Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  Herbert clicked off his phone. "Viens is on the case for us. Says he can get the 30-45-3 away from the Defense Department in about ten minutes. It's one of the older jobs, no infrared capacity, but we'll get good daylight pictures."

  The designation 30-45-3 referred to the third satellite looking down on the longitudes thirty to forty-five degrees east of the prime meridian. That was the region which included Turkey.

  "Viens's a damn fine man," Hood said

  "The best." Herbert turned. He snickered as he wheeled toward the door. "At least Stephen's keeping his sense of humor about the investigation. He told me there're so many nails in his coffin he's thinking of nick-naming the division the Iron Maiden."

  "We won't let Congress close the lid on him," Hood promised.

  "That's a nice sentiment, Paul. But it'll be real difficult to make happen."

  "I like the difficult, Bob." Hood smiled faintly. "That's why I'm here."

  Herbert glanced back as he opened the door. "Touche." He winked as he rolled into the hallway.

  THIRTEEN

  Monday, 5:55 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  Ibrahim and the radio operator Hasan stood on the windy plain as Mahmoud knelt between them. They had Czechoslovakian Samopal submachine guns lying across their shoulders and Smith & Wesson.38s tucked into holsters on their belts. There were hunting knives sheathed on their hips.

  Ibrahim held Mahmoud's weapons as his brother bent low on the hard earth. Tears trickled down the older man's dark cheeks and his voice cracked as he quoted the Holy Koran.

  "He sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you"

  Just minutes before, Walid had deposited his three passengers and their backpacks and weapons on this dry hillside. He'd given Mahmoud a gold ring he wore, one which was topped with two silver daggers crossed beneath a star. It was the ring which identified him as a leader of the group. Then he'd taken off again and flown the helicopter back toward the flood. Racing headlong into the raging waters, he'd allowed the helicopter to be swallowed up. A geyser of spray and steam had briefly marked its death. Then the three survivors had watched in horror as the helicopter's shattered remains were carried away by the torrent.

  Walid had sacrificed himself and the chopper because it was the only way to erase the ship from Turkish radar. The only way to keep the team from being shot from the skies. The only way to protect the others so that they might continue the important work of the Kurdistan Workers' Party.

  Mahmoud finished his prayer, but he continued to bow low. His voice soft and sorrowful, he asked, "Why you, Walid? You were our leader, our soul."

  "Mahmoud," Ibrahim said softly, "patrols will be covering this region soon. We must go."

  "You could have shown me how to fly the helicopter," Mahmoud said. "My life was not as important as yours. Who will lead the people now?"

  "Mahmoud," Ibrahim said more insistently. "Min fadlak — please! You will lead us. He gave you the ring."

  "Yes." Mahmoud nodded. "I will lead you. It was Walid's dying wish. There is still a great deal to be done."

  Ibrahim had never seen such sadness and then anger in his brother's expression. And it occurred to him then that perhaps this was something else Walid wanted. The fire of hate in the hearts and eyes of his soldiers.

  As Mahmoud stood, Ibrahim handed him his Parabellum and a.38.

  "Thank you, my brother," Mahmoud said.

  "According to Hasan," Ibrahim said with quiet confidence, "we can reach Sanliurfa by nightfall. We can stay in the foothills and hide if necessary. Or there is some traffic in the region. Perhaps we can capture a car or truck."

  Mahmoud turned to Hasan, who was standing a respectful distance away. "We do not hide," he said. "Is that understood?"

  "Aywa," said both men. "Yes."

  "Lead us, Hasan," Mahmoud said. "And may the Holy Prophet guide us to our home and to the homes of our enemies."

  FOURTEEN

  Monday, 6:29 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  Before coming to the Middle East, Mike Rodgers had done what he always did. He'd read about the region. Whenever possible, he'd read what other soldiers had said about a nation or people. When he was here for Desert Shield and then Desert Storm, he'd read T.E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom and reporter Lowell Thomas's With Lawrence in Arabia. They were two views of the same man and the same region. This time he'd re-read the memoirs of General Charles "Chinese" Gordon of Khartoum as well as an anthology about the desert. Something by Lawrence — the English author D.H., not the soldier T.E. — which had been published in the latter had stayed with him. That Lawrence had written in part that the desert was "the forever unpossessed country." Rodgers had liked that phrase very much.

  Like the polar regions, the desert could be borrowed but not owned. Unlike the polar regions, where ice could be melted for water and there was relatively solid ground for construction, the desert had moods. Now broiling, now cool. Savagely windy one minute, utterly still the next. One had to bring not only water and shelter but commitment. Unlike the Arctic or Antarctic, a traveler didn't get off a boat or a plane, move inland a mile or two, take pictures or readings, then depart. From ancient times, when camel caravans crossed these regions, if a person came to the desert it was with the intention of crossing it. And here in these high, dry lands where the earth was not just sandy but parched, where travel was measured in yards instead of in miles, crossing it required luck as well as stamina.

  Thanks to radios and motorized travel, traversing the desert or Turkey's dead meadows was not the purgatory it had been until the turn of the century. But they were still places of staggering desolation. After a half hour of riding on the back of Colonel Seden's motorcycle, Rodgers had noticed that even the ranks of insects had thinned and then dwindled to nothing.

  Rodgers leaned forward on the big Harley. The wind knifed through his short-cropped graying hair and pushed hard against his shoulders. He looked at the small compass that was bracketed to the top of the dashboard, just above the tachometer. They were still headed in the direction where the helicopter had last been seen, along the outer perimeter of the flood. He looked at his watch. They should be arriving in another twenty minutes or so.

  The sun was low behind the hills, its ruddy light fast fading. Within minutes the sky was as star-filled as any Rodgers had ever seen.

  Colonel Seden half turned. "We are nearing the plains," he shouted back. "Above this region there are dirt roads. They are not well traveled, but at least the ride will not be so bumpy."

  Those were the first words Seden had spoken since they left. That was fine. Rodgers himself wasn't a talker.

  "A Navy fast-attack craft in rough seas is bumpy," Rodgers yelled back. "This is fine."

  "If you can believe it,'' Seden said, "the temperatures in this region drop to near freezing before dawn. From October to May the roads are often closed here because of snow!"

  Rodgers knew that from his reading about the region. Only one thing in this part of the world was unchanging. It wasn't the desert winds or sands or borders, or the local and international players who made the Middle East their battleground. It was religion and what people were willing to do for it. Since the days of the priest-dominated Sumerians who flourished in southern Mesopotamia in the fifth millennium BC, people here had been willing to fight for religion, to slaughter humans and beasts for it, and also to die for it.

  Rodgers understood that. Roman Catholic by birth and by choice, he believed in the divinity of Jesus. And he would kill to defend his right to worship God and Christ in his own way. To Rodgers, that was no different from fighting and killing and bleeding to protect the flag and principles of his beloved country. To strike a blow for honor. But he wasn't self-righteous about his faith. He would never raise anything but his voice to try to convert anyone.

  The people here were different. For six thousand years they had sent millions of people to dozens of
afterlifes populated by hundreds of gods. Nothing was going to change them. The best Rodgers hoped for by coming here was to fight a better holding action.

  Seden shifted gears as they climbed a hill. Rodgers watched the bright headlight as it bobbed across the dirt road. Unlike the region they'd just crossed, there were rocks, low scrub, and contours in the terrain.

  "This road," said Seden, "will take us directly to—"

  The colonel's body jerked to the right an instant before Rodgers heard the gunshot. Seden fell back and knocked Rodgers from his seat just as the motorcycle tipped over. Rodgers hit the road hard and rolled back several feet. Seden managed to hold on as the bike struggled up the road on its side for a few yards. It pulled the colonel part of the way before he slipped off.

  Rodgers's right side burned, his arm and leg having been torn open by the pebbles in the road. The motorcycle headlight was pointed back toward them. Rodgers could see that Seden wasn't moving.

  "Colonel?" Rodgers said.

  Seden didn't answer. Fighting the pain, Rodgers got his elbow under him and crawled toward the colonel. He wanted to get the Turk off the road before a vehicle came over the top and ran them down. But before Rodgers could reach him he felt a gun pressed to the back of his neck. He froze as boots crunched on the road. Rodgers watched as two men went to examine Seden.

  The Turk stirred. One man disarmed him and pulled him off the road while another went and moved the motorcycle, The man behind Rodgers grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the side of the road as well. They were dragged behind a high, narrow hillock.

  The man pressed the gun back against Rodgers's neck and said something to him in Arabic. He was not a Turk.

  "I don't understand," Rodgers said. He showed no fear in his voice. By their actions, these men appeared to be guerrilla terrorists. The breed did not respect cowardice and refused to negotiate with cowards.

  "American?" asked the man behind him.

  Rodgers turned to look at him. "Yes."

  The man called over someone named Hasan, who had been checking the motorcycle. Hasan had a narrow face, very high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and curly, shoulder-length black hair. Hasan was given a command in Arabic. Acknowleding it, Hasan pulled Rodgers to his feet. With the gun still at the general's neck, he began patting him down. Hasan found the general's wallet in his front pants pocket. He took Rodgers's passport from one shirt pocket and his cellular phone from another.

  Rodgers's documents identified him as Carlton Knight, a member of the environmental resources department of the American Museum of Natural History in New York. It was a coin toss as to whether these men would buy that. Seden's uniform clearly identified him as a colonel in the Turkish Security Forces. Rodgers was going to have to come up with a good reason why he was out here with a TSF officer.

  Personal safety, Rodgers decided. After all, hadn't these men just attacked him?

  All other things being equal, Rodgers wasn't sure whether it was good to be identified as an American. Some Middle Eastern groups wanted the sympathy of the American public, and murder didn't get them that. Others wanted the support of Arab extremists, and murdering Americans won them that. If these were the same people who blew up the dam, there was no telling what they might do.

  There was only one thing of which Rodgers was certain. The motorcycle was obviously the first vehicle these men had seen — and because of the flooding, it was probably the only one that would be along. They were going to have to make this situation work for them.

  Hasan ignited a cigarette lighter and read the passport. "Kuh-ni-git," he said phonetically. He regarded Rodgers. "Why are you out?"

  "I came to Turkey to check on the status of the Euphrates," Rodgers said. "When the dam came down, I was rushed to the area. They want my opinion on the short- and long-term ecological damage."

  "You came with him?" Hasan asked.

  "Yes," Rodgers said. "The Turks were worried about my safety."

  Hasan translated for the man behind him, an angry-eyed soul named Mahmoud. The other man was tending to Seden's wound.

  Mahmoud said something and Hasan nodded. He looked at Rodgers. "Where is camp for you?" Hasan asked.

  "To the west," Rodgers said. "At Gazi Antep." The ROC was to the southeast, and the general did not want to lead them there.

  Hasan snickered. "You have not enough gas in this motorcycle for that ride. Where is camp?"

  "I told you, it's at Gazi Antep," Rodgers said. "We left our fuel can at a gas station on the way. We were supposed to pick it up on our return." Since Hasan was not a Turk, Rodgers assumed that he wouldn't know whether or not there was a gas station in that direction.

  Hasan and Mahmoud spoke. Then Hasan said, "Give me the telephone number of your camp." He snapped the phone open under the lighter. He looked at Rodgers and waited.

  Though Rodgers remained outwardly calm, his heart and mind began to race. His main objective was to protect the ROC. If he refused to give them the number, they would surely suspect he wasn't who he said he was. On the other hand, they knew who Colonel Seden was and hadn't killed him. So they would probably hold him as well, at least until they got out of the country.

  "I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I don't know the number. This phone is for them to call me."

  Hasan stepped closer. He held the lighter close to Rodgers's chest, the flame burning low under his chin. Slowly, he began to raise the lighter.

  "Are you speaking the truth?" Hasan asked.

  Rodgers forced himself to relax as the heat spread across the soft flesh of his neck. Everyone who worked behind the lines in Vietnam was taught the rudiments of surviving torture. Beatings, burning with lighted cigarettes, electric current applied to sensitive areas, standing chin-deep in water for days on end, and having your arms pulled behind you as you're hoisted to the top of a pole. All of those were practiced by the North Vietnamese, and sampled by Special Forces operatives who went over there. The key was not to be tense. Tension only tightened the flesh, stretching the skin cells and exacerbating the pain. Tension also focused the mind on the pain. Victims were told to try to count to themselves, divide the suffering into manageable segments of three or five seconds. They had to think of making it to the next plateau rather than to the end.

  Rodgers counted as the heat intensified.

  "The truth," Hasan urged.

  "It is the truth!" Rodgers said.

  Mahmoud spoke harshly to Hasan. The young man switched off the flame and sneered at the American. Hasan handed Mahmoud the telephone and then walked over to Colonel Seden.

  The third terrorist was standing behind the Turkish officer. He held a pistol pointing down at the top of colonel's head. Seden was sitting up, his back propped against the terrorist's legs. The colonel's head had been crudely bandaged with a sleeve from his jacket. The other sleeve had been used to make a tourniquet for his bloody right arm. He was barely conscious.

  Hasan knelt beside Seden. He lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, then held the lighted tip to Seden's chin. The dazed Turk shrieked. Hasan quickly cupped his hand on the colonel's mouth.

  Hasan said something in Turkish. Seden shook his head violently. Hasan put the lighted cigarette to Seden's left earlobe. The Turk screamed again. He tried to push Hasan's hand away. The man standing beside him used his free hand to pin the Turk. Hasan withdrew the cigarette.

  Suddenly, Mahmoud called Hasan back. The young man jogged over. There was hurried, quiet conversation.

  Rodgers tried to turn and see what was going on, but Mallmoud pushed his face back around with the barrel of the gun. Vigorously alert because of the searing pain in his neck, Rodgers listened attentively. He heard a beep on the cellular phone. Hasan had pressed a button. Why?

  And then with sickening swiftness the answer came to him. Mahmoud had. summoned Hasan, the group's linguist, to read the English words on the phone. Above one of the buttons was the word "Redial." The camp was the last place Rodgers had called. Mahmoud was calling it back.
>
  Hasan was standing just a foot away. Rodgers could hear the phone ringing, and he was numb as he waited to see who picked up and what they said. Of all the stupid, goddamn slipups—

  "Hello?"

  It was Mary Rose. Hasan seemed surprised to hear a woman's voice, but he said nothing. Rodgers silently prayed for Mary Rose to hang up. He was tempted to shout for her to clear the ROC out, but didn't think they could do it in time. Not if these three killed him and Seden and went after it.

  "Hello?" she repeated.

  Don't say anything else, Rodgers thought. Please God, Mary Rose, don't say a word—

  "General Rodgers, I can't hear you," she said.".I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can I'm going to hang up."

  She did. So did Hasan. With a look of triumph, he closed the phone and stuffed it back into Rodgers's shirt pocket. He spoke with the other two men for a minute. Then he glared at Rodgers.

  "General Rodgers," he said. "You are not an environmentalist, I think. The American military is working with Turkish Security to find who? Us, perhaps?" Hasan moved his face closer until he was practically nose-to-nose with Rodgers. "So — you have found us. And this person who answered the phone. She is not in Gazi Antep."