by Trevor Scott
Jake glared back at Tully.
“There was a German killed the other day in Berlin. Gerhard Kreuzberg.”
“The former foreign minister?”
“Yes. And witnesses said a few Turks had been at the scene. By the time Jenkins sent us the fax asking for your help, the Kurds had finally made a move. They called in responsibility for the German’s murder. The same with the MI-6 director. The Brits got a call minutes after his death. The Kurds say they want the United Nations to step in on their behalf to negotiate an autonomous Kurdistan.”
“Or?”
Tully hesitated. “Or they’ll show the world how powerful they really are.”
“Which means?”
“They were pretty specific about using the most deadly nerve gas ever conceived,” Tully said solemnly. “They didn’t say where they’d use it, but they did say it would be soon.”
“Shit.” If the Kurds were involved at Johnston Atoll, in Odessa, in Germany, in England, then they had come together in a unified effort. Over twenty million strong. It was only a matter of time before they would take no more pushing and shoving. Now they were bargaining from a position of strength. Jake was partly impressed that they had come so far so soon, but he knew that their resolve was never really in question. It was never if, but only when and how.
Jake left Tully and Quinn at the cafe. He had some thinking to do before his flight to Turkey. Walking off through the Privoz Market, Jake could hear thunder off in the distance heading toward Odessa. It reminded him of artillery fire and bombs dropping on dark, obscure night targets.
36
AL-HAMADI AIR BASE
Near Kirkuk, Iraq
It was a hot, dry evening. Clouds obscured the entire compound, which was mostly at rest after a long day of preparedness drills. The front gate was manned by four men in uniform. Three had machine guns strapped over their shoulders, and the fourth had a 9mm sidearm.
Things had been extremely quiet for the past month. The planes that they so vigilantly guarded had taken off on only routine reconnaissance missions, nothing like the bombing raids to the north just six months ago.
Two of the men relaxed inside the guard shack, their outer shirts off, and sweat still showing through their undershirts.
The other two, as ordered, were outside the building, hoping their shift would end soon, but realizing it had just begun a few hours ago. They were the graveyard shift. Nothing ever happened at night.
When the sergeant of the watch first saw the headlights winding down the road, he checked his watch. It was probably just the crew of men who had left earlier to search for two men who had been reported missing while picking up supplies that morning. The timing was right. The base commander suspected the two men had deserted, and would do everything within his power to get them back and make an example of them. All the sergeant knew was he had never seen the commander so angry. Not since the war with the infidels.
As the headlights got closer, the sergeant could hear the engine roaring. It was coming too fast, he thought. And it wasn’t the truck that had left earlier, but something far bigger. Maybe the missing supply truck and the two men. He got angry thinking of them. Unlike the commander, he didn’t think his men had run off. They should have called and said what had gone wrong, though.
The lights bounced and flickered as the truck hit holes in the road. Yet it continued to gain speed as the driver shifted gears. It was now two hundred meters out, and nowhere near coming to a halt.
The sergeant got nervous. He grabbed his man by the shirt and pointed at the truck. “Shoot it,” he screamed.
The young man didn’t know if he was serious.
The sergeant drew his hand gun, leveled it on the advancing truck, and opened fire.
The truck was at a hundred meters. Bullets planked into the hood.
Now the young man knew to open fire, and the other two inside the guard shack had responded, their weapons ready.
Fifty meters and closing. Bullets smashed through the windshield.
And the other three opened fire at full automatic. Hot shells flew from the breech. Flames cut through the darkness.
Out of rounds, the sergeant scurried toward the shack. Just as he dove inside, the truck hit the outer metal barrier, sending it flying toward the wooden shack. It continued on and crashed through the metal gate, flipping it to both sides like it was liquid.
One of the guards was killed instantly by a metal bar crushing his skull. The other two were on the ground, emptying their magazines. The sergeant had sounded an alarm. It was all he could do.
●
The truck continued toward the row of barracks. As it did, two men in the back in full chemical warfare suits with gas masks twisted the valve on 55-gallon drums. Liquid flowed through tubes into a compressor that was turning rapidly from a small engine. In seconds, the liquid was turned to a gaseous state and drifted off behind the truck.
Keeping the truck moving between the barracks, the driver twisted and turned the wheel frantically.
By now men were making their way outside, pulling pants up, disoriented.
Perfect.
The truck swept by, and within seconds soldiers were dropping to their knees, dying instantly. Others within the barracks were rubbing their eyes, holding their chests.
Twisted bodies lay twitching in the dirt, their faces grimacing with unknowing wonder. None of them had a chance. They had no weapons, no masks or protective clothing.
Inside the truck, the driver started pulling at his mask with one hand. Something was wrong. The filters were not working. He screamed into his radio that the filters were useless, but got no response.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw his two men lying next to the metal drums. Dead.
He panicked. He let his hand off the wheel and the truck careened into one of the barracks, smashing through rows of bunks, and settling against an oil heater.
A second later, the truck burst into flames and exploded the entire building, disbursing the remaining gas high into the air across the entire barracks compound.
37
CIA HEADQUARTERS
Langley, Virginia
Although he didn’t know it, most of the details of Steve Nelsen’s trip to Turkey had been worked out for him prior to his arrival in Washington. He would fly by C-5 from Dover Air Force Base to Incirlik Air Base, Turkey. From there he would meet up with a special forces unit on loan to the Agency. In the meantime, Agency officers would be watching every airport in Turkey for the pilot of that Beechcraft. Baskale.
All Nelsen knew as he paced nervously in the DO’s office, was he had been called to CIA headquarters. He had not been back to Langley since the commissioning ceremony for the new organization over six months ago. And this was the first time he had been called to the Director of Operation’s office. He had known Kurt Jenkins from the old Agency days, having crossed paths as Jenkins rose higher in the organization, while he seemed to stagnate as a field officer. A good field officer, though. One who got results. Until now. Now, he had failed miserably. It was true he had guessed the terrorist’s target correctly, and taken appropriate measures, but he had failed to consider an alternate target. He had even come up with the right mode of dispersing the nerve gas. After all, that’s how he would have done it. He had thought like a terrorist and it had paid off. But the leader, Baskale, had gotten away. And they had only recovered one of the four terrorists. Dead. All of Nelsen’s colleagues thought the three terrorists would try again, for they had failed and would never be able to return to their bosses under those circumstances. Nelsen knew better. The nerve gas was gone. Had they really failed? Instead of killing one former president that most of the world had already forgotten about, they had killed over a hundred, and the count was rising. Every major news source had picked up on the story and was milking it for all it was worth. Newspapers, Network News, CNN, National Public Radio, the BBC. Everyone. Someone high up in government had leaked that the attack was carried out by
Kurdish terrorists, and the media had linked the bombing of the Astrodome to other attacks in Germany and England. The process had started. Now Nelsen knew that he had very little time to act before every step he took would be mirrored by some news hound out to make a name for himself.
The door opened and slammed quickly behind Jenkins, who had a sour look on his face as he plopped down behind his chair. His suit looked rumpled, as if he had slept in it. He set his briefcase on the desk top. “Have a seat, Steve.”
Nelsen sunk into a leather chair.
The MEO opened the briefcase and pulled out a thin file. “Good work down in Texas.”
He had to be joking. “You’re not serious?”
“I’m dead serious,” Jenkins said, adjusting his tiny round glasses higher on his nose. “You had the chemical warfare units on site in Houston at the time of the attack. If we had had to pull them from their normal bases after the fact, it would have taken hours. And who knows how many lives it would have meant? The president is very pleased. So is the CIA director. Malone is preparing a citation for you. You should be proud.”
He felt far from it. He had been so close. “Thank you, sir. But I should have caught the bastards, or at least realized they had an alternate target in mind. My failure is inexcusable.”
“That was far from failure, Steve. What if they had dropped the bomb on downtown Dallas, or New York, or here in D.C.? How many would have died then? If they had struck the New York City subway system at rush hour, like those religious loonies in Tokyo, who knows how many would have died. You were right on their tail through Mexico, figured out why they were in Texas, and even planned, as well as anyone could have, to stop them. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”
Nelsen shrugged. He had to hand it to Jenkins. He was slick with people.
“You get the point, Steve. The terrorists killed a few baseball players and some fans. It could have been far worse.” He paused for a moment, as if he had laid out a set of decoys on a pond, was watching a flock of ducks set their wings, about to land, before pow—he raises his gun and starts blasting. But the fire storm didn’t come. “You’re gonna go out there and catch that bastard, Baskale, for us. And that’s not all....”
Nelsen sat and listened for nearly an hour as the MEO laid out the plan for him. Nelsen interjected with comments only a few times, as he came up with additional ideas that might help the mission.
When Jenkins was done, he could tell that Nelsen was pleased with the MEO’s confidence in him. After all, Nelsen had gone to Washington thinking he’d be on the carpet for his fuck up in Houston. Instead, he was leading an international search for Baskale. Nelsen couldn’t have been more happy.
“When do I leave?” Nelsen asked.
“One hour. Baskale could have left the country by now on his way across the Atlantic with his two buddies.”
Nelsen rose and reached across the desk to Jenkins, grasping his hand tightly and pumping it. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
After Nelsen had gone, Jenkins leaned back in his chair and wondered if what he had just done was the right thing. Steve Nelsen may get results, but at what cost? He had always been a hot-head. Brutal some would say. Yet maybe that’s what it would take to bring down a fanatical terrorist group. He wanted someone tough, who was willing to stick his ass on the line for the Agency. With that in mind, there was no one better.
38
NEAR LAKE VAN, TURKISH KURDISTAN
The dirt roads had been burned by the sun and were cracked and crumbling along the edges.
The village was chosen because it was only fifty percent Kurdish. Those who were not Kurds, were nearly so in their belief that a free Kurdistan was inevitable. Most didn’t want the borders to be drawn as far as Lake Van, including them in the embattled enclave, but they also knew that the central Turkish government considered them Mountain Turks as well. And others had tried to come to these mountains. Romans, Byzantines, Ottomans. Tried to include them in their empires, only to be turned back, beaten back by a united front of Turks and Kurds and even Armenians. It was now time for change.
Having traveled steadily since the bombing in America, and his hasty retreat from the falling plane, Baskale was tired on his feet. His black slacks were wrinkled. His khaki shirt, buttoned down in the front, the sleeves rolled up, hung freely over his belt, and the warm air swept up from the valley and tickled his hairy, growling belly. He was hungry. Had not eaten in twelve hours. He wouldn’t now until after he talked with the leaders.
After jumping from the plane and mixing with the panicking crowd in Houston, Baskale had been picked up by his two men, who were standing by between the two targets, waiting for his call saying which direction to go. From there they had driven to Galveston, flown a commuter to New Orleans, another to Atlanta, and then split up, taking different flights to various European cities. One had flown to London, the other to Paris, and Baskale to Rome. From there Baskale had gone to Istanbul and then Ankara, picking up a car from there and driving straight through. He had traveled non-stop for nearly forty-eight hours, and it showed in his tired eyes.
He had driven into the tiny village for the first time in nearly a month, when he had taken on the assignment and gotten the names of the three men who would help him. It had seemed so long ago. He had traveled so far.
Baskale left the car in front of the graveyard, as he had been told, and shuffled up the mountain toward the mosque.
The leaders had not wanted any vehicles near the mosque. Nothing to bring suspicion.
He was at home. The sun warmed him thoroughly, like a sauna without the sweat. Like the hot Syrian Desert.
As he reached the outer wall of the great mosque on top of the hill, an older man stepped out from behind the crumbling stone entrance. He seemed like nothing, really, in his baggy pants and shirt, his brown boots with holes in the toes. But Baskale knew that looks weren’t always right.
Baskale was cautious. He checked his watch. “I’ve come for the noon prayer,” he said in Kurdish.
The old man smiled, half his teeth missing. “You are too late.”
“But I have a lot to pray for. Allah will understand.”
The man backed away.
Baskale started up through the gates when he was poked in the back by a firm object. Was it a gun? He turned his head slowly and saw another old man with a pistol on him.
“Go,” the man said.
Baskale did.
Before they entered the mosque itself, the man following him stopped.
Turning to face him, Baskale noticed the pistol was an old Makarov that may or may not actually fire. Regardless, he knew the leaders were being cautious. The Turkish government had been trying for years to plant someone into the organization. At least five had died trying. But this man had met him on his last visit, when he had gotten his orders. Was the caution due to him missing his primary target?
The old man swished his head for Baskale to enter.
Baskale removed his hot shoes and socks, placed them on a mat inside, and then stepped softly on the cool brick into the darkened hall. Instead of entering the mosque area, he made his way around to the old chambers that were carved into the side of the mountain. It was said that the chambers led to a labyrinth of catacombs, where graves of great Kurdish leaders were buried. The mosque was chosen as the headquarters because the leaders didn’t think the Turkish government would call in air strikes on a sacred building. Time would tell if they were right.
At the end of the hall, lit only by a natural hole through stone that viewed the valley and Lake Van off in the distance, two men sat in wooden chairs, M-16s on their laps. One had a radio. There was an enormous wooden door with chips taken out of it as if someone had beaten it with an ax. The largest of the two rose and turned Baskale toward the stone wall, and then frisked him up and down. Satisfied, he backed up and leveled his gun on his stomach.
Had he done something wrong?
The one with the radio whisper
ed into it. In a moment there was noise on the other side of the door, and then it slowly swung in.
Baskale cautiously stepped inside, and he could hear the two men laughing through the door after it slammed shut. Sure, laugh when you have the guns, Baskale thought.
The room was bright and clean, like a hospital laboratory. It was unlike anything Baskale had seen since driving long and hard from Ankara to Turkish Kurdistan. There was a computer, a fax machine, a television with CNN broadcasting from a satellite dish pointed out through an enlarged hole in the wall. There were other communications equipment that Baskale had not seen since his days with the Turkish army. And even more that he could only speculate on their function.
Back in the corner, Mesut Carzani leaned back in his chair, reading a faxed report that had just come in from an Iraqi Kurdish leader. Carzani’s great plan was coming together. His intense eyes, which had not found complete rest in weeks, swished back and forth across the page. When he was done, he looked up at Baskale, who was scanning the place to memory.
“It seems,” Carzani said, “that the secondary target was even better than the primary.”
Baskale breathed easy. “Yes, sir. I lost only one man.”
Carzani thought for a moment. “The American press have called this the most despicable crime against humanity in decades. What do you think?”
Baskale had heard the reports also. From the airport televisions. He was lucky his papers were in order. But he had taken a chance traveling so quickly after the attack. He normally liked to wait. Let things settle down. “Everything went as planned. The Americans had helicopter gunships waiting for us, protecting president Bush. I couldn’t take out both targets. I am sorry.” He lowered his head to his chest.
Carzani got up and went to the taller, younger man. “You are considered a hero of Kurdistan.” He lifted Baskale’s head and kissed him on both cheeks. “Your name will be remembered when we have our own history books. For now your great feat will be told again and again, from father to son.” Carzani moved toward the T.V.