The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  But Rotem also knew, as did every other officer in the Israeli Armed Forces, that during the 1990-91 Gulf War, the Iraqis had succeeded in launching thirty-nine high-explosive-tipped Scuds against Israel. And he also knew that despite claims to the contrary, every one of them had penetrated the Patriot missile defenses that the Americans had hastily installed.

  Since then, the improved Patriot PAC III missile defenses and Israel's own Arrow antimissile system had been deployed, but none of these offered absolute assurance that an Iraqi warhead wouldn't get through. That's why Israel was making it known that its Jericho 2 missiles were being readied—as a signal to Iraq or anyone else that even the threat of a nuclear assault on the Jewish state would result in a massive counterstrike or, if necessary, even a preemptive attack.

  Now, Major Rotem confronted the personal realities of the situation. His wife was still missing, presumably still held with the wife of the U.S. Marine officer, probably in Lebanon, Syria, or Iraq. Newman was wandering around in Iraq looking for MIA nukes. And now the whole world knew Israel was prepared to launch a deterrent attack on Iraq.

  Rotem had accompanied the IDF's Chief of Staff to an emergency meeting of the War Cabinet where the Prime Minister had issued a grave warning that Israel could be at war in less than forty-eight hours.

  And now, with all this weighing on his shoulders, Major Rotem had been told to prepare his Sayeret Duvdevan unit for two entirely different missions: either to protect the Jericho 2 launchers from some kind of terrorist attack or to get underway on a moment's notice on a mission to capture and destroy the Iraqi nuclear weapons if they could be found.

  Rotem devoutly hoped the word would come down shortly for the second mission, for it would mean there was at least a chance of averting a nuclear holocaust. No one really wanted to think about the possibility of starting a chain reaction leading to a Middle East apocalypse. Yet, he knew that if a weapon of mass destruction threatened Israel, his government would make that choice—they would choose to respond in kind. That was the sole rationale behind the billions spent developing the Jericho Sanction.

  But he also knew that a launch of the Jericho 2 nuclear missiles would change everything in the world—forever. He didn't fear retaliation in kind by the Iraqis, but he wasn't so sure about Pakistan, which also had nuclear weapons. Would the Pakistanis intervene for another Muslim nation, as the Indian Defense attaché had warned they might?

  If we launch those Jericho missiles at Iraq, will I ever see my wife again? Will I ever know the child she carries? Or will Dyan be incinerated in the conflagration…

  The IDF officer sighed and swore softly. Now was a terrible time for him to be distracted by personal concerns. Still, it was impossible not to think of Dyan. He paced back and forth across his office.

  Why doesn't the American call?

  Petrol Oasis

  Near Ar Rutbah, Iraq

  Monday, 23 March 1998

  1920 Hours, Local

  “My friend,” said Samir, “if we are going to move from here, we must go now. The curfew will soon be on us, and then we will be at great risk for being on the highway.”

  The Marine looked at the young man as if coming out of a trance. Newman was stunned by his last conversation with General Grisham, and he had been turning over in his mind how he could comply with the order to “hang loose” for the next twenty-four hours while the nuclear weapons he had been sent to find and his kidnapped wife were less than ninety miles away.

  “You're right, Samir, let's go.”

  “Go where, my friend?”

  “Where is your father going to spend the night after he drops off Nazir?”

  “We have a family friend on the east side of At Tanf. He is a Syrian Christian whose family were all killed in the Homs uprising about thirty years ago. He owns a restaurant and keeps some rooms above it where the oil exploration people sometimes stay. My father will probably stay there.”

  “Can we get across the border and meet him there?”

  “Yes, I think so. Nazir will be on duty and he will let us pass, though we may have to pay an ‘entrance fee' on the Syrian side of the border.”

  “Can we get to the border before the curfew?”

  Samir checked his watch and nodded. “I think so, if we leave right away. As long as we are in line at the border post when the curfew comes, they will leave us alone. Is that what you wish to do?”

  “I don't want to put you in greater jeopardy than you are already,” said Newman, “but at this point, you may be the only hope I have of getting my wife back safely. And if the Lord is willing, we may also be able to do something about the three nuclear weapons at the same time.”

  Samir looked at the American, but Newman was staring straight ahead. Samir started the truck and pulled through the parking area—past dozens of tandem tractor trailers and panel trucks, their diesel engines idling—and out onto the highway, headed west.

  “What's in all those trucks?” asked Newman as they picked up speed on the macadam roadway.

  “Mostly smuggled goods. They are carrying banned equipment and merchandise into Iraq. They cannot go any further tonight because of the curfew. Tomorrow morning they will continue on to Baghdad or wherever else they are going inside this poor, tortured country.”

  Within minutes, the glow of the truck stop and the Al Rutbah Oasis faded into the darkness behind them. Newman rode in silence for a few minutes. And then, as though he had just made up his mind about a course of action, he opened the briefcase beside him on the seat, removed the Israeli phone, and plugged its battery charger into the cigarette lighter beneath the dashboard. He flipped the antenna up, extended it out the window, and dialed the number for Ze'ev Rotem. The major answered on the second ring.

  “Rotem.”

  “Major, this is Peter Newman.”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “I have found our wives—and the nuclear weapons. I'm headed toward them right now. Are you still tracking my location?”

  “Hold on.”

  Newman could hear computer keys clicking.

  “Yes, I have you.” Rotem said.

  “Good, because where I'm headed, I'm going to need some help.”

  “Help? What kind of help?”

  “Enough help to rescue two wives and recover three nuclear weapons.”

  There was silence from Rotem. Then he spoke, his voice low.

  “Colonel, I don't have that kind of authority. My country is, right at this minute, preparing to launch a preemptive nuclear strike on Iraq. In the midst of this crisis, nobody is going to authorize me to launch a rescue mission for two women. I can't help you, even if...even if it means placing my own wife at risk.”

  “Major...if we can get those rogue nukes back, Israel would have no point in striking Iraq. The weapons aren't even in Iraq. They're in Syria. And so are our wives. I know precisely where they are—at least within a few hundred meters. If I had some help, I believe we could recover the weapons and bring our wives home safely.”

  Suddenly, a new voice was on the line. “Lieutenant Colonel Newman, this is Brigadier General Meir Hofi. I am the commander of the Duvdevan units to which Major Rotem is assigned. Forgive me for intervening in this conversation, but as I'm sure you understand, all calls into this headquarters are monitored for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, Major Rotem is distraught and has given you information that should not have been spoken. I'm sure you understand.”

  Newman was so astonished by the new voice on the circuit that at first he said nothing.

  “Ze'ev?”

  Rotem's voice came back on. “Colonel Newman, that's correct. General Hofi is my commander.”

  “Thank you, Major,” said the voice of the IDF general. “Colonel Newman, are you still there?

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now you say you are certain where these weapons are—that they are not in Iraq but in Syria?”

  “That's correct, General.”

  “Well done! Now if you wil
l please provide me with the location and any other information that you know, we will ensure that all of this is taken care of and you and your government will have no further need for concern.”

  Newman's mind was racing. “Before I give you that information, General, do you mind telling me how you intend to ‘ensure that all this is taken care of,' as you put it?”

  “Colonel Newman, my government will respond in a way we believe appropriate to protect the state and people of Israel.”

  “Yes, General, as you should,” said Newman, regaining his composure. “But I was just wondering if that means a heavy air strike on the location where the nuclear weapons are hidden, or does it involve a raid to rescue our wives and recover the weapons? Because if it's the former and not the latter, with all due respect, sir, I may have a hard time remembering where this place is.”

  There was moment of silence that went on so long Newman wondered if the signal had been lost. Then the voice of General Hofi camethrough the earpiece, dripping with sarcasm. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Colonel Newman, but Major Rotem wants to give me the benefit of his wisdom as well. Please hold...”

  After what seemed like another eternity, the general's voice came on again, this time softened considerably, “Colonel Newman, Major Rotem has convinced me I should hear what you have to suggest. Will you tell me what you are proposing?”

  Newman sighed deeply and spoke carefully into the phone. “I'll arrive in the vicinity of the site tonight and conduct a reconnaissance. I'll brief you on what I find, and you can tailor a force to be inserted by HALO tomorrow night. We will rendezvous at a predetermined location, conduct a movement to the objective, raid the facility, recover the hostages and the weapons, and then you pick us up in CH-53s to bring us all back out.”

  “Ah, you make it sound so easy, Colonel,” said the IDF general. “Let me confer a moment with your young friend.”

  After another lengthy silence, the general said, “I hope that after the two of you are court-martialed, you don't decide to become shoe salesmen. After listening to the two of you sell me, I judge you could outfit my wife with a footwear collection to rival Imelda Marcos! But Colonel...I like your idea. I will brief the Minister of Defense, and Major Rotem will get back to you. However, I assure you that tomorrow night has to be the deadline. We are not going to stand-down our nuclear forces just on the hope that this high-risk venture succeeds. I am also going to suggest to the minister that the force Major Rotem brings with him should be very small—because if those weapons really are there—and you do not succeed—we will put every bomb I canauthorize on top of that site to make sure those nuclear weapons can never be used. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir...perfectly.”

  As Newman pushed the red button on the left side of the phone to terminate the call, a small sliver of moon appeared from behind some clouds in the otherwise black sky. As he stared at the moon, Newman pondered the consequences of the insubordination he had just set in motion.

  International Scientific Trading, Ltd.

  At Tanf, Syria

  Monday, 23 March 1998

  2000 Hours, Local

  General Dimitri Komulakov had just sat down to dinner when one of Dotensk's men knocked on the door of the dining room. The KGB general, chewing a generous portion of lamb chop, motioned for the man to enter.

  “General,” he said, glancing enviously at the sumptuous fare, “I am sorry to bother you, but there is a secure call coming in for you from the Rezident in Washington. Shall I tell him you will call back?”

  Komulakov looked at his watch and took a gulp of wine to help wash down the mouthful.

  “Well, it must be very important if it keeps our friend Viktor Martynov from lunch with some American capitalist. Perhaps Yeltsin has drunk himself to death, and they want me to return to Moscow to restore order, eh?”

  The general rose and followed the messenger. Outside the “guest house,” they headed to the south end of the compound, toward a windowless, concrete building with a metal door that resembled ablockhouse. There was no knob or handle on the door. When they arrived at the portal, the general pushed a button on a metal box with Russian Cyrillic letters that said, General Komulakov.

  A voice from the speaker beside the box asked him to look up to a mirror-like portal recessed into the wall beside the door. When the guard inside verified that the man standing outside was indeed his superior, there was the sound of a lock being turned, then a deadbolt being thrown, and the heavy door slowly swung out.

  This was the “Sanctum” space for the facility. Constructed of steel-reinforced concrete, with walls and ceiling both more than a meter thick, only Russians—never their proxies—were allowed inside. The building, erected in the early '80s, right after the Soviets had purchased the property, had been designed to hold all the classified materials used by the KGB and GRU at this remote site. It had once been the repository for a KAPELLE device, the encoding/decoding machine that the Soviet intelligence services had used for transmitting all their sensitive traffic. Such a device would ordinarily still be here, but in 1987, a daring CIA team had managed to steal one of the devices, forcing the Soviets to change all their equipment and procedures for sending and receiving classified material. The Sanctum at At Tanf was still a repository for classified material, but its encryption equipment was for a much lower level of security and relied on the same kind of electronically generated digital algorithms used by the Americans. The Soviets had learned how to do all this from one the most effective spies they had ever recruited—John Walker—a U.S. Navy cryptologist turned spy.

  Komulakov was admitted to the interior room where the communication officer held a telephone handset. The heavily shielded cordfrom the handset was connected to a large box that sat on a pedestal in the corner. Nicknamed “Piano,” the machine scrambled the sound being sent through it to make it generally indecipherable to someone who intercepted the conversation. Though it worked well enough, the Russians were never completely sure the garbled transmissions weren't being deciphered by the massive Cray computers employed by NSA and GCHQ. Moscow limited what could be said over the phone to relatively low-level communications. The most sensitive information still had to be transmitted by encrypted message.

  The operator said, “Washington,” handed the phone to Komulakov, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Good afternoon, Viktor,” said the general.

  “Dimitri, how long will it take you to get to the Rezidentura in Damascus?” asked the voice in his ear.

  Komulakov computed the time-distance factors in his head. Damascus was 240 kilometers by road, a three-hour trip. The Lear would take twenty minutes—if the pilots were sober.

  “If it is very important, I can be there in an hour.”

  “It is very important, Dimitri.”

  “Can you tell me what it is about?”

  “On this line, I can only tell you that we have received an emergency message from your friend Morales.”

  Komulakov was stunned. Messages from Julio Morales were supposed to be only opened at Moscow Centre. “You've read it?”

  “Yes. His message told us to get the information to you by the most expeditious means possible, that it was a serious emergency. And I must say, having now read it, I would have to agree. This really is an emergency. It involves a bright flare.”

  “Stop!” Komulakov shouted into the handpiece, hearing the code words for a nuclear weapon. “Say nothing more on this circuit. I am on the way. I will be in Damascus in an hour. Reduce the information that you have to a secure encrypted cable, and I will read it when I get to Damascus. Notify the embassy that I am coming and inform the ‘pianist' to be ready,” he said, referring to the SVR cryptologist.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Komulakov hurried out of the Sanctum and back to the guest house. When he bustled into the dining room, Dotensk was just finishing his meal.

  “Leonid, get the pilots, and have the jet pushed out of the hangar
. I must go to Damascus right away. Tell them to file a diplomatic flight plan so we get clearance into Assad airport. I will return here in about three hours.”

  “Yes, sir, but...is it Yeltsin? Are you being recalled to Moscow?”

  “No, you idiot. It's some kind of urgent message from an American spy. I must go to Damascus to retrieve it since the imbeciles who run Moscow Centre can't figure out a way to put a truly secure communications site out here in this merciless hole.”

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  Monday, 23 March 1998

  2015 Hours, Local

  “General, your aircraft is ready to depart when you are,” Gunnery Sergeant Skillings said as he walked into General George Grisham's office.

  The Commander in Chief of CENTCOM was putting some files into a briefcase when Skillings came in. “I'm just about set, Gunny. What's the weather like over the Atlantic, and in Washington?”

  “Looks clear all the way, sir.”

  “OK...let's get going then.”

  The two men fell in step and walked briskly down the corridor, headed for the front of the building where the general's staff car was waiting. As they entered the lobby of the NATO headquarters, the outer door opened and Colonel Len Buckel, the CENTCOM G-2, entered, followed by two British officers and a small, thin man wearing a Royal Marines sweat suit. Buckel stepped forward while the others waited by the door and said, in a quiet voice that only Grisham and Skillings could hear, “Sir, I need to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait, Len? I've got a plane to catch, and we're already ten minutes behind schedule.”

  “Just a moment or two of your time, General. I believe this is very important.”

  Grisham hesitated. Throughout his career, he had made it his practice to rely on his subordinates and to listen when they had something important to say. In combat, this principle had saved his life on more than one occasion. He turned to Skillings.