Ishmael Covenant

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Ishmael Covenant Page 28

by Terry Brennan


  “They’re running a very tight formation, very fast,” said Levinson as he turned toward the driver. “Samuel, may I have the maps?” The driver, his left hand trying to keep the accelerating van under control, reached into a bin under the dashboard and handed back a leather-bound packet.

  “Samuel, are you patched into the radio?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right … you know what to do.”

  The van was heaving, like a small boat in heavy seas, rolling back and forth. In spite of the movement, Levinson pulled open the packet and turned to a topographic road map.

  “This is where we are,” he said, pointing at the Holon district on the western flank of Ben Gurion Airport, “and this is where the first sighting was, along this road between”—he pointed to population centers—“Ashdod and Ashkelon. The first pictures came from a stationary camera. Reconnaissance is monitoring other stationary cameras along the road, but they also redirected a drone in that direction.

  “Somewhere in here,” Levinson pointed south of Ashdod, “we lost them. They must have turned off …”

  All of them were thrown off balance as the van hit something in the road very hard. For a moment, the van felt airborne.

  “Sorry, sir,” said the driver, still wrestling with the steering wheel.

  “It’s all right, Samuel. You just get us there.”

  Levinson steadied the maps in his lap. “They must have pulled off Highway Four here, south of Nitzan. But the drone picked up the formation again. Now they are driving without lights, very slow, down this narrow dirt road that is sometimes used by farmers.”

  The area Levinson was pointing to looked desolate to Mullaney. “There’s nothing there,” he said. “Where are they going?”

  Levinson looked up from the map. “I think they’re making a run for Gaza. If they can get her into the Gaza Strip before … well … it may not be possible for us to find her, let alone rescue her. Gaza is a killing field. It’s like your Wild West where there was no law and too many guns.”

  Mullaney’s mind flashed back to a past operation to rescue a kidnapped American diplomat from the war-ravaged streets of Beirut. Incredibly dangerous and unpredictable, Beirut was a rat’s nest of heavily armed militia units that flip-flopped daily from implacable enemy to impassive observer, depending on the whims of the controlling imams. The mission was a disaster. They found the diplomat, dead, hanging by his thumbs in the window of a bombed out storefront. Then Mullaney and the other DSS agents had to fight their way out of Beirut under withering fire from the rooftops and blackened windows of Beirut’s ravaged buildings. Two agents were killed, three others wounded, including Mullaney, who still carried the scars in his body and his memory.

  “We need to get her.”

  “I know,” said Levinson, nodding his head. Mullaney could read the determination in Levinson’s eyes. The colonel pointed down at the map. “We’ve got a plan.” He traced his finger along a faint line that ran through the barren area north of Ashkelon. “If they get into Ashkelon, we could lose them entirely. And then it’s only a short run to Gaza and too many paths for us to cover all at once. This is the Nitzanim Reserve, a preserved area of sand dunes and scrub. This unpaved road they are following runs down the eastern flank of Nitzanim. Here,” he tapped his finger, “it runs over a small, wooden bridge to cross this wadi.” Levinson looked up into Mullaney’s eyes.

  “There are two squads of Shin Bet and IDF from Ashkelon heading to that bridge right now. Their orders are to tear that bridge apart, if necessary, set up a “Bridge Out” blockade and detour the SUVs down another dirt road, farther into the reserve. And here”—he tapped the map—“is where we will be waiting for them.”

  Mullaney was shaking his head. “We? How are we going to get there? There’s not enough time.”

  The van swerved violently to the left, all ten men hanging on so as not to be thrown about, and then shuddered to an abrupt halt, the groaning of its distressed engine overwhelmed by a growing, throaty roar.

  Levinson was first to throw open the back doors and leap out of the van. “In these,” he shouted, pointing to a pair of IDF helicopters, their rotors already spinning. The other soldiers poured out of the van, running bent under the rotors. Levinson grabbed Mullaney’s arm as they jogged toward the chopper. “We’ll swing out over the sea and come in from the south,” he shouted into Mullaney’s ear. They paused in the open door in the helicopter’s side. “They won’t hear us coming. Don’t worry. We’ll be in time.”

  29

  Nitzanim Reserve, Ashkelon, Israel

  July 20, 5:30 a.m.

  Mullaney knew the Mediterranean was at his back. He couldn’t see it or hear its waves wash the shore. But he could smell the sea. He was also aware of the false dawn glow created by the lights of Ashkelon off to his right. But his eyes and his concentration were on a thin strip of road—unpaved light sand, actually—that was illuminated only by starlight and weaved its way through undulating dunes and scrub brush in front of him, to the east. Beyond the sand road was a massive, impenetrable black void—the mammoth opening of an abandoned stone quarry.

  Along with Levinson, Hernandez, and a half dozen Shin Bet soldiers, Mullaney was lying flat on his stomach, just off the top of a dune, not twenty feet from the sandy track. More than twenty other IDF and Shin Bet soldiers were concealed in the deep shadows below the scrub brush that flanked the road, just below Mullaney’s position. Another team was hidden along the top of a dune on the far side of the road, opposite Mullaney.

  The two teams that had been stationed at the ruined bridge to ensure the convoy took the bait and drove farther into the desolate landscape were now inching along the detour behind the SUVs, prepared to halt any attempt at retreat. Another team was stationed to the south, Mullaney’s right, where the road ran alongside the quarry opening, blocking any escape in that direction.

  Levinson leaned over toward Mullaney. “They got infrared glasses on each vehicle as the SUVs made the turn into the detour,” he whispered. “There was no image that looked clearly like a woman, but the third vehicle has what looked to be three people squeezed into the back seat—two bruisers pushing against the inside of the doors and a space in the middle. They couldn’t see what was in that space. But I’m willing to wager that’s where the ambassador’s daughter is riding. We’ll take the third car.” Levinson paused. “We need to be—”

  “I know,” Mullaney whispered. “We need to be fast and ruthless.”

  “Yes, Brian. And lucky.”

  Mullaney surveyed the scene in front of him. His conclusion was simple. They needed more than luck. He began to pray—God help us; God help us; God help us.

  Each of the teams hiding on the high ground at the top of the dunes, flanking the road, contained snipers with scope-mounted, blackened Barak HTR 2000 long-range sniper rifles fitted with silencers. The assignment for the team of snipers on the far side was to take out the drivers. The snipers lying to either side of Mullaney were to target the person riding in the front passenger seat … but to fire only when they had absolute certainty that Mrs. Parker wasn’t unexpectedly riding in the front seat.

  It was the people in the back where things got even more risky.

  The IDF soldiers had rigged a series of flashbangs, or stun grenades, in the road—nonlethal explosive devices that would temporarily disorient a person’s senses.

  Flashbangs are enclosed by a steel casing, intended to remain intact, which has openings to allow the light and sound of the explosion to escape but which avoids injury from shrapnel. When detonated, the blinding flash of light momentarily overwhelms all photoreceptor cells in the eye, making vision impossible until the eye can recover, usually five seconds or more. The concussive blast of the grenade causes temporary loss of hearing and disturbs the fluid in the inner ear, causing loss of balance.

  When the SUVs moved within the field of stun grenades, the plan was to detonate all of them at once while the snipers took care of the
kidnappers in the front seat. Then the other Israeli soldiers had only five seconds in which to move.

  Eight pairs of soldiers were under cover along the side of the road. Like every member of the rescue team, these soldiers wore protective glasses and ear plugs to negate the impact of the stun grenades. One soldier of the pair would slap a small piece of plastic explosive onto the hinges of the car’s back door. Detonated, the explosive would blow the door outward, off its hinges. The second soldier on each side would be pressed against the side of the SUV, gun poised. At the moment of explosion, that soldier would train his sights on the kidnapper on his side of the back seat. The plan was to haul each of the disoriented bad guys out of the vehicle and into the sand as quickly as possible. If there was any flicker of an offensive move, that perpetrator would be dead.

  In the short time they had to pull a plan together, it wasn’t a bad plan.

  But … five seconds. All that had to happen in five seconds.

  And if a flashbang happened to be under a fuel tank when it detonated?

  Mullaney tried not to think about all the other things that could possibly go wrong. There were too many of those possibilities. And he tried to contain his frustration at being up here on this dune rather than down there beside the road. He didn’t want to be the hero. Yet he desperately needed to make sure Palmyra was safe. He wanted to be closer. But those guys were the experts. They had drilled specifically for circumstances like this. The Israeli military was prepared for almost every eventuality. Parker’s life was in God’s hands … and the effectiveness of these elite soldiers.

  That knowledge didn’t make him worry any less.

  A graying pink in the east quickened Mullaney’s heartbeat even more. Night was running out on them. Soon, the stun grenades in the road, covered by a thin dusting of sand, would be visible. Then what? How would …

  He almost felt the vibrations of the engines in the soundless dark before he recognized the low hum. Around a curve between dunes to his left, the first of the dark hulks progressed along the path, moving faster than Mullaney had expected. His heart raced. He could feel the sweat on his palms. His breath came faster. If this first part didn’t work …

  Trying to figure out where to stage the stun grenades was one of the many challenges the soldiers faced in planning the ambush, along with how to slow the SUVs—not necessarily stop them cold, but at least slow them to a crawl. Their solution was to dig a shallow, winding trench across the sandy road, about eighteen inches deep and two feet across—too big to be ignored—and then to sweep it with brush to make it look like it had been there for years. Everything hung precariously on how the first driver would respond or react to the small gulley in the road: not see it and fail to slow down, see it and still power through it, or slow down in caution?

  The first SUV drove along the track, the others almost nose to bumper, still moving too fast. The lead driver didn’t slow … until he was nearly on top of the gulley, his front tires starting to drop into the ditch. Perhaps by instinct, the lead driver applied his brakes, the red taillights of the SUV shooting out like red laser beams. Behind him, each of the other drivers mashed down the brake pedal as the SUVs jerked to an abrupt halt, the lead vehicle pushed farther into the gully when it was hit by the one behind. Without a pause, the fire and chaos of hell erupted and surrounded the SUVs.

  A series of low thuds, like leather slapping leather, erupted to either side of Mullaney, the front windshields of the SUVs all shattering at once. At nearly the same instant, a chorus of low explosions blew the back doors of each SUV into the desert.

  Then the plan broke down. Badly.

  The metallic rattle of automatic gunfire spewed from the rear cargo area of the second and fourth SUVs in the column, hitting several of the soldiers nearest to the vehicles. In a fraction of a heartbeat, a fusillade of return fire shredded the first, second, and fourth SUV. Their windows imploded and the sheet metal was ripped apart.

  At the sound of the first shot, Mullaney was on his feet, running down the side of the dune, his 9-millimeter Sig Sauer automatic held in both hands, firing at where he saw the flashes of light coming from the vehicles. But with every lunging stride, his eyes went jolting back to the third vehicle where he saw IDF soldiers heaving men out of the back seat and onto the ground.

  So focused was he on the shooters and concerned about Palmyra Parker’s condition in the third car, Mullaney didn’t register quickly enough his rate of descent and how close he was to the bottom of the dune. His eyes up and squeezing off another two rounds into the second SUV, Mullaney’s foot landed on the flat ground at the bottom of the dune, his leg buckled and he went sprawling into the sand—the pain in his back erupting, momentarily overcoming the adrenaline rush of combat.

  He wasn’t down long.

  Mullaney was rolling over on his hip, an exposed target with his back to the gun battle, when a hand came up under his arm and dragged him into the lee of a sandy hillock. “Glad to see you could make it,” said Hernandez, kneeling at Mullaney’s side. “The bad guys are over there.”

  Mullaney risked a peek over the top of the mound. “Do you see her?”

  “No,” said Hernandez. “Shooters in the back of the two SUVs. The second one is between us and her. We can’t get to her while …”

  Hernandez reached toward Mullaney. “Look—it’s Pat!”

  The front SUV was already a smoking hulk, devoid of life. But shots were still coming from the second and fourth vehicles, firing at any visible soldier while pinning down the two IDF soldiers who had jumped into the back seat of the third SUV.

  Levinson, however, was leading an assault. And running shoulder to shoulder with Levinson was DSS Agent Pat McKeon. Behind them, the Israeli soldiers moved like a deadly dance troupe. Through the twilight of early dawn, three soldiers converged on each side of both the second and fourth SUVs while the rest launched a crushing cover fire. Swiftly, exchanging positions back to front as they advanced, the soldiers came up behind the vehicles. Almost on cue, one soldier at each vehicle lifted an arm and tossed a flashbang into the back seat. After the light and blast, a split second of silence, then a soldier from each side emptied a magazine into the rear compartment of the SUV.

  But McKeon didn’t stop with the Israeli soldiers. She kept running, right up behind the third vehicle.

  Mullaney and Hernandez were up on their feet and also running to the third SUV before the Israeli soldiers stopped firing, but Mullaney skidded to a halt beside a bullet-pocked front door, wisely not bursting in front of the missing rear door while there was still shooting going on.

  “Is she okay?” he yelled into the back of the vehicle. But his apprehension and dread wouldn’t allow him to wait for an answer. Mullaney stuck his head around the door strut and looked into the back seat. Pat McKeon was kneeling on the seat, her finger on the trigger of her 9 millimeter, her eyes constantly on the move. An IDF soldier, wedged into the space between the seats, was hunched over the floor area, his eyes fixed on Mullaney and the stock of his Uzi pressed into his shoulder.

  McKeon glanced over at Mullaney. A smile lit up her face. “We got her back,” said McKeon. “She’s alive.”

  “But I don’t know if she’s okay,” said Palmyra’s voice from the floor of the car, under the soldier’s body. “Is that the cavalry?”

  The soldier lifted his body and Palmyra Parker’s bloody and matted head peeked around his shoulders. There was a warrior’s fire in her bright, green eyes, like she was ticked off because no one had handed her a gun. But there was also a wealth of emotion awash in the tears that formed at the corners. “I didn’t think …”

  Parker’s chin was quivering as the soldier pushed himself onto the back seat, giving her a chance to move. Twice she tried to speak. But each time she stopped, bit her lip, and gasped in some shallow breaths. Mullaney reached in and took her hand.

  “I … I thought …”

  Mullaney holstered his gun in the small of his back. He let the soldie
r out of the car and then leaned in through the door, putting his hands around Parker’s shoulders and lifting her into a sitting position on the back seat. “You’re okay,” Mullaney said, holding her gaze, trying to fill her with the reality of her safety. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  The tears were quietly rolling down her cheeks. It was clear to Mullaney that she was fighting valiantly not to lose her composure. “I didn’t think you …”

  Mullaney crawled onto the seat beside her, put his left arm around Parker’s shoulders and allowed her to lean into him.

  “Thank you,” she said into his chest.

  Mullaney held her. Something paternal clicked and he rocked her a little, like a baby.

  “How did one of your guys get into the back of this SUV?”

  “What?”

  Parker pushed herself off his chest and looked into his eyes. “The guy in the back. As soon as the explosions went off, somebody reached out and slammed the heads of my guards into the side windows—at the same time. Then he got me on the floor and covered me when the shooting started.”

  Mullaney was having a hard time making sense of Parker’s recollections. “You mean the IDF soldier who was protecting you?”

  “No,” Parker shook her head. “Before that … before he got to the car … before the doors were blown off. That first guy, he really saved my life.”

  “I don’t know what …” Then his mind cleared. “We need to reach Atticus.”

  Mullaney turned to his right, toward the missing door. And Tommy Hernandez was handing him a phone.

  “It’s ringing,” said Hernandez.

  30

  Nitzanim Reserve, Ashkelon

  July 20, 6:23 a.m.

  Parker was propped against the open door of the helicopter, wrapped in a blanket. A gauze bandage covered the ugly injury at the back of her head—a swollen knot of purple, yellow and blue bruises, crowned with an inch-and-a-half-long gash that would quickly need stitches. One medic was dressing her other scalp wounds, another checking her vitals and looking for signs of a concussion.

 

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