by Oliver North
“That means it will be well after midnight before the weapons are in Baghdad—if that's where our customer actually takes them.”
“Yes, I think that is right.”
“Well then, we should plan to be on our way by air to Kiev by midnight,” said Komulakov, hoisting himself out of his chair. “We need to be gone, along with the gold, when Qusay gets his weapons.”
Once again Dotensk nodded his head, sighed, and, taking his cue, rose to leave. But before he reached the door, Komulakov said, almost as a second thought, “Oh, and Leonid...there are two more things I'd like you to take care of.”
“Yes?”
“As I'm sure you heard a few minutes ago, that was Lieutenant Colonel Newman who telephoned me. He is supposed to be arriving at the VIP Lounge at Assad airport tomorrow at noon. If he actually does as he was instructed, he's to page Mr. Gray from the lounge. Have two of our men meet him there and escort him to our hangar at the far end of the airport. Tell them to kill the American—slowly—and then dump his body somewhere in the desert.”
Dotensk swallowed hard, nodded, and asked, “And the second thing?”
Komulakov turned toward the window and spoke with his back to the Ukrainian. “Tonight, after the gold has been delivered and it turns dark, take the women out there—” at this he gestured toward the desert—“and kill them both.”
Residence of the Prime Minister
Jerusalem, Israel
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
1230 Hours, Local
“I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch, Mr. Prime Minister,” the voice on the secure telephone line apologized.
“What is it, Madam Secretary?”
“Our intelligence directorates have reported to me that Israel has a number of its Jericho-2 missiles on full alert and ready to launch. When I asked your ambassador about this serious change in readiness, I was assured that the actions were merely part of a training exercise and nothing to worry about,” the U.S. Secretary of State told her listener. “However, our CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency are telling me that this is more than a training exercise. We are concerned about what seems to be preparations for a nuclear attack, Mr. Prime Minister. And it must be stopped at once.”
The Prime Minister was irritated at the imperious tone of her voice, and it made him testy. “Madam Secretary, we are simply taking a proactive stance in regard to our potential enemies. If our adversaries—who have promised to destroy the State of Israel—interpret this as aggressive, then that cannot be helped. But until we are able to discern a reduced threat to Israel, we shall continue to stand on full alert.”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” the chief American diplomat said, trying unsuccessfully to backpedal from her strident approach and muster a little sweetness into her voice, “three countries have already proposed resolutions to the United Nations to condemn Israel for its military aggressiveness. There is absolutely no proof whatsoever that Iraq is about to obtain weapons of mass destruction or that they are even attempting to do so. Don't you see? The United States will have to abstain if these resolutions are brought to a vote. Though we are Israel's staunchest ally, you won't have our support at a time when you will need it most.”
“Madam Secretary, please permit me to remind you that neither the United States nor the United Nations makes national security policy for the State of Israel. As your intelligence will also point out, Israel is being threatened by one of our sworn enemies. It is a near certainty, as I am sure you know but are not telling me, that Iraq is very near to acquiring a number of nuclear weapons. The regime in Baghdad has made it clear that they intend to use those weapons against Israel as soon as they have them. It is they to whom you should be talking, Madam Secretary, although I understand the difficulty of having such a conversation. Nevertheless, you need to find a way to get word to Saddam Hussein or his sons or the Baath Party—or whatever madman is presently in charge in Baghdad—that Israel will not stand for these threats. In fact, Madam Secretary, unless the United States or the UN can locate these threatening nuclear weapons and neutralize them within the next eighteen hours, Israel will have no choice but to act preemptively in its own self-defense.”
“Are you making a threat or a speech, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“You know that I don't make threats or speeches. I don't waste time with political platitudes and words that have no meaning—I speak my mind, plainly. That is what I am telling you now. If those weapons are not found within the next seventeen hours and fifty-eight minutes, it will be too late for threats, UN resolutions, warnings, or speeches. It will be a time for us to act in self-defense. Now, please permit me to go back to my lunch. I missed breakfast, and if the rest of today is as busy as my morning, I'll probably miss dinner too. Good-bye, Madam Secretary.”
The Prime Minister hung up the phone but did not go back to his meal. In truth, he had just finished when the Secretary of State called. Instead, he walked from his office, where he had taken the phone call, into his study. Strolling over to the huge bookcase that took up most of two walls, he picked out a volume to read. The book was one of his favorites—a Hebrew translation of a collection of speeches by Winston Churchill. He browsed through its well-worn pages to a familiar passage. It was a speech that Churchill had given to inspire the British people during World War II, and he read it again because it always lifted his spirits.
He avoided thinking of tomorrow and its potential consequences. The Prime Minister did not want to be the first leader since Harry Truman to use a nuclear weapon against another nation, but he felt his tiny nation being pushed into a corner. He had tried all of the diplomatic channels. None had offered any progress. The Mossad reports from Baghdad and other Arab capitals provided little hope for any outcome other than the use of force. Now Israel had been reduced to only two options: a preemptive nuclear strike on Baghdad in hopes of preventing a nuclear attack from Saddam Hussein or the faint possibility that a raid tonight by a small team of commandos might be able to prevent the nuclear weapons from being delivered to Baghdad.
The PM shuddered at the prospect of what could happen if the raid failed. Most of Israel's nuclear arsenal was sequestered in the valley of ancient Megiddo—the place prophesied for a future battle of ultimate destruction—Armageddon.
For the third time since dawn, he opened the red folder on his desk bearing the legend in Hebrew: “HQ SAYERET DUVDEVAN— MOST SECRET” and below that, “EYES ONLY FOR THE PRIME MINISTER.” Inside was a single sheet of paper that outlined the plan for an audacious raid against an installation in Syria, believed to hold three nuclear weapons destined for delivery to Baghdad.
He scanned the document again, picked up the secure phone on his desk, and when the operator came on, said, “Get me the Chief of Staff.”
There was a momentary delay as the operator connected the call. After hearing the electronic ping as the Israeli version of the STU III encryption engaged, the Prime Minister spoke, “I know you are busy, but I have some more questions about the operation in Syria tonight. How certain are we that three nuclear weapons are at this International Scientific Trading site near At Tanf?”
“We cannot be completely certain. But the report you have in your hand is based on reliable signals intelligence and some equally reliable information that we have received from the Americans,” the general replied.
“The Americans? I just got off the phone with the Secretary of State, and she wants me removed from office for putting the Jericho missiles on alert. She acted as if the nuclear weapons do not even exist and says the Iraqis are nowhere near to acquiring a nuclear capability.”
“We believe she is wrong. I'm afraid that the American State Department and Pentagon are not always on the same page. In this case, we believe the State Department does not have the best intelligence.”
“Who is ‘we,' and who are the Americans who say that the weapons are there? Not the CIA, I hope.”
“Israeli military intelligence on our side. And the American who also
believes it to be so is General George Grisham.”
“One American general?”
“Yes, but Mr. Prime Minister, he is not just ‘one American general’—he is the Commander in Chief of the U.S. Central Command, a Marine. And he has a man on the ground at the site providing intel. The British also believe it to be so, as you can see from the Operations Plan.”
“Who is this man on the ground?”
“His name is Peter Newman. He's a U.S. Marine lieutenant colonel. It's a long story, but he was the American who headed up the UN assassination team that was exterminated in Iraq three years ago. ”
“I thought he was killed.”
“We all did, Mr. Prime Minister. But he wasn't. And now his wife is being held hostage—probably by the same people who are attempting to deliver the nuclear weapons to Iraq, according to our intelligence services and the Sayeret officer commanding our unit in the operation.”
“And the IDF officer you have leading our part in this raid—it's his wife who is also being held hostage?”
“That is correct.”
“Are you sure that these two men aren't simply trying to get their wives freed—rather than focusing on the nuclear weapons problem?”
It occurred to the Chief of Staff to tell the Prime Minister that he was thinking like a politician and not like the general he had once been, but, instead, the weary IDF chief simply said, “I have no doubt about the loyalty and attention to the mission on the part of Major Rotem. He is one of our best and bravest officers. As for Lieutenant Colonel Newman, he has been in Iraq for several days now, and it is thanks to him that we have found this facility. He has provided much of the intel. And as for his commitment—a few hours ago he was told that if he ever wanted to see his wife alive again he would have to go to Damascus. But instead of heading to the Syrian capital, he's still at his post—maintaining surveillance over the At Tanf site where we believe the weapons are hidden.”
The Prime Minister mulled this over for several seconds and then said, “One last question: “Why don't we just launch our Air Force and eliminate this site with conventional weapons?”
The Chief of Staff hesitated for a moment and then answered directly, “Because the whole Arab world will immediately go to war against us when our Air Force launches. Second, if the nuclear weapons are there, their destruction will release nuclear material—the so-called ‘dirty bomb' effect. And third, because we believe that Newman's and Rotem's wives are probably being held hostage there.”
“So we do care about the wives, eh?”
Once again there was a pause before the Chief of Staff spoke. When he did his voice was low, “The planned raid is worth trying, sir. If it fails, we can still go forward with the Jericho Sanction.”
International Scientific Trading, Ltd.
At Tanf, Syria
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
1710 Hours, Local
“We've got trucks arriving at the site.” Newman was cradling the sat phone between his shoulder and his chin as he peered through the binoculars at the IST complex. Lying prone beneath the desert-colored sheet at his OP south of the runway, Newman watched as three trucks wheeled around the north end of the compound and headed for the large steel gate that faced the runway.
Skillings replied, “Those must be the trucks that GCHQ has been picking up chatter about. They apparently crossed the border about an hour ago. Can you tell what's in the trucks?”
“Not yet, but they don't have license plates and none seem to have markings of any kind. And an hour ago, I got a report from Samir, who is east of here by the border. He reported a convoy of three black Mercedes, full of men heading east to the border. Then, three Mercedes with drivers only came barreling in here a few minutes ago, just before the trucks arrived. My guess is that they're Komulakov's men. The Mercedes took them to the border, and now they are driving the trucks, which are carrying the payment for the weapons. Wasn't it supposed to be in gold?”
“That's what GCHQ and NSA have been saying. They also said that Komulakov and his cronies had arranged for his own security people to accompany the trucks from the Syrian border. That kinda verifies your guess.”
Newman watched the three trucks roll through the gate, the sound of their rough-running diesel engines reverberating across the desert. He provided a running commentary to Skillings as the trucks pulled inside a hangar-sized warehouse where several men jumped out as each vehicle stopped inside the cavernous facility. He counted a total of a dozen men who looked to be drivers, guards, and workers swarming over the trucks.
Then, as Newman peered through the powerful lenses, Komulakov appeared inside the structure, along with another shorter, fatter man. Newman didn't recognize the man with Komulakov, but he guessed that he must be the Ukrainian arms merchant that the NSA intercepts had described so well. The two men walked up to the back of the truck nearest the open door, and Newman watched as the canvas was thrown back. The scene took his breath away. Beneath the tarpaulin he could see pallets of gold bars, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.
Newman pursed his lips in an inaudible whistle and whispered into the sat phone, “Gold bars…somebody just paid for something that is very expensive.”
“Bingo,” said Skillings. “I'll ask our Brit friends if GCHQ is picking up any chatter.”
“Speaking of chatter, Gunny, have the guys with the earphones picked up anything else?” Newman asked, hoping for some word about the whereabouts of his wife.
“Yes, sir. Komulakov sent an encrypted message to the Russian embassy in Damascus. NSA has only been able to get part of it decoded. He's asking them to inquire about the urgent availability of a Russian charter transport aircraft to be brought to At Tanf before midnight. He specified that he needed a heavy-lift plane, capable of hauling ten tons and a few passengers. Any ideas about what he wants to take out of there, Colonel?”
“Probably the gold from these three trucks that just pulled up. Anymore transmissions from the Marconi radios?”
“Yes, sir, I was just coming to that. Mr. Thomas says that GCHQ picked up a call about an hour ago from the site, and they think the voice was Komulakov's partner, the Ukrainian guy—calling one of the others and telling him to make plans to take the guests for a ride into the desert.”
“Did he say when?”
“Sometime after dark. It was to be after the shipment arrived, according to GCHQ.”
“Look, taking the guests for a ride into the desert sure sounds to me like they are planning to take Rachel and Dyan out and kill them after dark. And dark is only a few hours away. Can we push up the H-hour for the raid?”
“I don't see how, sir. The Royal Marines and the helo pilots all agree 0300 is best—probably everyone but a handful guards will be asleep. I'll push ‘em on moving it up, but they aren't going to like it.”
“Well, Gunny...let's push ‘em. If those three trucks really are carrying the payment for the warheads, then they are probably planning to send the weapons out of here pretty soon. I say we push for the Israelis to make their jump shortly after dark, let's say about 2030 hours and get them into position just north of the runway and wait for the British. And I think the Royal Marines ought to plan to be here no later than 2100. Run that by your guys and let me know what they say. I'll ring you back in half an hour—sooner if anything else happens here. Out.”
With that, Newman returned to watching the objective through the binoculars. He spent several minutes looking at the building where he thought Komulakov was keeping the women as prisoners, but he could tell nothing from the mute facade of the yellow stone-and-brick building. Most of the windows had their blinds drawn, preventing anyone outside from seeing in.
A guard patrolled the outer areas of the structure, occasionally entering for brief periods and then reappearing. Newman could see another man on the roof, carrying a rifle. But little else was visible. As he stared at the building through the binoculars, Newman had no way of knowing whether his wife was there. And for t
he hundredth time that day, the Marine wished that he had a longer-range weapon than the ancient 9 mm pistol tucked into his belt.
Sayeret Duvdevan C-135
2,550 ft over Adana, Turkey
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
1930 Hours, Local
Major Ze'ev Rotem signaled to the crew chief of the aging 707 that despite the turbulence he and his nine-man team of commandos were still doing fine. The aircraft, bearing Gulf Air Cargo markings, was disguised to look like a freighter. It had taken off from Tel-Nof, Israel, at 1810 and headed for Turkey to pick up the commercial flyway from Adana to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The flight path would take them almost directly over At Tanf an hour from now.
Peter Newman's 1700 call informing Skillings that three truckloads of gold had appeared at the IST facility had set things in motion. Skillings had advised General George Grisham of the developments, and he immediately convened a secure conference call among the Israelis and the British. Everyone agreed that the arrival of what appeared to be Iraqi gold at the IST site and Komulakov's request for a charter plane mandated moving up the start of the operation. There was no point in waiting until 0300 in the morning if the weapons and gold were going to be moved out beforehand.
It had taken almost an hour to get the Turkish Ministry of Defense to go along with the overflight, but once approval had been granted, H-hour for the Israeli paradrop was set for 2030. The British would now arrive at 2100—giving the Israeli paratroopers time to descend and assemble north of the IST runway.
Rotem looked around. There was plenty of room in the aircraft. He had trained for parachute drops from this very aircraft with as many as sixty paratroopers jumping from the specially configured exit doors on each side of the fuselage. It required the pilot to shut down the two inboard engines and to lower the flaps fifteen degrees. Even then the big plane would be traveling at better than 150 knots. Tonight, there would be only nine jumpers. Rotem hoped that the air over the drop zone wasn't as turbulent as it was where they were now.