Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  While Matt was searching for more bogies, Furry had updated the nav system by refining his cursor placement on the crossroads (he picked the southwest corner) on the frozen radar map picture. When he was satisfied, he hit the castle switch on the right-hand controller and updated the system. In effect, he was telling the navigation computer that was where the center of the target box should have been if the system was totally accurate when it placed the box over the radar image. The computer worked backward and refined its internal alignment, taking into account the movement of the aircraft since the map was made. Matt saw the aircraft symbol on his TSD jump a fraction of an inch when the system was updated. The autopilot sensed the change in their position and made a slight heading adjustment, putting them back on track.

  All of this took less than forty-five seconds, much faster than the first time they did it.

  “Eat your heart out, Mr. Nintendo,” Furry laughed. “Best damn video game in the whole world. We’ll get faster.” Silence. “Let’s simulate battle damage from that last engagement. Aah, say we lost our radar, laser, and FLIR and have to do a backup delivery using manual only.”

  “Come on, Amb. I haven’t done that in six months.”

  “What the hell, it was briefed. No time like right now.”

  “Give me a break!”

  “Okay, okay, just an idea. We’ll save that one for our next mission.”

  “Thanks a bunch.” Matt was seriously wondering about the man riding in his pit. Furry wanted to push the aircraft, its systems, and themselves to an extent he didn’t care to think about.

  Matt took control of the aircraft when they overflew the IP (initial point) that was the last checkpoint that showed the way to the target. Matt flew around a low hill, squeaking them down to a hundred feet, using terrain masking to protect them from defenses around the target. Furry used the radar to slue the Target FLIR onto the target. An unbelievably clear infrared picture materialized and they were still eleven miles out. A computer generated target box surrounded a concrete bunker. The wizzo moved the castle switch on his left-hand controller aft and the box changed to a triangle—the symbol for the target. Satisfied that he had the correct target, he mashed the trigger on the same hand controller and the weapons delivery computer went to work, processing a wealth of information to put a bomb on that target.

  “Designating,” Furry said. With that one word, Furry told Matt they were working their target. Matt had the weapons system in full automatic, so he mashed the pickle button and held it. When the computer had reached a delivery solution, a bomb would come off the stub pylons automatically. They both felt the bomb separate from the aircraft. “Lasing,” Furry said and mashed the pushbuttons at the bottom of his left-hand controller. Matt banked away so Furry could continue to lase the target. Through the Target FLIR, they saw the bomb fly right through the closed door Furry was illuminating.

  “Strange way we make our living,” Matt said and coupled the TFR to the autopilot for their egress.

  The fatigue generated by the mission was demanding its price and Matt wanted to flop out on one of the couches in the new crew lounge and take a break. But Furry was heading for an open briefing room for a postmission debrief. He followed Furry down the hall because something inside of him felt good and he wanted to recapture all that they had accomplished. He ignored the two pilots standing by the scheduling counter trying to wangle an extra flight. “Hey,” one of them called, “kill anyone today?”

  Matt spun around. Anger lashed at him and splintered any satisfaction he felt about the flight. “Excuse me very much, fuckhead,” he shot back.

  A viselike hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was Furry. “Only turn to blow the meatball out of the sky,” he growled. “Otherwise run away and fight another guy.” He half dragged Matt down the hall.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean,” Matt grumbled, his temper barely under control.

  “This is not our day to engage,” Furry answered and closed the door of the briefing room behind them.

  “Another one of your rules for survival?”

  “Goddamn right,” Furry snapped.

  The agony of waiting was back on Shoshana and she wanted to ask when Habish would return. Instead, she studied the four walls of the basement room of the safe house where they had gone after leaving the airport. Zeev Avidar looked up from his computer and sensed what was bothering her. “It helps if you can keep busy,” he said and went back to his work. A few moments later, the laser jet printer whirred and a new ID card for Shoshana spat out die bottom. Avidar picked it up and examined it critically. “Yes, this will do,” he decided. Then he fed the printer a sheet of paper that he had aged with chemicals and heat from the oven. The printer whirred again and he had an authentic-looking Iraqi identification card.

  “Now we need a photo,” he said. He posed Shoshana with a dark shawl draped over her hair and took a series of Polaroid photos. After each shot, he would change her makeup with a soft artist’s brush. Finally, he had one that made her look like a farmer’s wife. Then he treated the photo with a chemical, giving it an aged look, before he trimmed it and fixed it to the ID. He used a pen to add some finishing touches to the final product and handed it to her. Then he repeated the process, only this time making her into a college girl.

  Shoshana watched him work, amazed at how calm he was. Avidar did not strike her as a world-class forger and could have been a merchant in any bazaar in the Middle East, for he was skinny, dark-skinned, and slightly round-shouldered. Only his soft dark brown eyes held the key to the real Avidar. He was an artist.

  “When we leave, I’ll have to destroy all this,” he said. “Gad and I have four different sets of identification, so that’s no problem. But I haven’t had a chance to work up a complete set for you.” He returned to his work.

  “How much longer before he returns?” she asked, not able to contain her impatience. How to wait in a safe house had not been covered in her training.

  “Not long. He’ll call when he’s ready.”

  “What is he doing that’s taking so long?”

  “That’s not the kind of question you should be asking,” Avidar said. Then he relented. “He’s closing our operation down and has to get in contact with our people here. We can’t leave them high and dry. He’s got to make contact, pass on money, new identification papers, and instructions. It takes time.”

  “So you think the Mukhabaret is on to all of us?”

  Avidar turned his baleful eyes back to the computer. “If not now, they will be shortly.”

  The phone rang, filling the small basement room and making Shoshana’s nerves jangle even more. Neither answered it and after two rings it stopped. Avidar placed his hand over the receiver and waited. When the phone started to ring, he picked it up and said nothing, only listening. Then he hung up. “Habish,” he said. “It’s not good. He’s being followed and had to ditch his car. We’ve got to pick him up near the University. We’ve got to hurry.” They climbed up the stairs and moved a wall panel and wardrobe into place, hiding the door. It was one of the many changes Avidar had made to the house. They walked calmly out the back door and climbed into one of the cars Avidar had found for the team.

  The traffic over the Jumhuya Bridge was unusually heavy for that time of night. Avidar mumbled under his breath and merged into the jumble, honking his horn and swearing in Arabic until they were clear and heading for Antar Square. “We make one pass,” Avidar explained. “Habish either makes contact or we go on alone.”

  “We can’t just leave him …”

  “Yes we can. Our first priority is to get the combo pen out of the damn country. We’ve got to be out of Baghdad tonight. Under the dash, feel around until you can feel the Uzi clipped there.” She nodded when she felt the small machine gun. “Good. Be ready to use it.”

  They turned down a narrow street that led off Antar Square. “I see him,” Shoshana said. “On the right, beside that building. He’s seen us.”


  “Got him,” Avidar grunted. “There’s two men on the other side of the street.” He stomped on the accelerator. “Get the Uzi,” he ordered. He was going to use the car to block the two men who were moving out of the shadows toward Habish. Shoshana bent forward only to have her face smashed into the dash when Avidar mashed the brakes and skidded the car to a stop. She ignored the pain and grabbed the gun. Before she could raise up, four shots rang out from the left and she heard Avidar groan as the car stalled. He was hit. Habish jerked the right rear door open and piled into the backseat. She leaned across Avidar and stuck the snout of the Uzi out his window and sprayed the street.

  “Go!” Habish shouted from the rear. Shoshana shoved Avidar against his door and half sat on him to get at the controls and start the car. She shifted into what she thought was low gear and let the clutch out. She was in third and the car lurched forward, almost stalling. She jammed the gearshift into first and accelerated away. Two more gunshots slammed into the back of the car, one grazing her neck. Habish returned fire from the backseat. “Got the bastard!” Habish yelled as she turned the corner. “Stop the car.” Before the car had come to a halt, Habish was out and disappeared around the corner.

  Not knowing what Habish wanted her to do, she jumped out of the car, ran around to the driver’s side and pulled the wounded Avidar out of the driver’s seat. She was shoving him into the backseat when Habish came back. He jumped behind the wheel and they drove off. “They’re both dead,” he said and handed her a radio he had taken off one of the bodies. He didn’t have to tell her that he had shot both of the wounded men in the head. “Listen for radio traffic,” he commanded, “and make sure we’re not being followed.”

  Somehow, Shoshana managed to plug Avidar’s wound and stop the bleeding while she rotated through the four channels on the radio and scanned the road and sky behind them for pursuers. Then they were back at the safe house. Together, they lifted Avidar out of the car and placed him in the back of a dilapidated truck Avidar had bought from a farmer.

  Inside the house, Habish told Shoshana to bum any scrap of paper that might help the Iraqis. While she fed the fire, Habish hooked two electrical leads from a wall outlet into the computer. When he made contact, the circuitry started smoking. Smoke and fumes filled the room. Then he did the same to the printer. When he was satisfied that their circuits were fused, he lifted a circular hatch out of the basement floor. “The well,” he told her and dropped all their equipment down the hole. “They’ll find it—eventually.”

  He led her upstairs to a bedroom and threw some old clothes at her. “Time to become a farmer,” he said. “Hang the combo pen between your tits like a pendant and tape it down.” While she did as he ordered, Habish started to load the truck with food and cans of water and gas that had been stashed in the basement.

  When Shoshana was changed, she rushed downstairs and helped him load the truck. “Do we have a first aid kit?” she asked.

  “In the truck … beside Avidar.” While he changed into the worn clothes of a farmer, she climbed into the back of the truck. A flashlight and the first aid kit were lying next to the wounded man. Then she realized that everything they had been doing at the house had been planned and probably rehearsed.

  “Avidar, I need to examine you,” she said. “Were you hit anywhere else?” He shook his head weakly. She broke the kit open and wished she had paid more attention during her first aid training.

  “Stop the bleeding first,” Avidar whispered. The irony of it hit her; the wounded telling the nurse what to do. “Then clean the wound as best you can.” She rolled him over and examined the small hole in his left side. Blood was still oozing out around the handkerchief she had shoved into the wound.

  Habish climbed into the back of the truck and held the flashlight, watching her work. “Move over,” he said and handed her the flashlight. She watched him as he deftly removed the handkerchief, examined the wound, stopped the bleeding, and bound Avidar up. “You shouldn’t have stopped,” Habish gently scolded. “Your orders were to pick me up only if it was safe.” A weak smile crossed Avidar’s face and then disappeared. “You always were a fool,” Habish said, returning the smile. “Okay, time to go.”

  They climbed into the cab and Shoshana was surprised at how quickly the engine started. “Avidar worked on it,” Habish grunted. “You should have known how to take care of his wound.”

  The reprimand cut deep into Shoshana and she didn’t know what to say. But Habish was right, she should have known what to do. “Where are we going now?” she finally asked.

  “Kirkuk.”

  The four men waited for the President’s reaction. Michael Cagliari, his national security adviser, glanced at the notes he had made and found nothing encouraging. Admiral Terrance Scovill, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, relaxed into the comfort of the couch in the Oval Office and ran possible questions through his head that Zack Pontowski might ask him. Bobby Burke, the director of central intelligence, said nothing. He did not like being the bearer of such ominous news when he had no idea of what was going to happen next. Tom Fraser sat in a chair off to the right and felt a surge of relief. This, he thought, will take Pontowski’s mind off the Middle East and planning for an oil embargo for a long time.

  “Are we reading the signals wrong?” Pontowski finally asked.

  “There is always that possibility, Mr. President,” the DCI answered. “But it correlates with too many other items coming out of the Kremlin. And we haven’t seen or heard from the general secretary for over three weeks.”

  “They haven’t come close to solving their economic problems,” Cagliari added. “There is growing unrest, mostly in the Ukraine, Moldavia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan. Even the Baltic States are joining in. Which, considering the way the Soviet Army has been setting on them since they declared their independence, is an indication of how bad things are.”

  “Terry, what do you see?” Pontowski asked.

  Admiral Scovill leaned forward. “We are monitoring a great deal of movement on the part of the Soviet Army. But it is all internal and toward the hot spots Mike just mentioned. None of it can be considered threatening to NATO or Western Europe. One other thing, Mr. President, they are being very obvious about it. The Soviets want us to know they are not threatening NATO.”

  Pontowski nodded and leaned back in his chair, glad that he had brought the three men over from the previous administration. They were turning out to be his best advisers, despite the serious misgivings Fraser had voiced at first. “So, it looks like Viktor Rokossovsky is about to lose his job as the general secretary of the Communist party.”

  “That in itself,” Cagliari said, “isn’t too much to worry about. It’s how they are doing it. We had thought the Soviets had solved the succession-of-power problem and could do it peacefully. This is shaping up like an old-fashioned putsch. They’re going to do this one with tanks and guns.”

  “It gets complicated,” Burke said, “because we don’t know whose side the army is on. Right now, we assume the generals are stirring the pot.”

  “So what do you recommend we do?” Pontowski asked. He wanted their honest opinions. He would make up his mind later after listening to his secretary of state.

  Cagliari spoke first. “Right now, nothing. We must not do a thing the Russians could interpret as a threat or an attempt to mix in their internal affairs. We’ve got to keep things quiet.”

  Scovill and Burke agreed with him.

  “Okay, gentlemen, that’s it for now.” The four men rose and started to leave. “Tom, hold on for a moment.” Fraser held back until the men had left. “Well, what do you think?”

  Fraser hesitated. It wasn’t often that Pontowski asked his advice on foreign affairs. He knew he had to give it his best shot. “I agree with Mike, we’ve got to keep things quiet until die Russians get their problems sorted out.”

  “Is that all?”

  Fraser shook his head. “The Middle East. I see problems there that could spill ov
er and frighten the Russians. That’s not good when they are having internal problems. They used our response to Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait as an excuse to crack down. I don’t know what they would do if the Middle East became destabilized again.”

  “What kind of destabilization would drive them over the edge?”

  “I’m really the wrong man to ask that question. Why don’t I call in Cox or that whiz kid Carroll?”

  Pontowski smiled. “Tom, I got the impression that you don’t agree with them.”

  Fraser was stunned. How had Pontowski cottoned on to that? “Well,” he stammered, “I don’t. I’m for a balance approach in the Mideast and I think Cox and Carroll are too pro-Israeli. We need friends on both sides of that fence. But that isn’t my job so I shut up.”

  “What is your job?”

  “To keep facts, options, ideas, opinions flowing to you.” He paused and smiled. “And to take care of all the damn paperwork.”

  “Keep it up, Tom. Keep it up.”

  Fraser knew he was dismissed and beat a hasty retreat to his office. Was the President sending him a message?

  “Mr. Fraser,” Melissa called when he passed by her desk. “B. J. Allison called.”

  He decided to ignore the message.

  9

  Discretion is a relative thing, especially in Washington, D.C., where almost everyone practices it to some extent, and the higher the orbit of the power circle a person whirls around on, the more vital it becomes to the survival of the practitioner. Thomas Patrick Fraser instinctively understood this and had become a master at the game. He relied on a pleasant, Irish-bred manner to charm people and a quick intelligence to stay at least two jumps ahead of any potential indiscretion. Normally, it worked well and to his advantage, covering up his sharklike nature.

  But when Thomas Fraser lost his temper, his rough South Boston heritage broke through and he was anything but discrete with those who occupied a power circle below his. They received the full blast of his anger. But since Fraser was anything but suicidal, he never let those spinning above him see this side of his personality. And Barbara Jo Allison’s constellation was well above his.