The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  Damascus-to-Baghdad Highway

  8 km West of At Tanf, Syria

  Tuesday, 24 March 1998

  2105 Hours, Local

  For nearly fifteen minutes Eli Yusef Habib had been watching the fireworks off to the east from the cab of his truck. First there would be a flash of an explosion, then five or six seconds later would come the muffled crump as the sound reached him. Several times he had seen streams of tracers coming down like a red hose from the sky—and then the brrrrrrrrt of the weapon that spewed much fire. He assumed that these flashes and noises were from the helicopters. Peter Newman had said that there would be “gunships,” and the old man guessed that these were similar to the MI-24s and MI-27s he had occasionally seen in the Iraqi Air Force. As Eli Yusef watched the flashes against the dark horizon, he prayed for Peter Newman and his allies.

  Suddenly, Eli Yusef heard a different sound—the noise of armored vehicles approaching from behind him on the road from At Tanf. The old man looked over at the highway, less than fifty meters from where he was parked—and his breath caught in his throat. There, on the road, headed toward the fireworks display, was a column of Syrian tanks and armored personnel carriers.

  The fighting at the IST compound must have gotten the attention of the local Syrian Army commander and he is responding with his entire contingent, he said to himself. Eli Yusef counted sixteen Soviet-built T-72 tanks and twice as many BMP armored vehicles and wheeled BTR-60 armored personnel carriers headed at high speed toward the IST complex. He reached for his satellite phone and dialed the number for Peter Newman.

  The phone rang several times before Eli heard a familiar voice but an unfamiliar greeting. The voice was accompanied by the sound of gunfire and explosions: “Papa November. Go ahead.”

  “Papa?” responded the old man.

  “Eli, is that you? This is Peter Newman.”

  “Yes, Peter, this is Eli Yusef. I must tell you with some urgency that sixteen Syrian Army T-72 tanks and thirty-three armored vehicles, BMPs and BTRs, have just passed me heading in your direction.” The old man had a sudden sense of déjà vu, for he had performed this very service as a boy for the British Army in North Africa more than fifty-six years ago during their desperate battles against Rommel and his Afrika Corps. The experience was fresh in his mind even now. “I estimate that at the speed they are traveling they will be at the IST compound in less than one-half hour.”

  “That's not good,” said Newman, as much to himself as to Eli, marveling at the old man's knowledge of military hardware.

  “How can I help you?” asked the old man.

  “First, alert Samir so that he won't get caught in any roundup. There's bound to be one. Second, as soon as you can, get out of there yourself. You both need to leave the area. The Syrian authorities will start blocking all the roads into and out of this province as soon as they figure out what's going on. And third, keep praying, Eli, keep praying.”

  “Yes, I will do that anyway. But precisely what do you want me to pray for. I like to be specific with God. I have been praying for your safety and that you would find your wife.”

  “Well, those prayers have been answered. I'm still safe, and Rachel is aboard one of the helicopters.”

  “God is good. I will continue to pray for your safety. What else?”

  “Well, you might pray that we can locate the three weapons and the Russian who is behind all this. He's here somewhere.”

  The sound of firing died down suddenly in the vicinity of the barracks building. The Cobras had done their job. The Royal Marines who had been pinned down in the courtyard only moments ago were now poking through the wreckage of the barracks and heading for the warehouse and hangar complex. Newman could still hear sporadic firing from the warehouses a hundred meters to the north where the Israelis were hunting for the nukes.

  There was a brief pause and the old man asked, “And when you find this Russian, what will you do with him?”

  “We're going to bring him to justice.”

  “Yes, justice is good. But vengeance is not yours. Be sure that you know the difference, Peter.”

  Newman was growing impatient. While he owed his life to this old man, the information he'd just received about the column of Syrian armor alarmed him. In an effort to end the conversation, Newman said, “Thank you, Eli. I'll keep that in mind.”

  “I know you have much to do. Where are you searching for this man?”

  “I'm standing at the front door of his quarters,” Newman replied, wondering why Eli Yusef was asking these questions when so much needed to be done so quickly.

  “But doesn't he have an airplane?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Isn't that how he would try to escape?”

  “Eli, that's what we're trying to prevent.”

  Undeterred, the old man continued. “Well, he must surely be at his plane by now.”

  “How can you know that? How would he have gotten there?”

  “I don't know how I know. I just do.”

  Newman looked at Macklin and said, “The hangar. C'mon. We've got to get to the hangar.” The two men headed back across the now silent courtyard toward the hangar two hundred meters away. As they ran, Newman handed Macklin the Motorola radio and said, “Alert Gibraltar and Joshua that there's a column of Syrian armor headed this way from At Tanf. Have the Cobras head that way to slow them down.” Then, remembering that the satellite circuit was still open, he said into the phone, “Thank you, Eli. Be careful. Tell Samir to be safe...and hurry now. Get out of this area right now. I'll look forward to seeing you again soon. You guys will be in my prayers.”

  “As you and yours shall be in mine,” replied the old man.

  International Scientific Trading, Ltd., Hangar

  At Tanf, Syria

  Tuesday, 24 March 1998

  2115 Hours, Local

  The pilots were strapped into their seats in the Lear's cockpit, ready to start the two Garrett TFE 731 engines as soon as the hangar doors opened. The inside of the hangar was bathed in red emergency lights, to preserve their night vision. Though the gunfire and explosions outside had died down, both men were more than a little frightened. They had just finished loading the thousand pounds of gold when the attack began—and they were very anxious to get out of there.

  For several days the pilots had been listening to BBC news reports about the likelihood of another Mideast war, and they both assumed that what was going on outside meant it had begun. Now, thoroughly alarmed, all they wanted was to be on their way to Turkey. The copilot had been filing a flight plan to Kiev, Ukraine, with intermediate stops in Diyabakir, Ankara, and Sebastopol, when the phone line went dead. The lights flickered and went out, the red emergency lights came on, and the sounds of heavy explosions echoed through the large, open hangar bay.

  When the attack had begun twenty minutes earlier, Komulakov had been in his private office at the guest house. Dotensk had been in the warehouse supervising the loading of the nuclear weapons onto the three Iraqi trucks and the remaining gold ingots onto IST lorries for shipment to Latakia. Komulakov's first thought when the attack had started was that Qusay Hussein had dispatched a contingent of Iraqi troops to take possession of the nuclear weapons while reclaiming his gold. Dotensk, on the other hand, thought it might be the Syrians. Neither considered who it really was—and both thought of nothing but escape.

  When the lights in the guest house went out, Komulakov grabbed three items from his desk drawer: a flashlight, one of the small Marconi handheld radios Dotensk had purchased from a stolen NATO shipment, and his 9mm Makarov pistol. Without waiting to find out whether his men were winning or losing the battle outside, he went to the center of the room, threw back a rug, grabbed an indented metal handle in the floor, and lifted a trap door.

  Ten wooden steps led down to a concrete tunnel—an escape route constructed in the '70s to connect the guest house to the hangar at the opposite end of the complex. Komulakov switched on his flashlight, pulled the trap d
oor closed behind him, and headed for the hangar, hurrying behind a cone of yellow light. Above he could hear and feel the concussions of explosions.

  When he arrived at the end of the tunnel, another set of stairs led up to a second trap door—this one concealed in a tiny clothes closet within the hangar's small office. When he opened the closet door and stepped into the dimly lit office, Dotensk was standing at the desk, shouting into the dead telephone. The Ukrainian was so surprised he almost shot his boss.

  “General!” he shrieked. “We are being attacked!”

  “Yes, Leonid, I noticed.”

  “We must get out of here right away. The pilots are already in the aircraft going through the preflight checklist. The gold is loaded. We need only get the weapon we are taking with us,” the Ukrainian shouted over the din of nearby battle, sounding ever closer.

  “Yes, let's get that done.”

  The two men walked through the red light to a van parked about fifteen feet from the left wing tip of the jet. Dotensk opened the back door of the van and, pointing to a four-foot-long length of black, ten-inch PVC pipe that was sealed at both ends, said, “Here it is.”

  The Ukrainian, displaying considerable agility, leapt into the van and began sliding the pipe toward the back of the vehicle. Komulakov put his hands around the free end and pulled until Dotensk was able to jump out of the van and grab the other end. Together, they crab-walked toward the open hatch, just behind the cockpit on the left side of the aircraft. “How much did you say this weighs, Leonid?” asked Komulakov.

  “A little more than three hundred pounds,” Dotensk replied as they manhandled the bulky cargo into the aircraft and then slid it down the center aisle, atop the cardboard-covered gold ingots.

  When the task was completed, the Ukrainian said to the general, “I'll move the van and then open the door and we can get out of here.”

  “Very well, Leonid. I'll tell the pilots to be ready to go.”

  Dotensk had just climbed into the van and was fumbling in his pockets looking for the keys when the small personnel hatch built into the folding hangar door was thrown open and in rushed Peter Newman and Bruno Macklin. The two men paused for a second to flip back their NVGs, which had flared in the red light. As their eyes adjusted, they saw Komulakov's head and shoulders leaning into the cockpit inside the jet. He was talking to the pilots. Neither Newman nor Macklin noticed Dotensk inside the van. They ran to the open hatch on the left side of the Lear, leaving the Ukrainian behind them, hiding in the driver's seat as he watched the American and the Brit through the rearview mirror.

  “Get out of the airplane, General,” shouted Newman, standing at the bottom of the folding stairs of the jet. He aimed his M-4 at Komulakov's backside to make the point.

  The Russian slowly backed out of the cockpit and climbed down the stairs, fully expecting Newman to shoot him and wondering where Dotensk had gone.

  So far, Newman's wrath had been contained. But now, as he watched the Russian, the Marine's rage became overpowering. He released the safety on the M-4, almost as a reflex action—as he thought about the past three years of hiding, of the terror and grief that Komulakov had poured upon so many. Newman's lips curled into a snarl, and he took aim at Komulakov's left eye, lining up the barrel sight with the cold, blue iris of the man before him. Ridding the world of this cruel and merciless demon would be easy. All he had to do was squeeze off a single burst.

  Newman's finger took up the tension on the trigger, and his eyes narrowed. Then, unexplainably, he blinked.

  Komulakov noticed it. “You can't do it, can you, Colonel? Something has happened to you. You've become soft. You no longer have the stomach for killing me, do you?” Showing none of the anxiety he actually felt, the “retired” KGB general tried to change the subject. He said calmly, “So, Colonel Newman, this ‘war' is your doing?”

  “Yes, Komulakov,” the Marine said, lowering his carbine but keeping it pointed at the Russian. “And you're our POW. You're coming with us—you and your weapons.”

  “My weapons?”

  “Yes, your weapons. In the building next door, an Israeli commando team has found three shipping containers holding nuclear artillery rounds. We're taking them—and you—with us.”

  “Oh you are? And, then what?

  “A trial, General. In a U.S. court.”

  “A trial, eh? You're a fugitive, a terrorist. And you're the only witness. It'll be your word against mine.”

  “Not so, mate,” said Macklin, speaking for the first time, “I was on that mission you compromised in Iraq. And it's high time you paid for what you did to me and those other lads.”

  The Russian decided to try another tack. “If you do this, Newman, you'll never see your wife alive again. You know that, don't you?”

  “I'm sure that's what you intended, General, but Rachel is at this minute sitting on a U.S. Marine helicopter. Your paid killer is dead.”

  For the first time, a flicker of fear crossed the face of Dimitri Komulakov. But it only lasted a second, for he suddenly caught sight of Dotensk inside the van. “And so, what is it you want me to do?”

  “Get in the van, General. We're going to take a little ride out to the end of the runway. But first, put your hands up and lean against the van. Spread your legs. You know the drill. Search him, Bruno.”

  Komulakov did as ordered, and Macklin set his H&K MP5 out of reach on the hangar floor and stepped forward to perform the search while Newman covered the Russian. The British SAS officer instantly found Komulakov's Makarov pistol and shoved it in his own waistband. Newman was watching him pat the Russian down when the bullet from Dotensk's 9mm hit the Marine square between the shoulder blades. The second bullet struck his helmet, snapping his head forward and dropping him to the floor in a heap. Macklin reached for the Makarov in his belt, but he was too late. The third bullet from Dotensk's weapon hit him in the chest, and he dropped to his knees. As he fell, Komulakov spun and kicked him in the face. The SAS officer fell backward and collapsed.

  “Well done, Leonid,” said Komulakov, surveying the bodies. “Now, quickly, open the hangar door and we'll get underway.” The general bent and retrieved his weapon from beside Macklin's belt and climbed into the Lear. Dotensk ran to the switch on the wall that controlled the hangar door, hoping that the backup power supply he'd installed for this purpose would work. As the large hangar door began to fold, the jet's two engines began spooling up to generate thirty-five hundred pounds of thrust each.

  Dotensk ran back to the left side of the Lear, but instead of being welcomed aboard the aircraft, he was greeted by the sight of Komulakov standing at the top of the stairs pointing the Makarov at his partner in crime.

  Dotensk looked up at the Russian in disbelief and screamed over the whine of the jet engines, “What are you doing? I just saved you!”

  “I'm sorry, Leonid. But the pilots tell me that the jet would be dangerously overloaded if we tried to take off with the gold, the weapon, and both of us aboard.”

  “Well, we can remove the weapon!”

  “But I need it. I don't need you.” These were the last words that Leonid Dotensk heard. Komulakov's two bullets to the chest left Dotensk sprawled beside the bodies of Peter Newman and Bruno Macklin.

  The Russian pulled up the stairs into the Lear and sealed the hatch. Then the jet, at full throttle, shot from the hangar, turned right, then left, and screamed down the runway. A hundred and fifty meters before it reached the end of the tarmac where the tank truck was fueling a CH-46, the Lear's nose came up and the heavily laden aircraft shrieked into the night sky, barely clearing the helo's rotor blades.

  International Scientific Trading, Ltd., Hangar

  At Tanf, Syria

  Tuesday, 24 March 1998

  2120 Hours, Local

  Lieutenant Colonel Peter Newman heard ringing in his ears, his head was throbbing with pain, and he could barely breathe. But he was alive—and he knew it. He was aware of a face close to his, but it was hazy through hi
s blurred vision. And then the face spoke, “Colonel? Can you hear me? Can you speak?” asked the muscular African American Marine kneeling beside him.

  “W-what about…Komulakov?” Newman whispered.

  “Gone. Got away in his jet.”

  “Cobras? Shoot him down?”

  “They've been busy working over a Syrian armor column about six klicks west of here.”

  Newman slowly turned his head and saw two Royal Marines attending to Captain Macklin on the floor beside him. One of them, a medic, was clearing the wounded soldier's mouth and making sure his air passage was clear. The other was checking his pulse.

  A figure appeared above them and asked, “Can we move them? We need to get out of here.” It was Major Rotem.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the Marine gunnery sergeant. “I think Colonel Newman's got a couple of broken ribs and probably a concussion. Thank God he was wearing that flak jacket and helmet. The vest slowed the bullet, and the entry wound is shallow. The second round lodged in the helmet. I think we can get going. If you can pass the word to move the birds back here from the other end of the runway, we'll load him up, along with Captain Macklin and the other wounded men. We ought to spread-load your unit, the Royal Marines, and the nuclear weapons on the other three helos.”