had taken to sleeping on a cot in the museum. He still took his meals in the guest house and used the sanitary facilities. “They don’t confide in me, young man.” He straightened his glasses.

  Giddel looked at him meaningfully.

  “However, I would estimate that there are at least fifty with varying degrees of wounds and about ten or more orderlies with one doctor and a few sentries and duty officers.”

  “Is there a basement in the building?”

  “No.”

  “All concrete?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any guests in there? Guest house staff?”

  “No. The season has not begun.”

  “Any other civilians or other noncombatants in there?”

  “Sometimes a few village girls. You know.”

  “Is there a radio? Do they speak with the Ashbals in the field?”

  “Yes. A radio in the lobby. At the clerk’s counter where the duty man sits.”

  “Do the wounded have their weapons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any heavy weapons? Machine guns? Rocket launchers? Mortars? Hand grenades?”

  “I did not see anything of that sort.”

  “Where would they keep a prisoner?”

  “They had a prisoner—a girl—in the manager’s office.”

  “An Israeli?” Giddel knew of the prisoner from General Dobkin’s report to Jerusalem.

  “I believe so.”

  “How about the general?” Giddel had already told him all he knew of General Dobkin, but he could see that Al-Thanni had been very skeptical of this information and probably beleived that the Israelis were playing on his friendship with General Dobkin to use him. “But you did not see the general?”

  “I told you, no.”

  “You heard nothing about the general?”

  “I would tell you.”

  “Where else might they keep a prisoner?”

  “I don’t know. Not the rooms. They are filled with wounded. Not the kitchen. The dining hall is used for meals. There is a recreation room, but this is also used. I think the manager’s office is the most likely. I have not been in the guest house since the time you say you received a call from him, so perhaps he is there.”

  Giddel glanced up at the guest house. He could make out its outline and saw some lights in the windows. “Where is the manager’s office located?”

  “To the left of the lobby as you walk in. Immediately to the left of the front doors. The windows face the front.”

  “Who is the senior man there?”

  “A man named Al-Bakr.”

  “Is he reasonable?”

  Dr. Al-Thanni allowed himself a small laugh.

  “I mean, do you think he would negotiate rather than have his wounded caught in a firefight?”

  “Ask him.”

  Lieutenant Giddell looked out at the squat building. Incredibly, no one seemed to notice his movement. The jeep maintained a steady 5 KPH, and the commandos jogged along with it. The guest house was more clearly visible now, and Giddel put his starlight field glasses to his eyes. He could see struck tents lying in front of the building. There were a few eucalyptus trees around the house, and they partly blocked the views from the verandas. Some vehicles were parked off to the left of the house. He could see lights in a few of the windows and smoke coming out of the chimneys. Breakfast. A few men sat on the verandas on each floor. No one seemed to see them yet. He turned to Al-Thanni. “But do you think he would listen to reason? Do you have any influence with him?”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “I am—or was—their prisoner. Make no mistake about that. I am not a part of these people.”

  Giddel turned his attention back to the guest house.

  Dr. Al-Thanni cautiously put his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder, “Young man, if I thought that my friend, General Dobkin, was in there and was alive, I would do anything in my power to get him out of there, but nothing I say can make a difference with these people. I have seen what they did to the other captive. Take my word for it—if General Dobkin was their prisoner, he is dead or he should be shot as a mercy. Don’t waste time or men on this thing.”

  Lieutenant Giddel focused his field glasses. He could see several men looking intently over the railing of the side verandas. They were in white robes, and he could make out bandages on some of them. They were looking toward the Northern Citadel where the sound and light show had attracted their attention. They didn’t seem to notice him, but then he saw a few men staring intently in his direction from the top front veranda. He spoke to Dr. Al-Thanni as he watched. “Thank you, Doctor. Please jump off the jeep. Unless you want to come in with us.”

  “No, thank you. Good luck.” He jumped off the side and rolled away from the moving jeep.

  Lieutenant Giddel saw several men run into the building. “Increase speed.” The jeep moved faster, the commandos went from a jog to a run. “Load a concrete-piercing shell and prepare to fire the gun.” The 106mm gun crew loaded and adjusted their aim.

  Suddenly, two long streams of green tracer rounds shot out of the guest house and passed overhead.

  Lieutenant Giddel gave up any hope of negotiating now.

  Another gun joined in, then another. Green tracers arched over the jeep, then dropped lower as the Ashbals began to get the range.

  The jeep driver handed Lieutenant Giddel the radiophone. “It’s air cover.”

  Lieutenant Giddel took the phone. “East bank two-six, here.”

  “Roger. This is Gabriel 32. Can I make that house disapp
ear for you guys?”

  “Negative, Gabriel. Possible friendlies inside. We’ll do it the hard way.”

  “Roger. If you change your mind, give us a yell.”

  “Roger. Thanks.” Giddel turned to his gun crew. “Keep away from the left front ground floor. Commence firing.”

  The gun crew fired a .50 caliber spotter round from the aiming rifle attached to the 106mm barrel. The .50 caliber tracer hit the building on the second story above the front doors, and the crew immediately fired the main round after it. The 106mm round streaked across the open plain and hit the building a meter from the spotter round. There was a deafening explosion, and the concrete shattered. Flames, smoke, and debris erupted from nearby windows. All the lights in the building went out. Lieutenant Giddel told the driver to increase his speed again. The commandos began firing their M-79 grenade launchers, Uzi submachine guns, and M-16 automatic rifles from the hip as they advanced on the run. The 106mm crew reloaded and fired again. The round smashed through the front doors and exploded in the lobby. Two commandos stopped running and set up their M-60 light machine gun. They began raking the building with long bursts of 7.62mm rounds.

  The jeep and the commandos were within two hundred meters of the building. The Ashbal firing had stopped immediately after the first 106mm round hit. A third 106mm round entered a shuttered window to the right of the front doors and exploded inside. The right half of the building began to sag. Flames and smoke poured out of the windows, and the front verandas collapsed on top of each other. Men and women in white robes began jumping out of the windows and fleeing toward the vehicles. The M-60 machine gun shifted its fires and began pumping incendiary rounds into the vehicles. One after the other exploded and the men and women running toward them fled out into the darkness.

  Lieutenant Giddel had little stomach for firing on a place where wounded were kept, but it was also a place, according to Dr. Al-Thanni and General Dobkin, where prisoners were kept, and it was a headquarters as well. In addition, they had been fired at from there. The Ashbals had broken the cardinal rule about mixing medical and military facilities, and now they were paying for it.