Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  As he watched, Falah saw a man emerge from the cave. The man was dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts. He was followed by a man who held a gun to his back. Someone else was there, although he didn't come out of the cave. He stood in the shadows of the entrance, watching. The prisoner was led into the van.

  Falah opened the duffel bag and withdrew the three parts of the EAR. The computer was slightly larger than an audio cassette. He set it on the rock. Then he withdrew the satellite dish. Folded, it was approximately the size and shape of a small umbrella. At the press of a button, the black dish fanned open like a small umbrella as well. He pressed a second button, and a tripod shot out from the other side. He stood it on the rock as well and plugged it into the computer. Then Falah fished out the earphones. He plugged them in, turned on the unit, and guessed the distance to the cave. After fine-tuning it to within a foot of the entranceway, he listened.

  He heard Turkish being spoken in the front of the cave. He told the computer to go to the next layer. Someone was speaking Syrian.

  "is the timetable?" a man asked.

  "I don't know," said another man. "Soon. He has promised the leader to Ibrahim and the women to his lieutenants."

  "Not to us?" another man grumbled.

  There's evidence of the Turkish and Syrian Kurdish collaboration, Falah thought. He wasn't surprised, merely gratified. When he was finished, he'd transmit the recording to Tel Nef. From there it would be relayed to Washington. The American President would probably inform Damascus and Ankara. The conversation was also evidence of other captives being held at this location. Before contacting Tel Nef, Falah decided to probe deep into the cave.

  He went ten feet at a time. He heard more Syrian, more Turkish, and finally English. It was muffled and difficult to understand. Knowing how the Kurds worked in the hills, the speakers were probably being kept in prison pits. He picked up only a few words.

  "Treason sooner die."

  "will."

  He listened for a few moments longer, then programmed new coordinates into the computer. Sitting sturdily on its tripod, the dish began to turn. The Israeli communications satellite Falah needed to contact was in a geostationary orbit directly over Lebanon and eastern Syria.

  As Falah waited for the dish to establish the uplink, one of the Arabs ran from the van. He hurried over to the dark figure standing in the cave entrance.

  Falah pushed the "cancel" button on the uplink. Then he physically picked up the dish, turned it back toward the cave entrance, and entered the distance into the computer. He listened.

  "turned on a computer inside," the man from the van was saying. "It told us there was a satellite dish out there."

  The man in the shadows calmly asked where it was.

  "To the southwest," the other man replied, "within five hundred yards—"

  That was all Falah needed to hear. He knew there was no way he'd be able to outrun the Kurds and no way he could take them on. He had only one option. With an oath, he pressed a button to send a silent signal back to the base. Then he folded the satellite dish and tripod and swept the entire unit into the hole he'd dug. He reached into the pouch around his waist and dropped the radio in as well. Finally, he pulled off his sandals and dropped them in. He filled the hole with the dirt, then placed the sod on top of it. Unless someone was looking, they wouldn't see that the soil beneath the grass had been disturbed. Grabbing his duffel bag, Falah crept toward the northeast. As he headed toward the cave he saw over a dozen Kurdish soldiers run from the cave. They fanned out in columns of three, carefully avoiding the mines.

  Falah crawled mostly on grass and stone so he would leave as few tracks as possible. When he was roughly one hundred yards from where he'd buried the dish and radio; the young Israeli lay the duffel bag on the ground beside him. He put on the other sandals so his footprints wouldn't match those around the rock. Then he scooped up his bag and ran off, reviewing again the details of the life of Aram Tunas from Semdinli.

  FORTY

  Tuesday, 2:03 p.m.,

  Quteife, Syria

  The Syrian Army base at Quteife was little more than a few wooden buildings and rows of several dozen tents. There were two twenty-foot-tall watchtowers, one facing northeast and the other southwest. The perimeter was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence strung from ten-foot-high posts. The base had been erected eleven months before, after Kurdish troops from the Bekaa Valley had constantly attacked Quteife for supplies. Since then, the Kurds had stayed away from the large village.

  The twenty-nine-year-old communications officer, Captain Hamid Moutamin, knew that the raids and then the peace were intentional. When Commander Siriner had decided where he was going to set up his own base in the Bekaa, he'd wanted the Syrians to establish a small military presence close by. Access to the Syrian military was an important part of Siriner's plans. Once the base at Quteife had been built, Captain Moutamin had used his ten years of exemplary military service to get himself transferred there. That too was important to Commander Siriner's plan. When both goals had been accomplished, Commander Siriner had gone ahead and estabilished his own base in the Bekaa.

  Moutamin was not a Kurd. That was his strength. His father had been a traveling dentist who serviced many Kurdish villages. Hamid was his only son, and after school or on vacations he often accompanied his father on short journeys. Late one night, when Hamid was fourteen, their car was stopped by Syrian Army troops outside of Raqqa, in the north. The four soldiers took the gold his father used for fillings, as well as his tobacco pouch and wedding band, and sent them on their way. Hamid wanted to resist, but his father wouldn't let him. A short while later the elder Moutamin pulled the car over. There, on the deserted road, under a bright moon, he suffered a heart attack and died. Hamid returned to the home of one of his father's Kurdish patients, an elderly printer named Jalal. He telephoned his mother and an uncle came to get him. The funeral was one of sadness and rage.

  Hamid was forced to leave school and go to work to support his mother and sister. He worked at a radio factory on an assembly line where he had time to think. He nursed his hatred of the Syrian military. He continued to visit Jalal, who, after two years, cautiously introduced him to other young people who had had run-ins with the Syrian military. All of them were Kurds. As they exchanged stories of robbery, murder, and torture, Hamid came to believe that it was not just the army but the entire government that was foul. They had to be stopped. One of Jalal's friends introduced him to a young visiting Turk, Kayahan Siriner. He was determined to create a new nation in the region where Kurds and other oppressed people would live in freedom and peace. Hamid asked how he could help. Siriner told him that the best way to weaken any entity was from within. He asked Hamid to become what he detested. He was to join the Syrian military. Because of his experience on the assembly line, Hamid was assigned to the communications corps.

  For just over ten years Hamid served his Syrian commanders with seeming loyalty and enthusiasm. Yet during that time he secretly communicated troop movements to Syrian Kurds. His information would help them to avoid confrontations, steal supplies, or ambush patrols.

  Now he had been given his most important assignment. He was to inform the base commander that by chance he'd intercepted a message from a Turkish Kurd. The man was alone, on the eastern side of the Anti-Lebanon range. He was a quarter mile west of the village of Zebdani, just within the Syrian border. Apparently, said Hamid, the man had been based there for quite some time and was reporting on Syrian troop movements. Hamid provided the base commander with the infiltrator's exact location.

  The commander smiled. No doubt he saw a promotion for himself to a more prestigious base if he could find and break a Kurd spying for the Turks. He dispatched a unit, twelve men in three jeeps, with orders to surround and take the prisoner.

  Hamid smiled inside. Then he took a break and made sure the motorcycle he intended to take was fueled up.

  FORTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 2:18 p.m.,

  Zebd
ani, Syria

  Mahmoud was gently nudged awake after having slept for over two hours. He opened his eyes and squinted into a dark face framed by a cerulean sky.

  "The soldiers are near," said Majeed Ghaderi. "They are coming, just as Hamid said they would."

  "Allah be praised," Mahmoud replied. He took a moment to stretch on his grassy bed, then climbed to his feet. He wasn't rested, but the nap had been enough to take the edge off his exhaustion. Retrieving his canteen, he turned his face up and spilled water on his eyes. He rubbed it in vigorously and looked at Majeed.

  Majeed was Walid's cousin and had been his devoted aide. He had been instructed not to wake Mahmoud until it was almost time to attack. The teenager had been quiet during the ride through the mountain pass, and his eyes were still red from crying for his dead cousin. But now that the moment was at hand, there was strength in those eyes and eagerness in his voice. Mahmoud was proud of the boy.

  "Let's go," said Mahmoud.

  Mahmoud followed Majeed. They crossed ruts cut by melting snows and backed carefully around large boulders to the PKK position.

  There were fourteen Kurdish sharpshooters deployed in the low peaks. A radio had been placed beside a rock below. A campfire had been built and snuffed. The Syrians would spot those. Then, following regulations, they would leave their Jeeps and crouch behind them. They would set up a covering fire, and one soldier would walk ahead to examine the site. And they would find themselves in a lethal cross fire from fifty feet above. The Syrians covering the peaks would be taken out first. By the time the others shifted their fire to above, they would be dead. As many of the Syrians as possible would be shot in the head. Hopefully, their uniforms would not be stained with blood. The Kurds needed ten of them.

  Mahmoud joined the others. They watched as the Jeeps moved in. They raised their weapons. They waited until the soldiers had climbed out and taken their positions. When Mahmoud nodded, they raised their rifles. When he nodded a second time, they fired.

  Many of the Kurds on the cliff hunted wild turkey, boar, and rabbit to feed their families. And because bullets were scarce, all of them were accustomed to hitting their targets on the first shot. The first volley involved ten Kurds firing at the soldiers closest to the foothills, including the soldier who had gone to examine the campsite. Nine of the Syrians died instantly. A tenth was wearing a helmet. He took two shots to the throat before he went down. The remaining Syrians looked up. They froze for the moment it took them to spot the gunmen. In that moment the remaining Kurds opened fire. The rest of the Syrians went down.

  Pistol drawn, Mahmoud led a contingent of Kurds down the hill. All of the Syrians were dead. Mahmoud waved to the others in the foothills, and they hurried down. Ten bodies were stripped, and then all of the dead were piled into one Jeep. Dressed as Syrian Army regulars, ten of the Kurds climbed into the remaining two Jeeps. As the rest of the team covered up all signs of the encounter, Mahmoud brushed dirt from his colonel's stripes and led his team through the arid plain.

  Because Turkey and Syria had both closed their borders to tourists and travelers, the M1 highway was relatively deserted. Upon reaching the modern road, Mahmoud and his party of nine turned south for the twenty-five-minute ride to Damascus and the end of over eighty years of suffering.

  FORTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 1:23 p.m.,

  Tel Nef, Israel

  Master Sergeant Vilnai and Colonel Brett August had been in the underground cinderblock radio room for over an hour. For most of that time, they'd looked at detailed aerial maps of the Bekaa on a computer screen. Beside them, raven-haired radio operator Gila Harareet listened for word from Falah.

  A few minutes earlier the men had been joined by the base commander Major Maton Yarkoni. The veteran of the 1973 Yom Kippur War had a bull-like face and a short but powerful build. August had heard he possessed a disposition to match. When the major arrived, he began discussing the Israeli high alert that had gone into effect when Syria sent its forces northward. If fighting erupted, Israel stood ready to aid the Turks.

  "Neither Israel nor NATO can afford to see Turkey torn apart by warring factions," said Major Yarkoni. "NATO needs a palisade against Islamic fundamentalists. And like Syria, Israel needs the water. It's worth fighting a war now to keep the nation intact."

  "What will NATO do?" asked Vilnai.

  "I've just spoken with General Kevin Burke in Brussels," said Yarkoni. "In addition to the increased U.S. military presence in the Mediterranean, NATO troops in Italy have been upgraded to Defcon Two."

  "Smart move," August said. "Before joining Striker I served with NATO in Italy. Five'll get you ten that the move to Defcon Two is to force Greece to choose sides now. Either they're in this with their NATO allies to help defend Turkey, or they're going to side with Syria. And if Greece joins Syria, they're going to catch the Italian boot up their butts."

  Master Sergeant Vilnai shook his head slowly. "The Middle East goes to war and NATO fractures. The world has become much too micro-aligned."

  "Tell me about it," August said bitterly.

  "One nation sides with another nation, but factions within those nations sympathize with factions in other nations. Soon there'll be no nations."

  "Only special interests," Colonel August said. "A world of quarreling warlords and grabby kings."

  As they were speaking, a red light flashed on the console. The radio operator listened intently as a digital tape recorder captured the message. The message consisted of two short beeps and a long one followed by another long one. The message repeated once and then shut down.

  The radio operator removed her headphones. She turned to the computer which sat beside the radio.

  "Well?" Yarkoni asked impatiently.

  "It was a coded emergency signal," the youthful radio operator replied. She replayed the taped message directly into the computer. A decoded message appeared on the computer monitor. She read, "Captives here. Enemy party approaching. Attempting to evade."

  "Then they spotted him," Yarkoni said.

  The only change in August's demeanor was a tightening along the jaw. He was not a man who showed much emotion. "Is there any way we'll be able to contact him again?"

  "Very unlikely," Vilnai said. "If Falah's in danger he'll have abandoned the radio. He can't afford to be captured with it. If he believes he can outrun the pursuers, he'll try to do so. If he's successful, perhaps he'll return to the radio. If he feels that he's cornered, he'll adopt his Kurdish identity and present himself to the PKK as a potential new recruit."

  August looked down at the radio operator. He didn't see her. He saw the faces of the ROC crew. Every minute he'd waited had been haunted by one thought: that when they finally reached the ROC they'd arrive too late. It had made sense to wait for intelligence. But now that intelligence would not be forthcoming, there was no longer any reason to delay.

  "Major," August said, "I'd like to move my team in."

  Yarkoni looked into the taller man's eyes.

  "We know where the cave is," August pressed, "and master Sergeant Vilnai and I have studied the approaches from the west and east." The Colonel moved closer to the Major. His voice was tense, just above a whisper. "Major Yarkoni, it isn't only the ROC crew that's at stake. If this cave is the PKK headquarters, we can take them out. We can shut down this war before it gets started."

  Yarkoni lowered his chin. The darkness of those bull's eyes deepened. "All right. Go. And may God look after you."

  "Thank you," August said. The men exchanged salutes, after which the American officer hurried up the stairs.

  Master Sergeant Vilnai downloaded the maps onto diskettes. Then he followed August to the staging area just inside the barbed-wire barricade.

  Ten minutes later the four Fast Attack Vehicles were tearing through the hilly, heavily treed countryside at eighty miles an hour. They were moving in wedge formation, with two FAVs in the front and two behind them at a forty-five degree angle. They bracketed the six desert bikes which
were arranged in two rows of three. The FAVs'.50-caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade launchers were armed, the gunners ready to repulse any attack with warning fire first, deadly force second.

  Colonel August was in the lead FAV. From Tel Nef, the ride to the border was twenty minutes. Israeli gunships would take off in five minutes from Tel Nef and cross the border to create a distraction. Once the Lebanese and Syrian troops were drawn away, Colonel August and his Strikers would be able to drive in. From there, it would be less than a half-hour drive to their destination.

  The satellite-generated maps had been loaded from the diskettes onto the code-operated computers onboard the FAVs. As Striker sped through the lush terrain of northern Israel, the greenest section of the country, August and Sergeant Grey reviewed attack options and exit strategies. If there was any indication that the hostages were still alive, the Strikers would use any means necessary to get them out. If it were possible to save the ROC, they would. If not, they would destroy it. If they had to kill to achieve any of these goals, August was prepared to do so.

  When he and Grey were finished, the colonel slipped on his sunglasses. He hadn't been on a combat mission since Vietnam, but he was ready. He gazed through the thick trees at the smoky mountains in the distance. Somewhere among them Mike Rodgers was a prisoner. Striker would rescue Mike or, if his oldest friend were dead, August was prepared to do one thing more.

  He would personally take out the sonofabitch who had killed him.

  FORTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 2:24 p.m.,