The Nylon Hand of God

by Steven Hartov

  “There are three prisoners, twelve guards, all on the second floor,” he would announce, and depart. Then he would return. “Correction. Fourteen guards, six on floor two, eight on floor three.” The team would rework the plan, travel and rehearse all night, and the next day would dawn with fresh surprises. “Disregard all previous. There are three prisoners, all on floor three, two in the room on your plan designated ‘Shade,’ one in the room designated ‘Sunset,’ two guards in ‘Shade,’ two in ‘Sunset,’ five in ‘Stroke,’ five in ‘Dawn.’ Opposition weapons are G-3s, possibly some .45s.”

  The building in the mountains changed too. One night the team found its third-floor windows girded by iron balconies, so they used rubber-coated grappling hooks to set climbing ropes for scaling. On another night, the iron rails were declared unstable, so they switched to quick-assembly, single-pole aluminum ladders with bipod feet and protruding “L” rungs.

  There was none of the heavy sighing or bitter jokes that always accompanied tactical changes, for the captain issued the news without his usual acerbic humor. In addition, and early on, he made it clear that any man caught discussing the “problem” with an outsider, including the Tenth’s CO himself, would be on his way back to Fort Devens faster than you could say “Regular Infantry.” Someone sent out snoopers to test the team’s discretion, other men from Bad Tölz, whose proddings were rebuffed with polite “Fuck off’s.”

  And then, one miserable icy night in February, all whispered speculation ceased. The CO himself appeared at the mock target, along with a civilian “guest” whom the A-Team’s captain introduced.

  “This is Arthur from Langley, no last name. He has worked extensively in the area of operations, knows our three prisoners personally, and will go in with point.” The captain coughed and paused for effect. “Gentlemen, as of tonight we are officially attached to Delta. We are going to free the hostages in Iran.”

  When the war cries died down, Art Roselli became the thirteenth man in O’Donovan’s A-Team. He had piles of photographs—of the prisoners and their prison, of Tehran, Desert One, Desert Two—as well as a wealth of knowledge retained from two years at the Tehran embassy. His cool and humorful demeanor, and the overpowering sense of mission now felt by the team, made him instantly part of a family that usually disdained intermarriage.

  The very next day, a U.S. Army cook serving the chow line at Bad Tölz made the mistake of inquiring about the “heavy vibes” coming off of the A-Team. Roselli and O’Donovan reached across the aluminum soup counter, picked him up by his field jacket lapels, pulled him over the split-pea, and dumped him on the floor.

  There were no more questions after that.

  The helicopters were very late, and when they finally arrived at Desert One, only six of the eight had survived the horrendous flight from the USS Nimitz through the blinding sandstorm of a haboob. But they were nearly all refueled now from the fat rubber blivets in the bellies of the C-130s, and O’Donovan and his team squinted at the hellish first stage of Eagle Claw with a hope undiminished by bad omens. An Iranian fuel truck had been stopped on the Yazd-to-Tabas road with a Light Anti-Tank Weapon, and its plume of burning gasoline made the huddled groups of Delta operators flicker like dancers under the strobes of a giant disco. A civilian bus had also been stopped, and somewhere its forty-odd elderly Iranians and children huddled under the guns of American commandos.

  The assault teams were all dressed alike, wearing navy watch caps, black field jackets, blue jeans, and scuffed boots. They had shoulder-patch American flags, which would remain covered by duct tape until the raid commenced, but without insignia and half blinded by the turbine technostorm, they had to press nose-to-nose and shout in order to identify each other or issue orders. It was like a controlled riot in someone’s airport nightmare.

  O’Donovan was hunched over, trying to protect his “child”—a Colt Commando cut-down version of the M-16 assault rifle—from the driving desert grit. He wished that he could have cocooned the entire weapon in Saran Wrap. Most of his team were sitting on the ground, waiting for the order to board the choppers, yet Mike could alight for only a few minutes, and then he would be up again, pacing, watching, going over it once more in his mind. He longed to be airborne, inside the relative peace and quiet of a roaring RH-53D, on the way to Desert Two in a valley near Gamsar, where they would hole up until next nightfall. And then the Special Assault Team would separate from Delta, ride into Tehran in a Volkswagen minibus, pull up outside the foreign ministry, and . . . He tried not to think further. They had done it all a thousand times.

  A man was cruising along the huddled figures of O’Donovan’s team, bending low as he searched for the right face. By the curls poking out from beneath his wool cap, O’Donovan recognized Art from Langley, who peered at him twice until he remembered that the Irish kid had dyed his blond hair black. The large intelligence officer put a hand on Mike’s shoulder and they placed their heads mouth-to-ear, like fishermen in a nor’easter.

  “I don’t like it,” Roselli shouted.

  “What? Say again?”

  “I said it looks negative. Red and Blue are starting to load, but Eagle is on the satcom to Hammer, and he’s not happy.”

  Roselli meant that two of the Delta elements had begun to board the choppers but Colonel Beckwith was talking by satellite communications link to Major General James Vaught, the Joint Task Force commander, and something was not right.

  “What’s the rumor?” O’Donovan yelled.

  “Hydraulic problem. Only five flyable choppers.”

  O’Donovan pulled his head back and squinted at Roselli. The CIA man nodded. Eagle Claw had a minimum equipment manifest, below which it would be no go. Six choppers, not five.

  It happened very quickly after that. O’Donovan’s captain appeared and, without a word, bent to each man, making a double slashing motion across his own throat. Except for the curses of frustration that they swallowed with grit, no one spoke as they rose, gathered their gear, and followed their detachment commander across the salt flats and into the black belly of a C-130.

  A Marine chopper that had been refueling off the Hercules began to rise away as O’Donovan set foot on the steel cargo ramp of the plane, and he closed his eyes against the cloud of desert that billowed from the prop wash. And then the chopper’s turbines drew unnaturally near and he snapped his eyes open as a sound like a chain saw cutting through an oil drum thundered back from the C-130’s cockpit, a giant white fireball rolled back across the laps of the Blue Element men already seated, and the air force pilots and crew disappeared in a torrent of exploding fuel and ammunition. Then it was madness heaped upon devastation.

  O’Donovan backed out of the plane, slipped, and fell under a crush of screaming men, lost his gear bag and came back up. Then he saw the huddle of waving arms, some of them already aflame as commandos tried to crawl from the burning wreck, and he ran back in. He found himself alongside Art from Langley, struggling with a man who fought them like a drowning swimmer as he screamed, “My weapon! My weapon!” and tried to return to the blistering flames as Redeye missiles cooked off and went sailing out into the night like giant Roman candles.

  Somehow, all of Delta’s Blue Element escaped, along with O’Donovan’s team. Many of them rolled in the dirt to smother hungry patches of sparks and tore smoldering watch caps from their singed hair. They regrouped and attacked again, ignoring the flames that crawled toward aerogas, pulling burned and screaming Marines from the torn chopper, leaving three in the unapproachable inferno and five more air force crewmen, who they prayed had died instantly with the first explosion.

  O’Donovan did not recall much of the rest with clarity. What returned to him for years of dreams was the tunnel of the C-130 fuselage, now dark and thrumming with a siren call of “Failure. Come aboard,” then bursting upon him like a tidal wave of white horror. The nightmares usually ended there, for the rest had been a slow, shocked crawl as he burrowed, like all the men, deep within himself. The en
dless flight back to Masirah Island off Oman, Charlie Beckwith’s tirades of frustration, which most understood and ignored, another flight, to Wadi Kena in Egypt, and finally the long haul back to Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. It was all a blur of slumped postures, lifeless steps, shaking heads, and worthless consolations. It was exactly like a funeral. A meaningless ritual, for the loved one was gone.

  O’Donovan returned to Germany, but he knew that his career in SF was over. If he stayed, he would forever try to overcome the shame of Desert One, and there was no way to do that, so he mustered out. Ten years later, when the troops set off for Desert Storm, he felt no pangs of regret. He pitied them their adventure, for he despised the Middle East, and he knew that many of them would soon be his comrades in loathing. . . .

  O’Donovan was staring without focus when Binder, Mancuso, and Griffin sauntered back into the squad room. Binder popped halfway into his office and tossed a paper bag on the desk.

  “Didn’t eat, did you?” he said, like a hapless mother.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure. Corned beef. And Sergeant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get a life.” Binder grinned and pulled away, peeling off a midlength leather coat as he whistled.

  O’Donovan smiled as he opened the bag, then it faded as the dig hit home. A life. He had one, but what did it mean? For whom did he really struggle on? Most of these men had families. Their wives and kids came first, and then the Job. O’Donovan had been married once, to a girl he met at John Jay. She was a sweet Irish kid, the answer to his mother’s prayers. But Terry had never heard of posttraumatic stress syndrome, and her handsome, somber ex-soldier had frightened her out of the house in less than a year. Now he lived alone in a studio on the Upper West Side, avoiding relationships by hiding in overtime.

  A life.

  Komack, the desk sergeant, appeared in O’Donovan’s door. The huge cop filled the frame as he placed his hands on it like Samson at the Philistine pillars.

  “Your guests are here, Sarge.”

  O’Donovan managed a desultory thumbs-up as Komack pulled a strange face, eyes wide and brows raised, and withdrew.

  The Israeli colonel called Baum stood outside in the squad room. He was wearing the same leather car coat as before, his hands jammed into the stretched pockets as he perused the room with a small smile on his lips, as if some nostalgic flash had crossed his mind. There was a brown fedora on his large bald head, yet the hat did not quite fit the image. It looked like a gift someone had forced him to wear. It should have been Tyrolean gray, with a green feather.

  O’Donovan rose from his chair, walked to his open door, and then stopped, instantly confused.

  Next to Baum stood a young woman. She had been facing away, yet as she turned now, the detective’s gaze became fixed upon her. She was wearing small brown hiking boots, blue jeans, and a camel coat, over which flowed long auburn hair. Her eyes were Caribbean blue, her sculpted cheeks were flushed with cold, and she wore no makeup to emphasize the bow of her mouth. Her long, dark eyebrows might have offered a hundred different comments, yet as she looked up at him, unblinking, nothing in her expression changed.

  O’Donovan’s first thought was that she must be someone’s case, a complainant wisely concealed by one sly detective from the rest of the squad. She had probably been summoned by some playboy like Mancuso for an unnecessary follow-up. A stunning lipstick model who’d had her toy poodle stolen.

  “Detective O’Donovan.” Baum sounded jovial as he stepped forward and extended a meaty hand.

  “Mike,” the sergeant corrected as he snapped his attention back to Baum and shook.

  “Ja, Mike,” said Baum. “And how are you?”

  “Busy, Colonel.” O’Donovan was about to select some lucky bastard to tend to the young woman when Baum put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Detective, I would like you to meet my daughter, Ruth. Ruth, this is Detective O’Donovan.” He said the last part as if swallowing the admonition Now shake his hand like a good girl.

  O’Donovan looked at her again and blinked. “I’m sorry?” He bent to her, thinking, How the hell does she come from him?

  “Ruth.” She offered her hand, and the grip was firm and cool. “Like in the Bible.”

  He felt her low voice in his knees, and something of his thoughts must have shown, for her cheeks darkened a bit more.

  “ ‘They asked me how I knew . . . ’ ” Binder was rolling a Five into his type-writer and singing the opening of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” O’Donovan shot him a look, and he stopped.

  Benni Baum ignored the spark that flashed between his daughter and the American. “I hope you don’t mind . . .” He placed an arm around Ruth’s shoulders.

  “No, not at all,” said O’Donovan.

  “Good. Shall we talk?” Benni asked.

  As he grabbed an extra chair and ushered his guests into his office, O’Donovan looked over, to see Binder holding his mouth and Mancuso covering his eyes. Griffin shrugged at him hopelessly, like the father of juvenile delinquents.

  O’Donovan closed the door and maneuvered behind his desk. Baum took off his hat and coat and hung them on the standing rack. The Israeli colonel sat, wiping his large pate with a handkerchief. With his ice-blue eyes, slabby face, and roll-neck sweater, he reminded the detective of one of those Russians from the Rego Park squad, who could flip instantly from Santa Claus to Rasputin, depending on necessity.

  “Ms. Baum?” O’Donovan offered to take Ruth’s coat.

  “I am still cold,” she said. She sat down next to her father, crossed her legs, and folded her arms.

  “Ruth is a student here at Columbia,” said Benni proudly.

  “Oh, really?” O’Donovan tried to guess her age. “Which program?”

  “Psychology,” said Ruth. “Master’s slash Ph.D.” Her accent was distinctly foreign, yet she pronounced her English vowels and consonants properly in a rich alto tone.

  “We don’t normally bring guests along,” said Benni. “But Ruth and I do not see each other much.” His daughter looked at him and smiled slightly. “And as she is also a former army intelligence officer, she is always an asset.” He reached out and patted her knee, while O’Donovan tried to picture her in uniform, then swallowed once as he tried not to picture her shedding it.

  “Very interesting,” said O’Donovan, trying to wade quickly through the small talk. “Then we’re all veterans. So . . .”

  “Tell me, Mr. O’Donovan.” Ruth was scanning the bulletin board behind his head. “Must detectives have university degrees?”

  “Not necessarily. I have one from John Jay.”

  “So, then,” she continued as she spotted his and Ramos’s printed “name-plates,” “may I ask why you are only a sergeant?”

  O’Donovan squirmed. “Well . . .” He was about to launch into an explanation of civil service ranks versus NYPD command responsibilities, then sensed that she was throwing him a curve. “There was a lot of intermarriage in my family,” he said in a flat, serious tone. “Mental retardation, low IQs.”

  Ruth examined his grave expression for a moment, then burst into laughter, tilting her head back and covering her chest with one hand. Baum was also smiling.

  “I apologize, Mike,” said Benni. “Do you know Israelis?”

  “Not intimately.”

  “We are blunt, as you can see. But we are also sincere. People often think of us as pigheaded and arrogant.” He lifted his palms. “They are correct. Still, on the good side, we have no false manners, no politesse. When we say ‘drop by,’ we expect you to show up. Our friendships are usually ended only by death.”

  O’Donovan was taken aback. Maybe he would reconsider his categorization of all peoples who lived east of Greece.

  “I have been warned,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes,” said Ruth. “You have.” She turned to her father and commented, “Ben-adahm nichmahd,” which vaguely meant, “Nice guy.” Benni segued to business.

>   “So, Mike. What is the progress?”

  “Well, Colonel . . .”

  “Please. Benni,” said Baum. “Let us consider this an intelligence operation. No ranks. Agreed?”

  O’Donovan shrugged. “I’ll try.” He had never addressed an American colonel as anything but Sir or Boss. “So far there are no hard leads. The Joint Terrorism Task Force is leaning hard on their snitches, trying to get something from one of the Arab groups.”

  “He means informers,” Benni said to Ruth.

  “I know, Abba,” she replied patiently.

  “Joint Terror,” said Benni. “Mr. Jack Buchanan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mmm.” Benni pulled an earlobe. “And your participation?” O’Donovan had been very close-mouthed when he gave Baum a lift up to Columbia.

  “I work the homicide angle. Simple detective work. Profile of the bomber, or maybe someone else who wired him up.”

  “You see?” Ruth elbowed her father, who ignored her.

  “And the explosive device?” Benni asked.

  “The FBI labs and the Redstone Arsenal people do most of that, but since our M.E. has the bodies, Forensics here in New York looks at the shrapnel too.”

  “What do they have?”

  “Well . . .” O’Donovan hesitated for a moment, the years with Special Forces having ingrained a reticence to share such information. But Baum would smell a holdback from ten miles out, and if O’Donovan did not give, then he was not going to get. “We have Semtex as the primary, with traces of RDX, so they think the detonator was a mercury fulminate cap with an RDX base charge. No microchips or receiver parts were found, but there was some battery acid in the bomber’s corpse. Looks like a simple self-detonation to me. No radio control.”

  “Yes, I would agree,” said Benni. He had spoken to Hanan Bar-El that morning. The EOD men from Tel Aviv had already come to the same conclusions. “You seem to know your explosives, Mike.”

  “Army,” said the detective.

  “And what exactly did you do in the army?” Ruth asked.

  O’Donovan looked at her, paused, and said, “Not very much, I’m afraid.”